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Chapter 22 - Chapter 22

"It's all your fault, you bloody bitch!" Navira screamed, her voice cracking with venom as she thrashed against the hands trying to hold her down. "You wanted my baby dead! You used your jealousy and envy to kill it! What have I ever done to you? How is it my fault that I'm better at everything than you? How is it my fault that I fuck Hunter better than you ever could? You took your anger out on my baby—my poor, innocent baby!"

Her words blurred into a furious torrent, a barrage I could no longer fully hear over the ringing in my ears, but she was still shrieking at the top of her lungs, her face twisted in rage. The pain from the cut throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the sting of her accusations.

Desperate, I glanced around the room, silently pleading for our parents to intervene—to come to my aid, to call the doctor, to do something. Instead, they rushed to Navira's side, Heather and Alfred enveloping her in their arms, murmuring soothing words as they tried to pacify her sobs.

"Please, Novaria! Just leave—leave now!" Heather cried out, tears streaming down her own face as she rocked Navira gently.

"You heard your mother, Novaria. Get out. Navi doesn't need to see you right now," Alfred added, his voice thick with emotion, waving me toward the door without a backward glance.

"Mom! Dad! What are you talking about?!" Carter shot back, his tone incredulous and furious as he kept his arm around me. "Navira just went crazy and attacked Nova, and you're consoling her instead?"

He was the only one defending me—the only one by my side all the time. What else could I expect from this hypocritical family, anyway?

I wiped the blood from my cheek with the back of my hand, the metallic tang sharp in the air, and placed a firm hand on Carter's arm to silence him. I couldn't take this anymore—the hypocrisy, the blind favoritism, the way they twisted everything to paint me as the villain. My pulse thundered in my ears as I strode forward, closing the distance to Navira's bed in three determined steps. Without hesitation, I reared back and delivered a hard slap across her face, the crack echoing like a gunshot in the tense room.

The impact seemed to jolt her out of her frenzy; her wild thrashing stilled, and she blinked up at me in stunned silence. I held her gaze dead-on, my eyes burning with years of pent-up resentment. "Why are you blaming me for your negligence, Navira? Why pin your baby's death on me? I haven't even shown my face in front of any of you since your wedding. I didn't touch you, didn't talk to this family—except Carter—so why the hell are you accusing me? And I don't give a damn if you fucked Hunter better than I ever did. I gave my virginity to my lover, who, by the way, can fuck me so much better than Hunter ever dreamed of."

The room fell into a stunned hush, every face frozen in shock—Hunter's mouth agape, our parents' eyes wide with disbelief, even Caleb looking like he'd been slapped himself. Seizing the moment, I turned away from them all, grabbing Carter's hand in a vice grip. "Let's go, brother," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "It's obvious we're just third wheels here. I don't even understand why they called us in the first place if they loathe us this much."

"Novaria! How dare you disrespect us like that?!" Dad bellowed, his face flushing red as he surged to his feet.

I shot him a cold glance over my shoulder, pausing at the door. "Didn't I make it clear before? I've already cut ties with all of you. I only came here out of respect for the fact that you gave birth to me." With that, I twisted the knob and yanked the door open.

"Mom! Dad! Look how disrespectful that bitch is! Can you see how—" Navira's voice rose again, shrill and furious, but I cut her off sharply.

"One more thing," I said, my tone laced with ice. "Karma's a bitch. That baby must have died because it knew you weren't fit to be its mother." I slammed the door shut behind us, the sound reverberating down the hall.

From the other side, her screams erupted anew—shrieking, incoherent wails that clawed at the air like a wounded animal. 'I'm sorry,' I thought, a pang twisting in my gut for the innocent life dragged into this toxic mess. 'The baby didn't deserve any of this.' 

I snapped out of my spiraling thoughts as Carter's hand gently patted the top of my head that pulled me back to the present. The hallway seemed to steady around me, the echo of Navira's screams fading into a distant hum behind the closed door.

"You did great there, Nova," he said softly, his voice warm with pride and a hint of relief as he squeezed my hand.

I managed a faint smile. "Yeah..." I murmured, the word barely above a whisper.

"Forget about them," he urged, guiding me toward the nurses' station at the end of the hall. "Let's tend to that wound first. I don't want you ruining that pretty face of yours over their nonsense."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

His mother had summoned him for Tuesday, and Tuesday it was—no delays, no excuses, despite the storm raging inside him.

After two fruitless days scouring Aubigo's streets and shadows for any trace of Novaria, Zion had finally surrendered to the gnawing frustration, his heart hardening into a forge of anger and cold vengeance. He'd return to Oregon for now, but he made a silent oath that the next time he set foot in this city, he'd hunt her down. She'd pay for the humiliation, the way she'd slipped through his fingers like smoke, no matter the cost in time, money, or blood. She would regret ever crossing him.

It was precisely 7:00 a.m. when he and Atlas boarded the first-class flight from Aubigo International to Oregon. As the plane taxied down the runway and lifted into the crisp morning sky, Zion stared out the window at the receding coastline, his thoughts a relentless loop of that green-eyed temptress and the drama awaiting him back home.

His mother's voice echoed in his ears from their last call: "...with all that's going on here..." Just what fresh chaos had she stirred up this time? Elvira Ashcroft never did anything halfway.

The flight dragged on for what felt like an eternity, the hours blurring under the hum of the engines and the occasional clink of flight attendant trays.

By 2:15 p.m., the wheels touched down smoothly on Oregon soil, the Pacific Northwest's familiar drizzle greeting them through the terminal windows.

A sleek black limousine waited curbside, the Ashcroft name engraved in elegant silver script above the license plate, a bold proclamation of power that made him scoff under his breath. His father had always been one for ostentation, broadcasting his empire like a peacock in a boardroom. But he knew the real force behind the fanfare: his mother.

Elvira Ashcroft swept into any space like a hurricane—unpredictable, devastating, leaving an indelible mark wherever she landed. Whether it was benevolence or ruin depended entirely on how she sized you up, and may the moon goddess help you if you fell on the wrong side of her gaze.

As the driver loaded their bags and held the door open, he slid into the leather interior, Atlas settling beside him with a low rumble of contentment.

The drive through Oregon's winding roads to the Ashcroft Palace stretched into a long, silent one-hour ordeal, the landscape unfolding in muted greens and grays under the perpetual overcast sky. Zion stared out the limousine's tinted window the entire time, his gaze unfocused on the blur of evergreens and distant mountains. The engine's low purr was the only sound breaking the quiet, save for the occasional murmur from beside him.

Atlas, answered calls on his phone with clipped precision—arranging high-stakes meetings in Northfield, canceling others in Rosemont, and tweaking Zion's packed schedule.

He might have glanced over, offered a nod of approval for the man's unflagging competence, but he was too deep in his own head. There was a whole tangled mess waiting for him at the palace that he'd trade anything to escape. 

The limo finally eased to a stop before the estate's magnificent steel gates. He straightened slightly, recognizing the familiar sight; he was home, whether he wanted to be or not. As the gates swung open, his eyes caught the vibrant bursts of his mother's favorite flowers—deep crimson camellias—planted in symmetrical rows on opposite sides of the impeccably tarred driveway.

The vehicle glided past the gates into the sprawling compound, and he took in the details with a detached sweep: the wandering horses grazing lazily in the paddock; the meticulously manicured gardens bursting with late-summer blooms; the central water fountain. His gaze drifted upward to the eight-foot bronze sculpture of his grandfather, Leonard Ashcroft, standing sentinel near the main path. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips at the memories flooding back. The man was still an icon, etched into his mind as indelibly as the statue before him, a reminder of what the Ashcroft name demanded.

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