Chapter 3

Lydia announced her victory at dinner.

She stood at the head of the long table with Moira beside her like a priestess, and Theobald at the other end, watching the room with that calm predator gaze that used to make me feel safe.

Now it made me feel sick.

“I have wonderful news,” Lydia said, her hand resting on her stomach like it already held the future. “The doctor confirmed it today.”

Moira’s eyes shone. “Tell them.”

Lydia smiled wide. “Triplets.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the table. Captains exchanged looks. Wives stiffened. Men offered rough congratulations to Theobald like he’d just conquered a country.

Theobald’s hand tightened around his glass. He didn’t smile—not fully. But his gaze flicked to me, sharp and quick, as if checking whether I’d break.

I didn’t.

I sat where Moira had placed me—farther down than I’d ever been, near the staff door, beside a cousin’s teenage son who looked terrified to share space with me.

Lydia’s eyes found mine.

I held her gaze without blinking.

She lifted her wineglass in a mock toast.

Then she “accidentally” tipped it.

Red wine spilled across the tablecloth, splashing my dress like blood.

Gasps.

Lydia pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. Eleanore, I’m so sorry—”

Her smile didn’t match her words.

Moira didn’t scold her. Moira didn’t even look at her.

Moira looked at me.

A silent test.

I reached for my napkin, dabbed the stain, and said, “It’s fine.”

Lydia’s relief was immediate. She thought my calm meant weakness.

Theobald’s gaze lingered on me longer this time. Something unreadable behind it. Suspicion, maybe. Or boredom.

Then the doors slammed open.

A man stumbled into the room, bleeding from the temple, eyes wild.

“Boss—” he choked. “There’s—”

He didn’t finish.

Something small and dark arced through the air.

A metal sphere.

A bomb.

Time slowed to a cruel crawl.

I saw it land on the polished floor between Theobald’s chair and mine.

I saw the way Lydia screamed.

I saw Moira’s face sharpen, calculating exits.

And I saw Theobald move.

Not toward the bomb.

Toward me.

He grabbed my arm—hard—and yanked me up so violently my chair fell backward. He pulled me into him, turned me, and used my body as a shield as he launched himself away from the blast radius.

My shoulder slammed into his chest.

Pain flared through my ribs.

Then he released me.

Not to cover me.

To leap over me.

To reach Lydia.

The explosion hit like thunder.

Heat. Pressure. Shrapnel biting into wood and flesh. The chandelier rattled. Someone screamed—a wet, animal sound. My ears rang so loudly the world became a muffled nightmare.

I hit the ground.

My cheek pressed against the cold floor, tasting dust and copper.

I tried to lift my head.

Everything spun.

When my vision cleared, I saw Theobald kneeling over Lydia near the far wall, his hands on her shoulders, checking her, cradling her like she was precious glass.

“She’s pregnant!” someone yelled.

Theobald’s voice—tight, furious—cut through the chaos. “Get her out. Now.”

No one asked if I was alive.

No one came to my side until one of the maids stumbled near me and gasped.

“Mrs. DeLuca—Eleanore—”

I turned my head slightly and saw Moira standing tall amid ruin, her gaze already searching for the traitor.

She looked at me once.

Only once.

Then she turned away.

Hours later, I woke in a quiet room with bandages on my shoulder and bruises blooming beneath my collarbone.

The estate doctor leaned over me. “You’re lucky. Mostly shock. Some cuts.”

“Lydia?” I croaked.

He hesitated. “She’s being monitored. Mr. DeLuca hasn’t left her side.”

Of course.

The door opened.

Theobald stepped in, shirt stained, eyes hard. For a second he looked like the man I married—dangerous, commanding, untouchable.

Then I saw the lack.

No guilt.

No apology.

No explanation.

“What happened?” I asked, voice rough.

He didn’t answer. He glanced at my bandage like it was a minor inconvenience.

“They were aiming for me,” he said. “Or my mother.”

He paused, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t have been sitting there.”

I laughed softly, because if I didn’t I might have screamed.

“You put me there,” I reminded him.

His gaze sharpened. “Eleanore—”

I sat up slowly, ignoring the pain, and reached into the bedside drawer.

I pulled out a thick folder.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

“Compensation,” I said. “For my injury. For the humiliation. For the disruption.”

His lips curled, faintly. “You want money right now?”

“It’s not money,” I replied. “It’s peace.”

He stared at me, conflicted. Then he exhaled like a man dealing with a nuisance, not a wife.

“Fine.”

He took the folder, flipped through without reading—because in Theobald’s world, paperwork was beneath him.

He signed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

His signature was bold, arrogant, careless.

When he finished, he tossed the folder back onto the bed. “There. Done.”

A nurse appeared at the door, urgent. “Mr. DeLuca—Lydia’s heart rate—”

Theobald was already moving.

He didn’t look back.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I stared at the folder.

Then I opened it.

My fingers slid through the pages until I found what I needed.

A transfer of warehouse title.

A temporary power of attorney.

Dock access authorization.

A corporate signature that gave me control over shipping manifests.

Keys.

I already got it.