The weight of Philip's words settled on Anne, a heavy, suffocating blanket of despair. Her pride, her anger, her life—it was all worthless. She was a ship without a rudder, adrift in a stormy sea, and he was the only lighthouse in sight. She looked at him, her eyes pleading, her carefully constructed composure having crumbled into dust.
Philip watched her breakdown with a cool, detached satisfaction. He had her exactly where he wanted her: broken, desperate, and looking to him for a savior. He leaned forward, his expression shifting from one of feigned empathy to one of conspiratorial purpose.
"Those two must be relaxed now," he said, his voice a low, confident murmur. "Eric and Delia. They believe it's all over. They think they have won this round." He smiled, a slow, cold curving of his lips. "That is their mistake. The timing is perfect for us to retaliate."
