CHAPTER 111: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

Anne held her cheek, a look of pure, stunned disbelief on her face. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the shock of the act itself. In all her life, through all her tantrums and manipulations, her mother had never, not once, laid a hand on her. The slaps and all were only reserved for Delia.

Augusta looked at Anne with a horror that mirrored her daughter’s. She looked down at her own trembling hand, the hand that had just slapped her precious, beloved child, and a wave of instant, sickening regret washed over her.

"A...Anne. I...I" She stammered.

Anne slowly lowered her own hand from her cheek and went to sit on the floor at the foot of her grand four-poster bed, amidst the wreckage of her own making. "This is madness," she said, her voice a low, broken whisper as she stared at the shattered pieces of a porcelain vase.

"Now you are treating me the way you treat Delia." She looked up at her mother, a cruel, knowing smile twisting her lips.

The comparison was a knife to Augusta’s heart. She rushed to Anne’s side, kneeling on the floor beside her. "I’m so sorry, Anne," she said, her voice choked with emotion as she took Anne’s hand, rubbing it desperately. She took her own hand, the one she had used to slap Anne, and looked at it with disgust. "How could I do that to you? How could I?" She gently caressed the cheek she had struck, her touch now full of a desperate tenderness. "I’m so sorry, my baby. My sweet girl, my sunshine, I am so, so sorry."

She enveloped Anne in a tight, desperate hug, as if she could physically squeeze the hurt away. "I’m sorry, my sunshine," she whispered into her daughter’s hair. She broke the hug, her own eyes now streaming with tears. "I love you. You know that, right?" She started to gently arrange Anne’s messy hair. "You are all I have in this world."

"If you really love me," Anne replied, her voice cold and devoid of its usual warmth, "then you will do what I am asking you to do."

The emotional manipulation was a skill Augusta herself had taught her daughter, and Anne was now using it with masterful precision.

"We both know we have lost this round," Anne continued, her voice now a low, strategic murmur. "If we want to be more powerful than Duke Eric, if we want to get rid of Delia for good, then there is only one thing I can do to achieve that. I have to marry Duke Philip."

Augusta shook her head, her face a mask of maternal fear. "Duke Philip is not a good person, Anne," she pleaded. "He is cruel and unstable. He might leave you stranded and ruined when things go wrong. I cannot give you to a man like that."

"You can’t try to stop me too, Mama," Anne said, tears now glistening in her own eyes, but they were not tears of sadness. They were tears of a terrifying, desperate frustration. "Everyone else is against me. If you stand in my way, I will really lose my mind for good." Her voice began to rise, becoming hysterical. "I can’t let Delia be better than me! I can’t let her win! I just can’t bear it! I can’t!"

Her tears started falling in earnest now as she buried her head in her hands, her body shaking with violent, heartbroken sobs. Augusta, seeing how truly broken her daughter was, her own heart shattering in her chest, did the only thing she could do. She hugged her daughter tightly, her own tears falling freely, a terrible surrender to her daughter’s dangerous, self-destructive plan.

Later that evening, in the quiet, peaceful residence of the Duke, Delia was soaking in her huge, claw-footed bathtub. The water was warm and filled with the calming scent of lavender, a small luxury that still felt like an impossible dream. The events of the day, the victory over Augusta, the triumph of her plan—it was all beginning to sink in.

A soft knock came on her bedroom door.

"I’m washing myself," she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the large bathing area.

Eric’s voice came from the other side of the door, warm and amused. "I know. I thought we should celebrate our victory."

Delia was silent for a moment.

"You promised you wouldn’t push me away again," his voice continued, a gentle reminder. "Besides," he added, his tone now a playful, tempting whisper, "I brought wine."

Delia let out a soft sigh, a mixture of annoyance and a strange, pleasant anticipation. "Enter," she said.

He came into the bedroom and then, with a confident smile, he entered the bathing area. He had a bottle of expensive wine and two crystal glasses in his hands. He sat down on the floor, his back against the cool, tiled wall, close to the bathtub.

Delia, her cheeks flushing, sank herself deeper into the water until only her shoulders were visible above the thick layer of white suds and bubbles.

Eric teased her, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "You know, my Duchess, I have seen every inch of you. From your beautiful body to your even more beautiful soul. You do not need to hide yourself from me."

Delia’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. "What are you saying?" she said, flustered, and then quickly decided to change the topic. "The wine?" she asked.

Eric uncorked the bottle and poured the sparkling golden liquid into the two glasses. "To our first victory," he said, handing her a glass over the side of the tub.

"To our first victory," Delia repeated, her own voice full of a quiet, triumphant satisfaction.

They raised their glasses in a toast, the crystal clinking softly in the quiet, steam-filled room, before they both took a long, celebratory drink. The taste of the wine was as sweet as her success.