Page 18 of The Cruel Heir
I turned slowly, carefully, like the motion itself might betray too much.
And there he was.
John Johnston.
My father.
Tuxedo pristine. Smile polished to gleam. He looked like success incarnate, like every room he entered owed him applause. And beside him, draped in bridal white, and diamond silence, stood Madeline Kingsley.
His new wife.
My old nightmare.
Her hand curled possessively around his arm, her posture perfect, trained. She had that country-club elegance that looked effortless, but had been sharpened over decades of gatekeeping. Her smile curled at the edges, tight and chilly.
“Is everything alright?” she asked sweetly.
Not to me.
Never to me.
To him.
I didn’t exist in her eyes. Not as a daughter. Not as a threat. Just a shadow in a starched uniform.
My fingers tightened around the tray. My knuckles burned.
John looked directly at me, and did nothing. No gasp. No guilt. Just… a flicker of irritation, like I was inconveniencing him by being seen.
That was the game, wasn’t it?
He was finally inside the upper echelon.
And I was the messy reminder of how he got there.
He never loved Chadwick. But he loved what Chadwick’s last name could offer. The doors it opened. The hush it bought him in boardrooms and ballrooms.
He’d sold me off to the elite like a business transaction. And now here I was, ruining the brand.
His daughter.
In a waiter’s apron.
His silence wasn’t confusion. It was calculation.
He was deciding if I was about to embarrass him.
My mouth went dry. I smiled. Barely. Just enough to make them uncomfortable.
“Ma’am. Sir,” I said, voice as hollow as the champagne bubbling in their flutes.
John’s jaw flexed. He blinked again, slower this time. Still said nothing.
Madeline’s smirk grew just a little sharper, like she knew this was a game she’d already won.
I turned before either could speak.
Because I knew what was coming next.
