A Mother's Revenge

had truly misjudged me. His expression softened, and he took a hesitant step forward, his hand half-raised as if to comfort me before dropping it awkwardly.

"I'm sorry, Claire. I didn't mean to accuse you. I just... I don't know what to do anymore." His voice cracked, and he looked away, shame coloring his features.

I let my tears fall freely now, letting them speak the grief I couldn't voice. "You don't know what to do? Try losing your son. Try watching the life drain from his eyes while knowing who put it there. Then come talk to me about not knowing what to do."

Lucas flinched as if I'd struck him. Good.

"I'll leave," he said quietly, turning away. "I'll send the scriptures tomorrow."

I watched him descend the pavilion steps, his shoulders hunched, his once-proud bearing broken. But I felt no satisfaction—only the cold, steady pulse of purpose.

When I was certain he was gone, I wiped my tears and smoothed my robes. Below, Willow had finally given up her search and was retreating toward the banquet hall, her silhouette small and uncertain in the fading light.

I smiled.

The game had only just begun.