ELLA'S POV
The word tore from both of us simultaneously. A duet of horror and recognition.
I was on my feet before I knew I'd moved, my mug forgotten, tea sloshing onto the marble counter. The pain in my body vanished, eclipsed by a surge of pure, anger and fury.
He stared at me, those cold blue eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before the mask slammed back down. But I saw it. The flicker. He remembered.
The arrogant bastard from the mall. The one who'd knocked into me like I was invisible. Who'd dismissed me with that flat, bored voice. Who'd walked away without a single word of apology.
This was Jackson Smith. Pearl's brother. The billionaire. The distant storm.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I breathed, my voice shaking with anger.
Margaret looked between us, confusion etching her kind face. "You two... know each other?"
"No," Jackson said flatly, at the same moment I snapped, "Unfortunately."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jackson recovered first, because of course he did. The mask was perfect now, very cool, unreadable, utterly detached. He moved further into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water as if nothing had happened, as if I wasn't standing there vibrating with rage.
"We've met," he said, his voice that same infuriating calm. "Briefly. At the mall."
Abigail's eyebrow shot up. "The mall? When?"
"Weeks ago," I bit out, crossing my arms over my chest. The motion was defensive, but I didn't care. "He knocked into me. Hard. Sent my bag flying. And then he just... walked away. No apology. No nothing."
Jackson took a slow sip of his water, meeting my glare with infuriating composure. "It was crowded."
The words were a match to gasoline. My vision went red at the edges. "Oh, don't you dare use that excuse again. You didn't even stop. You acted like I was a piece of furniture in your way."
His jaw tightened, just slightly. The first crack. "I had a meeting."
"And I had a bruised shoulder and a bruised ego! But sure, your meeting was clearly world-saving stuff." I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "Unbelievable. All these years, Pearl talks about you, and this is what I get. The mall jerk."
Abigail was frozen, her hand over her mouth, eyes darting between us like a spectator at a tennis match. "Jackson... is this true?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at me with those cold, unreadable eyes. Finally, he set his glass down with a soft clink. "It was an unfortunate encounter. I apologized."
"You DID NOT!" I nearly shouted. "You said 'it's crowded' and 'are you done?' That's not an apology! That's dismissal!"
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or annoyance. It was gone before I could name it.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said. The most non-apology apology in existence.
I stared at him, speechless with fury. Then I laughed again, shaking my head. "You know what? Fine. Whatever. You're Pearl's brother. I'm here for Pearl. Let's just... exist in different corners of this house and pretend the other doesn't exist."
"That would be preferable," he agreed, his voice utterly flat.
Abigail finally found her voice. "Jackson Smith, you apologize properly right now. Ella is family. She's been part of our lives since she was a little girl, and you will treat her with respect."
Jackson looked at his mother, and for a split second, I saw something human in his eyes. A flicker of... something. Guilt? Exhaustion? But then it was gone, smoothed over by that perfect billionaire mask.
"Of course, Mother," he said, his tone softening marginally as he turned back to me. "Ella. I apologize for my behavior at the mall. It was... uncalled for."
The words were right. The tone was wrong. Flat. Rehearsed. Like he was checking a box.
I forced a tight smile. "Apology accepted. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find Pearl."
I grabbed my bag and swept out of the kitchen before I could say something I'd regret. My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding. And underneath it all, the cramps were back, sharper than before, as if my body was joining in on the betrayal.
I found Pearl in her childhood bedroom, sitting at her vanity, wrestling with a curling iron. She took one look at my face and dropped it.
"Oh no. What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Worse," I said, collapsing onto her bed. "I've seen your brother."
Pearl's eyes went wide. "You met Jackson? Already? How did it go? Wait, why do you look like you want to murder someone?"
I took a deep breath, and then I told her everything. The mall. The bump. The dismissal. The utter, infuriating arrogance of the man who was apparently her long-lost brother.
By the time I finished, Pearl's mouth was hanging open. "No. No way. That was Jackson? The mall guy who ruined your whole day?"
"The very same."
"Oh my god." She covered her face with her hands, then peeked through her fingers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. He's... he's like that. Distant. Rude. I forgot he could be a real person and not just a name on a card."
"I don't know how I'm going to get through this dinner," I admitted, pressing a hand to my aching stomach. "I already wanted to punch him. Now I actually have to sit at a table with him and pretend to be civil."
Pearl grabbed my hand. "You don't have to. We can leave. Fake an emergency. I'll back you up."
