Page 19 of The Cruel Heir
A warning.
A scolding.
An offer to clean up my act, before I stained his reputation any further.
But then…
“Zara, please,” he paused briefly, before going on. “You’re making a scene,” he hissed.
I stopped walking. Not because of him, but because I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Of course that was all he cared about. Why did I think he’d changed?
Sterling stepped forward like he’d been summoned. His hand wrapped around my wrist, cool, steady, claiming.
For a heartbeat I was nine again, sneakers dangling off the curb, while Dad’s sedan cruised past without slowing. The same hollow thunk echoed in my ribs now. I would never beg a Kingsley, or a Johnston, for rescue again, even if it meant walking barefoot into the dark.
“I’ll take care of her,” he said. Like I was a shadow on their sunshiny day. Like I was a problem.
And that was it. That was all it took, for me to go back to that obedient little girl.
John gave the faintest nod.
Like this scene was over.
Like I’d been contained.
And that… that was what cracked me.
He hadn’t looked at me like a daughter. He hadn’t asked if I was okay. He hadn’t questioned Sterling’s grip on me.
He just assumed Sterling was stepping in to keep The Kingsley Family Trust name clean.
Because I was the loose thread.
Because I wasn’t the child worth protecting. I was the one he used to get inside this world, and now I was the one he needed to keep quiet.
Madeline leaned in close, whispering something in his ear, and he smiled. Smiled.
And that did it. I lost all control over myself. Back in that dark place where they all left me.
The ballroom spun in slow, mocking circles. Candles flickered like dying stars, their light too faint to chase away the dark. Laughter danced sharply through the air, not joyous but jagged, like broken glass scattered across marble floors. In the background, a string quartet played a Chopin piece too delicate to hold the weight of everything unraveling.
They watched me. Pretending not to.
A sea of pale skin and silk gloves pressed around me, flaxen heads bobbing behind crystal flutes. Porcelain smiles flickered in the candlelight, their eyes sliding past me, like I was nothing more than background décor. The hush they draped over the room felt like canvas stretched tight across my throat.
Except for him.
Sterling moved, and I followed, because what else was there?
No one else had reached for me. Not once. Not ever.
And even now, wrapped in his grip, I didn’t feel safe.
I felt contained.
I used to believe I could earn my place. If I smiled enough. Stayed quiet enough. Performed the version of me they wanted, maybe then I’d be seen. Loved. Chosen.
But I was never the daughter John Johnston wanted to show off.
