Betrayed Heiress Strikes Back

Chapter 18

The garden table was set with silver cutlery and porcelain plates, the scent of roasted lamb mingling with autumn air. Kya sat opposite Reginald Whitmore, Julian at her side, the cashmere blanket folded neatly on the chair beside him.

At first, the old man’s tone was warm, almost grandfatherly. He lifted his glass of water, his eyes sharp despite the tremor in his hand.

“So, Kya,” he began, voice gravelly but steady, “tell me—what is your favorite book?”

Kya blinked, surprised by the simplicity. She answered with grace, naming a novel that had shaped her thinking. Reginald nodded, his expression unreadable.

“And your favorite meal?” he asked next, spearing a piece of lamb. “If you could eat only one dish for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

Kya smiled faintly, answering with honesty. Again, he nodded, though his eyes lingered longer this time.

Then his tone shifted, subtle but deliberate. “You’ve studied much, haven’t you? Multiple degrees, I hear. Impressive. But tell me—what use is knowledge if it cannot protect the family you marry into?”

Kya’s pulse quickened. She met his gaze, steady, refusing to flinch. “Knowledge is power, Mr. Whitmore. And power protects.”

Reginald leaned back, his lips curving faintly. “A clever answer. But cleverness can be dangerous. Tell me, Kya—what is more important: loyalty to your husband, or loyalty to the Gray legacy?”

Julian shifted beside her, his jaw tightening, but Reginald raised a hand, silencing him. His eyes remained fixed on Kya.

The questions grew sharper, each one a blade disguised as curiosity.

“If Julian were to falter, would you stand by him—or step aside for the sake of the family name?”

“If the Grays demanded sacrifice, would you give up your own ambitions?”

“If Elena Carney were to challenge your place, how would you respond?”

Each question pressed harder, tricking her into revealing not just her composure but her strength. The lamb grew cold on her plate, the wine untouched, as Kya realized this was no casual lunch. It was an interrogation cloaked in civility.

Reginald’s eyes gleamed, satisfied. “You see, my dear, marriage into this family is not about love alone. It is about endurance. About knowing when to fight, and when to yield. Do you understand?”

Kya lifted her chin, her voice calm but firm. “I do. And I will not yield.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the garden. Reginald’s lips curved faintly, his gaze shifting to Julian. “She has spirit. Perhaps more than you realize.”

Julian’s hand brushed Kya’s beneath the table, steady and reassuring. But Kya knew—this was only the beginning of the test.

The lamb was carved, the wine poured, and the conversation sharpened. Reginald Whitmore leaned forward, his cane resting against the table, his eyes fixed on Kya with the weight of generations behind them.

“You’ve answered well,” he said, his tone deceptively mild. “But let me ask you this—what is ambition to you? A ladder to climb, or a burden to carry?”

Kya’s fork paused above her plate. She met his gaze, steady. “Ambition is neither. It’s a compass. It points you forward, but it doesn’t carry you unless you walk.”

Reginald’s lips curved faintly, but his eyes gleamed. “A clever metaphor. But tell me—if your compass pointed away from Julian, would you follow it?”

Julian shifted beside her, his jaw tightening. “Grandfather—”

Reginald raised a hand, silencing him. “I’m speaking to her.”

Kya inhaled slowly, her voice calm. “My compass points toward us. Toward building something together. I wouldn’t abandon him.”

The old man studied her, his silence heavy. Then he turned his gaze to Julian. “And you, boy. You sit there calm, smiling, as though the world bends to your will. But tell me—what happens when it doesn’t? When whispers rise, when rivals strike, when family politics turn against her? Will you protect her, or will you let her stand alone?”

Julian’s eyes hardened, his voice steady. “She will never stand alone. Not while I breathe.”

Reginald leaned back, satisfied. “Good. Because this test was never only for her. It was for you. A man who cannot shield his wife from the weight of legacy is no man at all.”

The garden fell quiet, the autumn breeze rustling the leaves. Kya’s pulse raced, but she held her composure. Julian’s hand brushed hers beneath the table, steady, reassuring.

Reginald’s gaze softened, though his tone remained sharp. “You both have spirit. That is good. Spirit endures longer than beauty, longer than wealth. But remember—this family is not built on love alone. It is built on survival. And survival requires unity.”

