Reborn Heiress: The Revenge She Deserves

Delina watched Hiram adjust his cufflinks. His movements were precise, mechanical. She fought the urge to walk over and help him, to touch the hands that had ripped a car door off its hinges for her.

She took a step forward. "Hiram, about last night..."

Hiram flinched slightly. He didn't turn around. "The contract stipulates no discussion of indiscretions."

Delina bit her lip. The "contract." In her past life, she'd believed it was her idea, a shield she'd desperately erected to keep the monster at bay. Now, looking back with eyes that had seen him weep, she wondered if it hadn't been his cage all along-a set of rules he'd agreed to, to keep his own demons from touching her.

She changed tactics. "I'm not drunk anymore. I want to have breakfast with you."

Hiram turned slowly. His eyes narrowed through the holes of the silver mask. He scanned her face, looking for the trap. Was she asking for money? Was this a ploy from her father?

"I have a meeting," he said flatly. He grabbed his suit jacket from the bed.

He walked past her, leaving a trail of scent-sandalwood and cold rain. It made her chest ache.

Delina reached out and caught his sleeve.

Hiram froze. He stared at her hand on the expensive fabric of his suit as if a spider had landed there.

"Have a safe trip," she whispered. There was genuine warmth in her voice, a softness he had never heard directed at him.

Hiram pulled his arm away abruptly, as if burned.

"Stop acting," he growls. The words were low, dangerous.

He stormed out of the room without looking back.

Delina sighed, letting her hand fall. Undoing three years of damage wouldn't happen in a day. But at least she had made him react.

She went to the closet. She pushed aside the pastel, modest dresses she usually wore-the ones Florene said made her look "sweet." She pulled out a sharp, tailored black jumpsuit she had bought on a whim and never worn.

She dressed, fixed her hair into a severe bun, and opened the bedroom door.

She stepped into the grand hallway. A maid was dusting a vase near the railing. The girl looked at Delina with thinly veiled contempt, likely mimicking the attitude of the head housekeeper.

Delina ignored her and headed for the stairs.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed her temples. It was blinding, white-hot. She stumbled, grabbing the railing to keep from falling. Her vision blurred for a second, the world tilting.

A strange whisper echoed in her mind. Not a sound, but a thought that wasn't hers.

Move.

The maid dropped her duster. She jumped, looking around startled. "Did you say something, Ma'am?"

Delina blinked, the pain receding as quickly as it had come. She hadn't spoken aloud. Had the maid heard her thought?

She shook it off. Stress. It had to be stress.

She continued down the stairs. At the bottom, in the foyer, stood Mrs. Creola Stone.

The housekeeper was on the phone, her back to the stairs, her voice hushed and conspiratorial.

Delina stopped. She recognized that posture. It was the posture of a spy.

Mrs. Stone turned, saw Delina, and quickly hung up the phone, sliding it into her apron pocket. She put on a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs. Tyson. Your mother called," Stone lied effortlessly. "She just wanted to check on you."

Delina stood on the bottom step, looking down at the woman who had reported her every move to Florene for three years.