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to say yes. But I'd promised. And Abigailt was in the kitchen, so happy to have me here. And Pearl needed me.
"No," I said, squeezing her hand. "I'm staying. For you. But I'm not talking to him. And if he looks at me wrong, I'm throwing bread at his head."
Pearl giggled, the tension breaking slightly. "Deal. Now help me fix this hair disaster, and then we'll face the dragon together."
---
Dinner was an ordeal.
The dining room was elegant, as always, candles flickering, china gleaming, food arranged like art on the massive table. Mr. Smith, Joshua, was warm and welcoming, kissing my cheek and asking about my classes. Margaret kept up a steady stream of conversation, filling the silences with stories and laughter. Pearl held my hand under the table.
And at the head of the table, directly across from me, sat Jackson.
He was the picture of composure. Eating slowly, answering his father's questions about the business in clipped, precise sentences. Occasionally, his eyes would drift to me, and I'd feel the weight of them like a physical thing. Assessing. Calculating. Dismissing.
I refused to look at him. Instead, I focused on my food, on Pearl's knee bouncing nervously beside me, on Joshua's warm smile. I responded when spoken to. I laughed at Joshua's terrible jokes. I was the picture of politeness.
But underneath the table, my hands were fists in my lap. And every time I accidentally glanced up and caught Jackson's eye, I made sure to roll mine. Hard. Just so he knew. Just so he understood that I hadn't forgotten. That I wouldn't forget.
The first time I did it, his eyebrow twitched. The second time, his jaw tightened. The third time, something dark flickered in his eyes, annoyance, maybe, or the first stirrings of something more complicated. I didn't care. Let him be annoyed. Let him squirm.
Then the cramps hit.
Not the dull, manageable ache I'd been nursing all day. A sharp, twisting, take-your-breath-away spasm that made me gasp silently, my hand flying to my stomach. I'd been so focused on hating Jackson that I'd forgotten to manage my pain. Now it was demanding attention.
I tried to hide it. Pressed my lips together. Sat up straighter. Breathed through it.
But Abigail noticed. Of course she did. The woman missed nothing.
"Ella, sweetheart, are you alright? You've gone pale."
I tried to smile. "I'm fine, Mama A. Really. Just a little" Another spasm. I couldn't finish the sentence.
Abigail was on her feet in an instant. "Maria!" she called toward the kitchen. The maid appeared moments later, a soft-faced woman in a crisp uniform. "Get Ella some hot tea and the heating pad from the linen closet. And bring the pain relievers from my bathroom."
"Yes, ma'am." Maria nodded and hurried away.
I started to protest, I didn't want to make a scene, didn't want to be a burden but the words died in my throat as another wave of pain crashed over me. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white.
And then, from across the table, came the voice.
"Some people know nothing other than how to seek attention."
The words were quiet. Not quite a whisper, but low enough that only I could hear them. Jackson's eyes were on me, cold and flat, his expression utterly unchanged from the mask he'd worn all evening.
The room went silent. Abigail, thank God, hadn't heard. She was focused on Maria returning with the supplies. Pearl was looking at me with concern. Henry was telling some story about his golf game.
But I heard. I heard every syllable. Every ounce of dismissal in that cruel, casual observation.
My blood turned to ice, then to fire. I opened my mouth to respond, to tear into him with every word I'd been holding back for hours. The mall. The rudeness. This. This.
But the pain chose that moment to spike again, sharp and blinding, and all that came out was a soft, ragged breath.
Jackson saw it. The moment my voice failed. The moment my body betrayed me. And in his eyes, I saw something I couldn't name. Not satisfaction. Not guilt. Something else. Something that flickered and vanished before I could understand it.
Maria was at my side, pressing the warm heating pad into my hands, murmuring softly about taking the pills with water. Abigail was rubbing my back, her touch gentle and soothing. Pearl was asking if I needed to lie down.
I let them fuss. I let them help. Because I couldn't fight. Not right now. Not when my body was screaming and my heart was pounding and the man across the table had just confirmed everything I already knew about him.
He was cruel. He was arrogant. He was everything I hated.
And I was trapped here, in his house, at his table, pretending we didn't want to kill each other.
I swallowed the pills. I clutched the heating pad. And I didn't look at Jackson again for the rest of the night.
But I felt his eyes on me. Always. A cold, assessing weight that followed me even after dinner ended, even after I said goodnight to Pearl, even after I curled up in the guest room that had once felt like a second home.
Now it felt like enemy territory. Because he was here. And he had drawn a line.
I just didn't know yet that lines could be crossed.