Mitchell's POV
The silence in the opulent car was heavy, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing on my chest. Three days. I stared at my phone, the screen a cold, hard truth. No calls. No missed calls. Not even a text asking where I was. The last notification was a promotional email from a boutique Clara loved. A sob clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down, hard. I would not cry in front of this enigmatic stranger. I refused to be the broken woman they all saw me as, even if the cracks were showing.
"Has it been three days I stayed in the hospital?" I asked him, my voice barely a whisper, a last, desperate hope that my phone was simply malfunctioning.
"Hmmm." He nodded, his garnet eyes watching me with an unnerving intensity. So it was true. Three days of silence. The final, definitive proof. I was a stranger to them already.
My gaze drifted back to his beautiful, impassive face. Is he mute? The thought sprang, unbidden, followed by a wave of pity. Such devastating beauty, trapped in silence. It seemed a cruel twist of fate.
When the familiar, hated iron gates of the Turnerstone estate came into view, my body went rigid with dread. The luxurious car, with its silent, watchful occupant, felt more like a sanctuary than that mansion ever had. I hesitated, my hand on the door handle. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw something shift in his expression—a contemplation, as if he was considering saying something, offering something. But the moment passed. I couldn't bear to wait, to hope for another lifeline only to have it dissolve. I murmured my thanks and slipped out, hurrying up the drive before my courage failed.
The grand front door felt like the entrance to a tomb. I pushed it open.
The shattering of porcelain exploded in the air a second before the cup itself whizzed past my head, smashing into the doorframe beside me. Shards rained down on the floor.
Mrs. Turnerstone stood in the center of the living room, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
"What a pleasant way of welcoming your daughter," I said, forcing a dry, sarcastic tone that hid the fresh wound her violence opened.
"You bastard, you're no daughter of mine." She screamed, her voice shrill enough to vibrate the crystal chandelier. "Three days. Disappearing without a word. We thought you'd finally run off with some disgrace, but to show your face here again?"
Exhaustion and a simmering anger replaced my hurt. I had no energy for this. I turned towards the back staircase that led to my room—the converted attic storage space with its sparse, cast-off furniture.
As I passed her, her hand shot out, fingers like talons digging into my arm. "I'm talking to you, you ungrateful wretch."
She yanked me back, and before I could brace myself, her other hand connected with my cheek in a sharp, stinging slap. My head snapped to the side, the taste of copper blooming in my mouth.
"You slut." She spat, her eyes wild. "Coming back here after whoring yourself out for three days. Who was it? Who's the sugar daddy paying for your little vanishing act?" She lunged for my hair.
This time, I was ready. My own hand came up, catching her wrist in a tight grip before her fingers could tangle in my hair. We stood there frozen, a silent, furious struggle.
"Eleanor. Mitchell. What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Turnerstone's voice boomed from his study doorway. He didn't ask what happened. His eyes went immediately to my hand restraining his wife's, and his face darkened. Naturally, he moved to stand beside her, a united front. There was no question in his eyes, no concern for the red mark on my face. Only disapproval for me.
And then, from the sweeping staircase, came the soft voice. Clara descended like a queen, a look of pious disappointment on her perfect features. "Don't upset yourself, Mom. Mitchell has always been… impulsive. That's why Donald couldn't stay with her, you know?" She turned her wide, innocent eyes to me. "He saw through the lies, sis. He saw the real you."
Mr. Turnerstone put a comforting arm around his wife, his gaze coldly dismissing me. "You've always been sensible, Clara," he said, his voice full of warmth and pride for her. "Not like some."
The words weren't new. The slap wasn't even the worst of it. But standing there, the remembrance of the handsome stranger's silent sanctuary still clinging to me, the three of them formed a perfect, impenetrable wall of contempt. I wasn't a daughter. I wasn't a sister. I was a liar, a slut, a problem.
I released Mrs. Turnerstone's wrist. Without another word, I turned and walked up the back stairs, each step echoing in the cavernous silence. The door to my barren room clicked shut behind me, a feeble barrier against the world.