The side chamber's tall windows offered no refuge—only the blurred reflection of Evelyn's pale face, the faint tremor in her shoulders, the sheen of sweat breaking along her hairline. Outside, flashes from cameras still lit the banquet hall like lightning, and the murmurs beyond the heavy doors throbbed like a living pulse, each word another needle pressing into her skin. Robert's fingers curled around her elbow, cold and firm, steering her away from the roiling sea of whispers and sharp lenses. His grip seared through the thin silk of her sleeve, a silent message that left her breath catching painfully in her throat.
"Father, please—" Evelyn's voice cracked, emerging thin and desperate, barely rising over the soft, frantic click of her heels on polished marble.
"Not here." Robert's tone was stripped bare of warmth, a taut wire stretched to snapping. His tie hung slightly loosened at his collar, the first visible unraveling of a man long armored in composure. He didn't glance at her, didn't slow his pace, just guided her through the hush of the side chamber where the echoes of the party still pulsed faintly, like a distant storm rolling over a far-off sea.
Grace hovered near the threshold, hands twisting at the delicate lace of her cuffs, her knuckles bone-white against the pale fabric. Her eyes flicked between daughter and husband, lips parted as if to speak, but the words clung to the back of her throat, fragile and unspeakable. Her shoulders pulled in as Evelyn passed, as though shrinking from the wreckage sliding by her side.
Evelyn stumbled once, the hem of her gown snagging momentarily beneath her heel, the whisper of silk against stone as treacherous as any trap. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening with the need to explain, to twist the narrative, to summon the familiar armor of charm and apology. "Father, you have to listen to me, they're—Lottie is manipulating everyone, she's been—"
Robert turned, his gaze cutting through her like a blade of cold glass. "Enough." The single word cleaved the air in two, freezing her mid-sentence. His shoulders sagged, only slightly, but to Evelyn, the movement rang like a collapse. It was a gesture she had seen him direct at enemies, competitors, strangers at a board table—not at her. Never at her.
In the corner, Mason's voice drifted into Lottie's earpiece. "Board members are restless, but you've got momentum. Evelyn's approval is in free fall; Leo just sent fresh poll numbers. We're at the tipping point."
Lottie stood just beyond the archway, her arms folded with a loose, almost languid grace. But her eyes were sharp, watchful, the faint tilt of her head a study in precision. There was no triumph in her posture yet, only the weight of calculation—the patient grip of someone who understood that the final moment mattered more than any applause. Mason's voice was a hum beneath the tension, but Lottie barely blinked, her focus fixed on the small, collapsing tableau before her.
Inside the chamber, Evelyn's hands lifted, trembling at her sides as if she might catch the words slipping through her grasp. "I never meant for this—I've been trying to protect the family, you know that, don't you?" Her voice broke, raw edges fraying into something half-childish, half-desperate. She reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of Robert's jacket, fingertips grazing fine wool with a ghost of remembered closeness.
Robert's jaw clenched, the line of his mouth hardening. "Protect the family?" His laugh was a brittle, hollow sound—no mirth, no warmth, only the crack of something splintering inside. "Is that what you call it? Deception, manipulation, bleeding the trust dry under our noses?"
The words struck like a lash. Evelyn's breath stuttered, a shallow tremor rippling through her chest, the tears rising fast, too fast to stop. "You think I wanted this?" she choked, the syllables snagging on her teeth, spilling like glass beads snapped from a string. "You think I wanted to—" Her voice shattered, and for a heartbeat, she folded in on herself, shoulders quaking, throat tight with words she could no longer shape.
Grace stepped forward, her voice finally trembling free. "Robert, maybe we should—"
"Not now, Grace." Robert's hand lifted, not harsh, but firm, a wall she had long learned not to climb. Grace froze, her arms half-lifted, the faint ache of helplessness pulling at the corners of her mouth.
Lottie's fingers curled briefly into fists, nails biting into the tender skin of her palms. She drew in a quiet, measured breath, grounding herself against the tilt of her heartbeat. Mason's voice continued softly in her ear, tracking the eddies of conversation beyond the chamber, the murmurs of shifting allegiances, the tightening knot around Evelyn's throat. Amy slipped like a shadow through the edges of the room, a thread between clusters of whispers, her ears tuned to every brittle, breaking word.
