Chapter 45 Madeline
Madeline
“Madeline? Is that you?”
I wiped under my eyes with my thumbs, hoping I’d scrubbed away the redness. A quick glance in the hallway mirror proved otherwise. A face that looked exactly like what it was—someone who’d cried herself inside out alone in the back of a car.
I straightened, lifted my chin, rearranged my mouth into something neutral.
There was nothing worse than family dinners.
The weight of her attention settled the moment I stepped into the dining room. Her gaze caught me and narrowed.
“Goodness,” she breathed, like she’d discovered a stain on heirloom silk, “you look pale.”
I forced a small smile. “It was a long day. I’m fine.”
Even I didn’t believe it.
My father looked up from his tablet, concern immediately. “Maddy, are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m okay.”
Just spent two hours sobbing over a man who decided I was an inconvenience. Apart from that, perfectly fine.
My mother studied me with that slow, clinical sweep from hair to shoes that missed nothing and cared about even less. Her gaze lingered at the faint smudges beneath my eyes; something in her expression sharpened.
“You should’ve fixed your makeup before coming down. The camera crews made everyone look tired at the last event. You don’t want that reputation lingering.”
She made it sound like advice. It wasn’t.
“You missed lunch again,” my father added, eyes still on me. “Your doctor messaged me this afternoon.”
The knot under my ribs tightened.
“He says your blood pressure dropped yesterday,” he went on. “He wants you to adjust your intake. You’re losing weight again.”
Heat pricked the backs of my eyes. I blinked quickly.
Too much work. Vince was right. It wasn’t normally for someone to be told to eat.
My mother laughed lightly, reaching for her wine. “Honestly, Marco, you can’t believe everything these medical people say. They dramatize everything.”
Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass. “Isn’t it interesting that every doctor suddenly has a problem whenever Madeline loses a little weight? I wish someone would be that concerned when I skip lunch.”
“It isn’t the same,” my father replied. “Our daughter fainted three times this year.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Stress related. She’s dramatic under pressure.”
“I didn’t faint because I’m dramatic,” I murmured.
“You certainly didn’t faint because you’re eating enough,” my father said quietly. “You look exhausted, sweetheart. Be honest with us, did something happen today?”
My mother reached for the bread basket, clearly uninterested in the answer. “Emotional theatrics. She probably had a disagreement at work.”
A disagreement.
If only it had been that small.
Vince’s face flashed behind my eyes. The cold way he’d said bored. The way he wouldn’t even touch me. The way my chest had felt like it was being crushed in slow motion.
I swallowed around the ache. “I’m fine,” I whispered.
My mother finally looked at me again. “Then fix your face. You look like you’ve been crying.”
The words landed so precisely I flinched before I could hide it.
She noticed.
“Oh, darling,” she crooned, “you’ve smudged your eyeliner. Are we having another one of your melancholy spells? You know how easily you slide into these moods.”
My throat tightened. “I wasn’t—”
“Now she’s pouting,” she told my father, as if I weren’t sitting right there. “Every time we have dinner, she acts like we wounded her feelings before we even say a word. Honestly, I don’t know how to talk to her without her taking offense.”
A tremor ran through my chest. “I’m not taking offense.”
“You are. It’s written all over your face. The dramatics. The sulking. The shoulders rounded like you’re carrying the entire world. Sit up straight before you ruin your posture permanently.”
I forced my spine straighter, shoulders back.
She gave a satisfied little nod. “Better. You’re too young to look tired. It sets the wrong impression. Especially since we still haven’t secured a proper merger for you.”
My father’s jaw ticked. “Massie.”
“Don’t Massie me.” Her tone sharpened. “Every other daughter in our social circle is already pairing off. Hosting dinners. Engaged. Planning heirs. Meanwhile, ours still scares men off with intelligence she doesn’t know how to soften.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t interrupt.” Her gaze cut across the table. “You are twenty. Twenty, Madeline. Every dynasty girl your age is preparing to continue their bloodline, while we… well, we can’t seem to pay someone to take you at this point.”
My chest squeezed so hard my fork felt heavy in my hand.
I don’t want you. You were a mistake. Too much work.
“If you didn’t tear them apart in negotiations, you might’ve secured at least one meaningful offer by now.”
The tears I’d been holding finally slipped free, silent, hot, impossible to blink back.
My father reached for my hand under the table, thumb stroking my knuckles. “Sweetheart—”
“I don’t know why she gets emotional every time I speak. I’m simply stating facts. Facts she needs to hear if she ever plans to improve.” she dropped her knife onto the plate.
