Chapter 88
Layla lowered her lashes, studying the crimson swirl of wine in her glass as though it held answers. The floating lights above caught the liquid, turning it into something rich and dangerous — like blood dressed in silk.
But she wasn’t seeing the wine. She was replaying the evening.
She had seen it.
The way Liam’s voice softened when he offered a toast to Lara. The admiration in his eyes was unguarded and unmistakable.
She had heard it.
The pride in Logan’s voice when he declared, “I’m proud to be your brother p>
Brother!
Not godbrother. Not some polite title, but Brother.
Then there was Ares. She had caught that look too — the way his obsidian gaze lingered on Lara’s face, darkening with something possessive, something hungry.
It wasn’t gratitude. It was interest.
And her father — disciplined, distant Leonard Norse — had addressed Lara as daughter with indulgence woven into his tone.
Daughter.
Layla’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
And her mother.
Madeline’s hands had lingered in Lara’s hair, smoothing it back, patting her shoulder gently — tenderly — the way she used to comfort Layla after a nightmare.
Lucas had said nothing. But he had served Lara with food first — carefully, attentively.
That had stung the most.
Those were her people. Her family. Her empire. Built on years of devotion and entitlement.
And now Lara stood at the center of it, a threat!
No.
Layla’s grip tightened further. The delicate crystal trembled between her fingers.
Crash.
The glass slipped, hit the cobblestone, and shattered into glittering shards.
Gasps rippled through the garden.
Layla bent down quickly, ignoring the servant who moved to clean it.
“Ouch!” she cried sharply.
A sharp inhale. A thin streak of red bloomed along her fingertip.
The reaction was immediate.
Lucas was the first to reach her, crouching beside her, hands steady but eyes anxious. “Layla, are you alright?” He lifted her carefully, examining her bleeding finger like it was something precious.
Liam appeared at her side next, jaw tight. “How could you be so careless p>
Logan’s voice cut through the tension. “Get the first aid kit. Now.” His tone left no room for delay.
Servants scattered.
Leonard and Madeline hurried over, the celebration forgotten.
From across the garden, Lara’s view vanished — Layla disappeared into a tightening circle of Norse bodies — shoulders closing in, backs forming a wall, their attention locking around her like armed security. A living shield.
Laughter faded. Music dimmed.
All that existed was that circle and Lara standing outside of it.
Her chest tightened slowly, painfully, as if an invisible thread had been pulled too hard from inside her ribs.
Once — long ago, in a life that felt like it belonged to another girl — that circle had formed around her.
Once, long ago, that protective circle had been hers.
Once, they had hovered over her injuries. Once, she had been the one they rushed toward.
Once, when she caught a fever, her mother, Freya, had stayed awake through the night, cool cloth pressed to her forehead, whispering soft reassurances in the dark.
Once, when she scraped her knee running across a similar garden, her eldest brother, Asael, had carried her inside as if she weighed nothing.
Once, when Prince Reuben had made her cry during a palace banquet, her second brother, Galahad, the reckless one, had stormed out, ready to start a war.
Once, when she’d been afraid of thunder, Bener her third brother had sat beside her window and counted the seconds between lightning and sound, explaining the science just to distract her.
Once, when she wanted to eat a pastry, Gideon, her fourth brother, woke up at dawn to queue at the bakeshop to get the pastry for her.
And when she was lost in the woods behind the Norse estate, her twin siblings Percival and Peridur, found her and stayed with her the entire night.
Once p>
But those were the Norse of the past, where she belonged.
Now, they were not hers. Her identity was only borrowed.
A goddaughter, an outsider.
“Mom… Dad… brothers Layla’s voice trembled, soft and fragile. “I was so careless. The glass just slipped p>
Mom. Dad. Brothers.
Each word struck Lara with quiet precision.
Madeline brushed Layla’s hair back from her face, fingers gentle, worried. “Are you in pain p>
“Lucas, hurry and stop the bleeding,” Liam urged, concern sharpening his usually steady voice.
“It’s nothing,” Layla insisted bravely. “Just a small wound p>
But when Lucas pressed disinfectant against the cut, she winced dramatically, inhaling sharply.
“Lucas, what are you doing?” Logan snapped, unusually stern. “You’re hurting her. Be gentler p>
“Hey, you’re so noisy. Are you the doctor here or am I p>
Logan went silent.
The entire Norse family stood around her like Layla was made of glass.
Exactly the way her own family used to hover over her.
Lara swallowed, but the ache didn’t go away.
She hadn’t realized how much she missed it — the unconscious protection, the unquestioned belonging, the instinctive way her family used to turn toward her first.
Not because she was fragile. But because she was theirs.
Mother. Father. Brothers. I missed you so much.
Her lashes trembled as she continued to watch.
Then Madeline shifted slightly, and a gap opened.
Through that narrow space, Lara’s gaze collided with Layla’s.
And in that instant, Layla’s trembling vanished.
The tears suspended in her lashes didn’t fall.
Instead, her lips curved — subtle, calculated.
A smug glint flashed in her eyes. There was no pain there.
Only victory.
Lara exhaled slowly.
“Ah,” she murmured under her breath. “So it’s a performance p>
“What?” Ares’ voice came from beside her.
She blinked, startled. She hadn’t even noticed him take Lucas’ empty seat. He sat close now, his presence solid and deliberate.
“Nothing,” Lara replied calmly.
But her eyes never left Layla — still cradled in the center of the Norse family, still playing fragile while every pair of arms shielded her.
The celebration had resumed.
But beneath the music and wine, a quieter war was unfolding.
And Layla had just fired the first shot.