He lifted his glass, his eyes gleaming. “To unity.”

Julian raised his glass. Kya followed, her fingers trembling slightly as crystal met crystal.

The lunch continued, but Kya knew the truth: Reginald Whitmore had not simply welcomed her. He had measured her, weighed her, and found her worthy—so long as Julian proved himself strong enough to keep her safe.

**

After lunch, Reginald Whitmore leaned back in his chair, his cane resting against the table. “I’ll take a short nap,” he said, his voice gravelly but firm. “Stay a while. We’ll have tea together in a couple of hours.”

Julian nodded respectfully, rising with Kya as the butler cleared the plates. Once they stepped back into the manor, Julian turned to her with a smile that was lighter than she expected. “Come on. Let me show you the estate. You’ve only seen the garden—it’s much more than that.”

They walked through wide corridors lined with portraits, the air faintly scented with polished wood and old books. Julian’s hand brushed hers as he guided her toward the library. “This was my favorite room growing up. I’d sneak in here when I was supposed to be studying with tutors. I’d hide behind the shelves and read adventure novels instead of history.”

Kya laughed softly, surprised. “You? Hiding from lessons?”

Julian grinned, his expression boyish. “I wasn’t always the perfect Gray. My grandfather caught me once—mud on my shoes, a pirate novel in my hand. He didn’t scold me. He just said, ‘If you’re going to rebel, at least learn something useful while you do it.’”

They moved on, past the music room where a grand piano gleamed under the light. Julian paused, his fingers brushing the keys. “My mother used to play here. I’d sit under the piano, listening. She said music was the only thing that could soften my grandfather’s temper.”

Kya watched him, her chest tightening. He wasn’t cold now—he was warm, open, sharing pieces of himself she hadn’t seen before.

As they walked through the estate, Julian pointed out small details—a cracked tile from his childhood games, a hidden alcove where he and Alexander once dared each other to climb, the oak tree visible from the upstairs window where he had collapsed after his “great conquest” of the Whitmore lands.

Finally, they stepped into the sunlit conservatory, glass walls opening to the gardens beyond. Julian turned to her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen. “I know I can seem… distant sometimes. Cold, even. But it’s not because I don’t feel. It’s because I’ve had to learn to carry things quietly. For the family. For appearances.”

Kya’s breath caught. His honesty was unexpected, disarming.

Julian reached for her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “With you, I don’t want to be cold. I want to be myself. And I want you to see me—not the Gray heir, not the man everyone expects, but me.”

Kya’s eyes softened, her voice barely above a whisper. “I see you, Julian.”

The silence between them was tender, filled with unspoken promises. For the first time, Kya realized that beneath Julian’s composure was warmth, humor, and vulnerability. He wasn’t always cold. He was simply waiting for someone who could see past the armor.

The conservatory was warm with sunlight, glass walls shimmering as the gardens stretched beyond. Julian’s hand lingered on Kya’s, his thumb brushing her knuckles with deliberate tenderness.

“Kya,” he murmured, his voice low, “you make me forget the weight of all this.”

She looked up at him, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his eyes.

Julian closed the distance, his lips claiming hers with urgency. The kiss was no longer soft— it was hot, heavy, filled with the hunger of everything they had restrained until now. Kya melted against him, her fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. His hand slid to her waist, anchoring her as if he would never let go.

The world narrowed to the heat of their kiss, the press of their bodies, the unspoken promise between them. Kya’s heart raced, her breath mingling with his, her eyes closed as she surrendered to the passion.

Then—suddenly— the hiss of water broke the silence.

Sprinklers burst to life across the conservatory garden, spraying arcs of cold mist through the air. Julian pulled back, startled, as droplets splashed against the glass and mist drifted inside. Kya gasped, laughter spilling from her lips despite herself.

Julian ran a hand through his damp hair, chuckling. “Of course. My grandfather has everything on a timer.”

Kya pressed a hand to her mouth, still laughing, her cheeks flushed from both the kiss and the interruption. “We would pick the exact moment to be interrupted.”

Julian leaned closer again, his grin wicked. “Then we’ll just have to finish what we started later.”

Their laughter echoed in the conservatory, mingling with the spray of water and the scent of roses. For a moment, the weight of it all lifted, replaced by something simple, passionate, and undeniably theirs.