“She’s crying,” my father said sharply.
“She’s overreacting. As usual.”
I wiped my cheeks quickly. The effort felt pointless. My face still burned.
“Honestly, Madeline, pull yourself together. A woman who can’t regulate her emotions will never survive marriage.”
The knife went exactly where she wanted it.
My fingers clenched around the napkin in my lap. The room blurred subtly around the edges.
I stared at the tablecloth so I didn’t have to see my own reflection in the silverware.
“Massie,” my father warned, “enough.”
She pushed her plate away with a scoff. “I try to guide her. I try to help her. And what do I receive? Tears. Accusations. Criticism from you. Nothing is ever her fault. I’m always the villain. No one ever appreciates what I do.”
He let out a slow breath. “That’s not what anyone said.”
“It’s implied,” she snapped. “Every time she looks at me like that, I’m made to feel like I’ve failed as a mother.”
“I didn’t—” I started.
“You did,” she said firmly. “Your tone, your posture, the sighing—it’s all designed to make me look cruel. You twist everything into an attack.”
My fork scraped the plate as I pushed food around without really seeing it.
“You’re too old to be this fragile, darling,” she went on. “Crying at the table? Really? Imagine doing that at a merger dinner. Imagine crying in front of your future in-laws. You’d humiliate all of us.”
The tears kept coming. Hours after Vince had gutted me.
Why had I believed him when he said he loved me? Why had I let him touch me like I was wanted, not tolerated?
My mother sighed loudly. “Pass me the wine, Marco. Clearly I need the bottle if she’s going to act like this.”
My father hesitated. “Maybe we should slow down—”
“Don’t start lecturing me,” she snapped back. “It’s been a long day, and I will drink what I want in my own home.”
Her hand reached across the table.
I went for my own glass. Their voices blurred for a moment, his low, hers sharp, background noise to the roar in my ears.
I stared at my plate and waited for the evening to end. I’d learned young that dinners here weren’t to be enjoyed. They were to be endured.
“Oh honestly, look at her. She’s zoning out again. Every time we sit down, she drifts off like she’s the tragic heroine of a dynasty opera.” My mother swirled her wine.
My father leaned forward, brow furrowing. “Maddy, can you hear us?”
I managed a nod. My throat refused to cooperate.
Why did he not want me all of a sudden? I replied last night over in my head. Had he even been summoned to the island or did he just want to escape me. The message had come only an hour after me had sex.
“She’s not listening. She never does. And when I point it out, I’m the bad one.”
He ignored her. “Sweetheart, did something happen today? Anything at all?”
The lie rose on reflex. “Nothing.”
My mother heard the tremor and pounced. “There is absolutely something wrong with her. And she expects us to guess. It’s another one of her tests.”
“I’m not testing you,” I whispered.
“Of course you are. Everything you do is a performance for your father’s attention.”
“I’m not—”
“You cry when he looks at you. You shut down when I speak. You crave my husband’s sympathy.”
The tears gathered faster.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh look. Tears. See, Marco? She proves my point.”
“Massie. Stop,”
“I will not stop telling the truth. You enable her. And look where it’s gotten us.”
My fingers tightened around my glass. One more ounce of pressure and it would snap; we both might.
“Tell me, how do you expect to navigate dynasty society like this? Emotional. Staring into space like a ghost. You will be eaten alive.”
My father turned on her. “She’s overwhelmed. Look at her.”
“I am looking. And what I see terrifies me.” Her lip curled. “She wasn’t raised to be fragile. Yet here we are—Madeline unable to handle a basic dinner conversation. I don’t understand where we went wrong,”Her fork tapped the table in a neat, irritated rhythm.
“Perhaps we should have been stricter.”
My father exhaled hard, knuckles. “Madeline has always handled more than she should. You know that.”
“She handled nothing. You see competence because you want to see competence. The reality is she hides behind her intelligence because she doesn’t have the social skills to balance it. And do you know what’s worse? She refuses to admit her part in it.”
I swallowed, tasting wine and metal. “My part in what?”
“In everything.” She flicked her fingers, as if the word was obvious. “You never listen when I’m trying to help.”
“Massie—” my father tried again.
She raised a hand to silence him. “Every other dynasty daughter I know is building futures. Meanwhile, ours is… what exactly? Drifting.”
The word punched clean through.
“I have a job,” I said under my breath.
“You have meetings,” she corrected. “None of which matter if you can’t translate them into alliances.”