Chapter 12: A threat looming on the horizon?
The gloom within the dining room was thick enough to carve through with a knife. Rory stood stiffly beside her chair, her arms folded and her expression stony, like a marble sculpture of fury just barely contained. Her chest rose and fell in slow, angry breaths, her eyes smoldering with a fury that made her father's heart clench.
"Rory..." Mr. Wynter's voice was quiet, almost pleading as he reached across the table, his fingers curling slightly as if unsure whether he had the right to touch her. "I never wanted this for you. I—"
His voice cracked, a fracture of the guilt that had eaten away at him for years. "I was just trying to protect you. If there was any way... if I could shoulder it all alone—"
Something in his voice tugged at her. The wall of steel she'd erected in her heart trembled. Slowly, her clenched jaw loosened and she inhaled a long, steady breath before easing back into her chair. Her arms uncurled and she rested her palms against her thighs, fingers twitching slightly.
" It isn't your fault father, You shouldn't be the one apologizing. As grandfather's friends, those three families should be the one to apologize for forcing you into such a situation." She said, taking her seat again.
Rory's gaze softened as it shifted between her mother and father. "So if I understand correctly," she said, her voice low, "as long as I refuse this contract, those families will continue to look for ways to destroy us?"
Mrs. Wynter nodded solemnly. "Yes, sweetheart. That's why we didn't want to burden you with it until—"
But before she could finish, Rory tilted her head back and began to laugh.
It wasn't the joyful, bubbling laughter her parents remembered. This laugh was raw and bitter, like the cracking of ice over a frozen lake. Her mother stiffened, visibly startled, while her father leaned forward, anxiety creasing his brow.
"Rory?" her mother said gently, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Rory, are you alright?"
Rory batted her hand away with a wave, her laughter tapering off as she wiped a tear from the corner of one eye, her radiant features glistening beneath the chandelier's golden light. "Don't worry," she said with a strange, almost dangerous calm, "I'm not losing my mind. I just find it funny, that's all."
Her mother's lips parted to respond, but Rory raised a finger. "You don't have to console me. I'm not a child anymore. I might've left home young, but I didn't grow up small. I know how the world works. You give an inch, and they take the whole damn field."
She stood from the table, Her voice hardened with quiet conviction. "I'm Aurora Rory Wynter. That name, Wynter, is all I'll ever claim. If the Montgomery's turned their backs on my father because he was born outside their precious lines, then I don't want a drop of their legacy. They don't get to decide my worth."
Both parents stared at her, stunned by the strength in her voice, the raw fire in her expression.
Rory pivoted on her heel and walked around the table, her footfalls echoing lightly across the polished floors. She passed her mother's side and paused briefly, her tone sharp and proud.
"As for those three old families," she said with a scoff, "I don't care how many connections they hold or how much dirt they dig up. Starting tomorrow, I'm taking over the business. They wanted to break us? Let's see how they fare when I push back personally."
Her father opened his mouth to protest, but Rory held up a hand again, not looking back.
"You asked me to come home," she said. "Well, I'm home now. And instead of begging me to marry into their line, I'll make sure they'll be lining their sons up for me, hoping I'll throw them a crumb."
With that, she swept out of the dining room like a queen leaving court, composed, deadly, and impossible to ignore.
Meanwhile... Across the city, far from the tension-laced warmth of the Wynter household, a crimson dusk spilled across the skyline, painting the towering glass buildings in hues of blood and fire.
Perched high atop a hill in one of the city's most exclusive districts, a mansion loomed behind wrought-iron gates and polished stone walls. The villa was opulent, dripping with wealth and arrogance. It was quiet, save for the soft sound of a fountain below and the occasional rustle of leaves in the evening wind.
A tall man stood on the wide marble balcony, one hand resting on the carved railing, the other cradling a half-filled wine glass. His raven-black hair gleamed beneath the setting sun, and his crimson eyes, sharp and unnaturally intense, glared down at the twinkling city like a predator surveying his territory.
Everything about him radiated danger. He was sculpted like a statue of war: lean muscle rippling beneath his loose black shirt, his collarbones casting sharp shadows against pale skin. His lips were curved in a cold line of indifference, and his presence alone could unnerve most.
Behind him, a figure in tailored uniform emerged through the balcony doors, a man with neatly parted hair and a discreet gold watch ticking nervously on his wrist.
"Young Master Caleb," the butler began carefully, "Theres been an important development, it seems the Wynters—"
A low, furious growl interrupted him mid sentence.
"I told you," Caleb said, his voice low and boiling like lava beneath the surface, "not to disturb me during my private hours."
The wine glass in his hand shattered with a sharp crack, crimson liquid splashing against his fingers and onto the pristine marble tiles. Shards bit into his skin, drawing thin rivers of blood, but he didn't even blink.
The butler recoiled in alarm, cold sweat trailing down his temple as Caleb turned slowly to face him.
The man's glare was inhuman.
His presence darkened the very air around him, coiling like a stormcloud, electric and lethal. Each step he took forward felt like thunder rattling through the bones of the helpless butler.
"You interrupted me for this?" Caleb's voice was silk over daggers, each word deliberate. "Because the Wynters still won't commit? That's your grand report?"
"N-no, sir," the butler stammered, nearly tripping over his own polished shoes. "I—there's more. An update. Just received moments ago."
Caleb paused mid-step, one brow arching in silent warning.
The butler seized the chance. "It's... it's the heiress, sir. The Wynters' daughter. She's returned."
The murderous air around Caleb thinned like a dissipating fog. He stood still, crimson eyes narrowing thoughtfully as his lips curled into a smirk.
"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice now low, his face cold. "Aurora Rory Wynter..."
The butler nodded rapidly, vowing, "I swear it's true, sir. We've confirmed the reports. She's been seen entering the Wynters abode."
Caleb waved a hand lazily, and the butler, sensing dismissal, bowed with all the haste he could manage before fleeing like a rabbit from a wolf's den.
" To think that those old fools would actually try to marry me off without my consent... " Caleb muttered beneath his breath. His face filled with visible displeasure.
" If it was just them, I wouldn't bother coming here... but to think the old man is behind this as well." He smirked at the thought. If there was one person he didn't dare to go against easily within the Lee family, it had to be the Lee family patriarch, his father, Stan Lee.
Alone once again, Caleb turned back toward the horizon, letting the morning wind tug at his shirt.
" There's no use getting frustrated because of a stupid idea..." He massaged his temples, trying to stay calm.
" I'll just have to clear this stupid farce and be on my way. I've wasted enough time here as it is." He sighed before turning around and walking back inside.