Her eyes searched mine.
Not soft. Not forgiving yet.
Just searching.
“I don’t know how to be normal with you right now,” she admitted.
“Then don’t.”
“I’m angry.”
“You should be.”
“I’m angry that I was scared in our house.”
“I know.”
“I’m angry that your mother touched my baby.”
My jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“I’m angry that part of me still wonders whether you believe me.”
That one hurt.
But hurt was not her burden to manage.
“I believe you,” I said.
She looked down at her hands. “I need time.”
“You’ll have it.”
“And space.”
“You’ll have that too.”
“Not from the house,” she said quickly, panic flashing. “I don’t want to run from my own home. She should be the one gone.”
“She is.”
Sophie looked toward the window.
“And I want every lily removed.”
By sunset, every lily in the mansion was gone.
I called the house manager myself.
“Every arrangement. Every bulb. Every perfume. Every candle. Anything she brought into that house.”
“All of it, sir?”
“All of it.”
“What should we replace them with?”
