Chapter 216
Author’s pov
At the mansion’s rear entrance, Mrs. Dahlia was personally escorting Maggie Locke –and her silent assistant–to their waiting car.
“I’m so sorry the plan didn’t work,” Dahlia whispered, wringing her gloved hands like she was scrubbing guilt from her skin. “I failed you completely p>
Maggie waved a gloved hand with cool detachment.
“There will be other opportunities,” she said, as if canceling a lunch reservation.
“But I’ve offended the Black family,” Dahlia moaned. “My standing in Denver’s social circuit is finished. The local grapevine will devour me by morning. What am I supposed to do now p>
“I’ve arranged a place for you to lie low,” Maggie replied, voice smooth as satin–and just as cold.
It was the kind of tone that could soothe or slice, depending on how you touched it.
“As for Luna Regina,” she continued, “she remains my target. I have a thousand ways to reach her. Tonight’s failure only sharpens the next attempt. Don’t confuse a delay with defeat p>
Dahlia nodded, though her eyes darted toward the trees like she expected judgment to step out from the shadows.
“It was that woman in the green dress,” she hissed. “She stirred the room like a cocktail shaker at a Manhattan bar. If not for her, tonight would’ve gone flawlessly. She talks like she’s got a switchblade tucked behind her teeth p>
Maggie tilted her head, considering.
“A sharp tongue,” she said, settling into the leather seat, “is the most impotent of weapons.
It might spark a headline or turn a room against itself… but it never leaves a scar p>
“I… suppose you’re right p>
“Wait for further instructions p>
The door closed with a whisper of suede on steel.
The vehicle pulled away from the estate, its taillights vanishing into the dark like embers carried off by wind.
Only then did the woman remove her mask.
Under the low cabin lights, Maggie Locke’s face took shape–cool, composed, untouched by the night’s unraveling.
Calculating. Hers was a cold, sharp beauty.
She had planned three victories tonight:
*Twist Luna Dora’s loyalties.
Slip Luna Regina a substance that would unravel her in public, turning her into a controllable liability.
And humiliate that little upstart Cecilia in front of Denver’s finest p>
Not one had landed.
She’d underestimated the girl.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
A slow, thoughtful smile curled across her lips–not amusement, but something closer to anticipation.
Beside her, the assistant finally spoke.
“Where shall we send Mrs. Dahlia, ma’am p>
Maggie leaned her head back against the seat, suddenly weary.
She exhaled–once. Measured. Final.
“To paradise,” she murmured.
“A permanent vacation p>
Tang delivered Luna Regina to the hospital as quickly as possible, then raced back to the mansion, driving like a man possessed.
He called Cecilia’s number–no answer.
Tried Harper. Tried Yvonne. Nothing.
He tore through the garden, then stormed the mansion like a one-man SWAT team, flinging open doors, barking at staff.
Still nothing.
Finally, a text appeared on his screen:
We’ve already gone home.
Five simple words.
But something about the message made his stomach knot. It wasn’t relief–it was reprimand, wrapped in restraint.
Cecilia sounded… pissed.
He immediately fired off an explanation:
*I’m so sorry, Cecilia. Luna Regina was also at the gala–she fell into the pond outside. Sebastian and I had to get her to the hospital. He told me to come back for you right away and make sure you all got home safely. I came back as fast as I could, but none of you were answering p>
He waited.
Each second dragged like a bad signal.
Finally p>
OK. Thank you for explaining.
Tang exhaled, shoulders sagging.
She understood.
Or so he thought.
Cecilia’s pov
Back at my apartment, I tossed my phone onto the couch with a sharp, disgusted thud.
It bounced against a throw pillow and landed face-down, like it was embarrassed for me.
If Tang hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have even known Sebastian had been at the mansion.
He didn’t call or text, not even a “You okay p>
He hadn’t come for me.
He’d gone for his mother.
I stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, one hand gripping the other like I needed to physically hold myself together.
Then I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging a little harder than necessary, my jaw clenched so tight I could feel it in my temples.
Logically, it made sense.
Of course he would prioritize his mother.
I wasn’t unreasonable.
I wasn’t the kind of woman who needed to be rescued first to feel loved.
But emotionally p>
I hated it.
I hated being the second call or the afterthought.
I sank onto the edge of the couch and stared at the wall across from me, not really seeing it.
The silence in the apartment was thick, like the dead air after a bad argument.
I regretted sending that text–that stupid, panicked message I’d shot off to Sebastian hours ago.
I hadn’t meant to make it a test.
But I had.
And the result?
Fail. In all caps. Bolded. With confetti.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down like someone had draped a wet wool blanket over my chest.
I didn’t cry or throw anything.
I just sat there, trying to file this whole mess under “lessons learned” instead of “wounds reopened p>
The next morning, our 9 a.m. flight still loomed like a deadline I hadn’t studied for.
After everything that had happened the night before–people screaming, security breaking down doors, signal jammers, masked guests fleeing into the dark–I assumed the trip would be canceled.
Surely even Sebastian wouldn’t be cold enough to pretend last night was just a blip and not a full-on security crisis.
But at 7:00 a.m., I called Beta Sawyer to confirm.
He picked up on the second ring, voice clipped and businesslike. “We’re just leaving the hospital now. The plan remains unchanged p>
Just like that. No drama or explanation.
Like nothing had happened and I hadn’t happened.
I didn’t argue.
I just stared at my phone for a few seconds after the call ended, then set it down carefully on the counter.
So we were still doing this.
Fine.
I zipped up my suitcase and stood by the door.
If this was going to be a business trip with a side of emotional negligence, I’d treat it as such.
Professional. Detached. Bulletproof.