Across the ocean, Adrian's message buzzed against Lottie's wrist: Need clarity. Are you sure this will hold?
Lottie's lips edged into the faintest ghost of a smile—not arrogance, not cruelty, but the quiet echo of inevitability.
Inside the chamber, Evelyn surged forward, the desperate snap of her voice ringing thin. "Father, please, you're angry now, but when this settles, you'll see. They've twisted everything. I was only trying to—"
"To what, Evelyn?" Robert's voice was soft, but the steel in it made her flinch. "To save face? To save yourself?"
Her face crumpled, the first real crack splitting wide open. "I can fix this," she breathed, the words thin as tissue, fingers fluttering at her collar as if she could smooth the panic from her skin. "If you just let me—"
A soft, sharp sound rasped from Robert's throat, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—something smaller, older, a noise scraped from the bottom of a well. His hand dragged through his silver hair, fingers knotting briefly at his nape before falling limply to his side. "Fix this," he murmured, voice hollow, eyes shuttered half-closed. His gaze drifted to Grace, who stood trembling, her hands twisted tight in the folds of her skirt. "We may have to rethink everything," he whispered, and the words landed with the cold finality of a door closing, of a kingdom slipping beneath a tide.
Outside, Lottie's chest tightened, adrenaline licking sharp and cold through her veins. Mason murmured softly, "That's it. He's pivoting. Evelyn's done." His fingers brushed her elbow, grounding her just as her knees threatened a ghost of weakness.
Amy darted close, her voice a hurried whisper against Lottie's shoulder. "They're saying she's lost the board. It's over." Her eyes were wide, her breath catching sharp in her chest, half-triumph, half-dread.
Inside the chamber, Evelyn took a stumbling step forward, hands reaching blindly, nails biting crescents into Robert's sleeve. "Father, you can't—" Her voice cracked, fell, rose again in a sharp, raw edge. "We are family. You can't just throw me away."
Robert's fingers closed gently around hers, prying them free, one by one. His touch was careful, almost tender—but when he released her, the finality was cold, irrevocable. Evelyn's hands fell limply to her sides, the thin silk of her gown rustling like the last tremor of a dying leaf.
"I need air," Robert murmured, his voice distant, already halfway out the door. Grace hesitated, a soundless plea trembling on her lips, but Robert didn't turn. His footsteps echoed down the marble corridor, each fading click another nail in the coffin Evelyn had spent years building, polishing, denying.
Evelyn swayed where she stood, breath ragged, chest heaving in short, desperate bursts. Her eyes flicked to Grace, to the yawning doorway, to Lottie's still silhouette at the threshold. For a moment—one suspended, aching heartbeat—her gaze locked on her sister's.
And all the careful armor, all the polished charm, shattered like crystal in a clenched fist.
"I was supposed to be the one you loved," Evelyn whispered, the words feather-soft, barely air, barely sound. It wasn't clear if she spoke to Lottie, or to Robert's retreating shadow, or to the hollowed room around her—but the ache of it cut clean and deep.
Lottie's throat tightened, her breath knotting hard against her ribs. But she said nothing. Her lips parted, then closed, the silence a blade she could not bring herself to sheath.
Evelyn's knees buckled. Grace surged forward, arms wrapping instinctively around her daughter, hands trembling as they pressed into Evelyn's back, fingers splaying wide as if trying to hold her together. Evelyn sagged, the weight of her body folding into her mother's, her shoulders shaking with the tremors of a broken throne. But even in her mother's arms, her eyes clung to Lottie—wild, desperate, drowning.
Behind Lottie, Mason's phone vibrated sharply. Leo's message flashed across the screen: Approval just hit its lowest point. The board's moving. PR's in freefall.
Lottie's fingers flexed once, loosening the tight curl of her fists. She inhaled slowly, deliberately, the sound like the quiet before a storm breaks, and turned away, leaving Evelyn cradled in Grace's arms, the soft, muffled sound of a fallen queen's sob threading through the marble silence.
Above them, the chandelier swayed faintly, its crystals shivering in the draft, casting a fractured scatter of light across the polished floor—a fragile constellation, shimmering at the edge of collapse.