The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

"What are you laughing at?" Harold snapped, her laugh getting under his skin.

Cleo lifted her head, eyes sharp, cutting straight to Nora—still playing weak.

"You love putting on a show, huh? Fine. I'll give you one."

Before anyone could move, she grabbed a metal pen off the vanity and drove it straight into the back of Nora's hand, pinning it to the floor.

"Ahhh!"

A sharp scream ripped through the room. The pen punched clean through her hand, blood spilling fast.

"You—You've lost your mind! You're insane!" Harold shook with rage, pointing at the door. "Get out! Get out of this house! There's no place for you here!"

He called the servants. They dragged her out, tossed her and her small suitcase past the gates.

Cleo stumbled, then steadied.

Face blank, she rubbed her sore arm, then crouched and pulled out her mom's sapphire necklace—the one she'd taken back earlier—and clenched it tight.

She gave the grand, cold mansion one last look, then turned and walked away. No hesitation.

She hadn't gone far before the sky just opened up.

Rain slammed down out of nowhere, soaking her in seconds.

The early spring chill cut through her clothes, straight to the bone. Shivering, she ducked under a shop awning, half-running.

Water dripped from her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blur of rain.

Her chest felt empty.

Just then, a familiar black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her.

The window slid down, revealing Damian's sharp profile.

The second he saw her—soaked, a mess under the awning—his brows tightened.

He shoved the door open and walked over. "Get in."

"I don't need you."

Damian didn't argue. He grabbed her arm, grip tight, and hauled her into the passenger seat.

The car was warm, heat chasing off the cold clinging to her.

He handed her a clean towel, then drove in silence back to his place.

Inside, he gave her one of his shirts and a pair of pants to change into. Then he brought out a first-aid kit and dabbed at the faint bruise on her cheek.

"What happened?" His voice stayed low, eyes on her swollen face, her damp hair making her look almost fragile.

Cleo pressed her lips together. Said nothing.

The doorbell rang.

Damian got up and opened it. Nora stood there—hand wrapped in thick bandages, face pale.

"Damian..." Her eyes went red the second she saw him. "Dad kicked Cleo out. I was worried... I mean, yeah, she almost killed me last time, and this time she stabbed my hand with a pen, but... we're still sisters. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so I came to take her home..."

From the living room, Cleo heard every word. Nora made her sick.

She walked over and stared her down. "Try that disgusting act in front of me again, and I'll rip your mouth apart."

"Cleo." Damian's face darkened. "How long are you gonna keep this up? Hitting people. Shoving them. Driving a pen through someone's hand. Which part of that screams 'proper lady'?

"Nora didn't hold it against you. She even came to take you home, and this is how you treat her?"

Nora rushed forward and grabbed his sleeve. "Damian, it's okay. As long as Cleo comes back with me..."

"Cleo, apologize to her."

"Not happening."

They started arguing right there in the doorway. Damian reached for Cleo. She shoved him off.

His arm hit a tea tray a maid had just set down.

Crash.

The porcelain pot shattered. Scalding tea splashed everywhere.

In that split second, Damian moved on instinct. He turned and pulled Nora tight against him, his back shielding her from the worst of it.

Cleo stood on the other side. No time to move. Boiling tea soaked half her body.

Pain tore through her—from calf to arm.

She doubled over, face white as paper.

Damian checked Nora first. Just a few red spots on her hand.

He let go, then finally saw Cleo curled on the floor.

Her skin was already swelling, flushed an angry red.

His pupils tightened. He stepped toward her.

"Damian!" Nora grabbed his arm, voice shaking. "I'm fine, it just stings... But Cleo... she looks really hurt. Shouldn't you check her first?"

He stopped.

His gaze flicked between Cleo's twisted face and Nora's soft, understanding look. Then he remembered Cleo's earlier "outburst," and his eyes hardened.

He looked away.

He bent down, scooped Nora into his arms. His voice went cold. "Forget her. Let her suffer. Maybe next time she'll think before hurting you."

He carried Nora out without a glance back.