CHAPTER 222: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO

"Where is he?" Anne murmured to herself trying to hide the annoyance in her voice. She looked around and was grateful that no one is staring at her or whispering in each other’s ears. Seems the news of her mother’s arrest and escape hasn’t gotten to the ears of pamphleteers. She let out a small sigh of relief as she turned to face the empty seat across her, her nerves frayed.

A crisp, white tablecloth, heavy silver cutlery, and a single, perfect rose in a crystal vase sat on the table. But even the elegance of the room did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. A serve poured her a glass of chilled water. She didn’t even notice.

Philip had finally sent her a letter, a brief, formal note accepting her desperate request to meet. He had set the place and the time. And now, he was late.

She tapped her foot repeatedly against the polished wooden floor, the sharp, rhythmic sound the only sign of her inner turmoil. She was now turned into a supplicant being made to wait. Each tap of her shoe was a small beat of her growing annoyance and desperation. She picked up the water glass, her hand trembling slightly, and took a long drink, the cold liquid doing little to calm the fire in her stomach.

Just as she was about to give up and leave, she heard footsteps approaching her. Philip came in, walking with a slow, deliberate pace, his weight supported by his silver-headed cane.

The sight of his unhurried entrance fanned the flames of her irritation. "Why is it so hard to get in touch with you?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "I have sent you countless letters. I thought we were..." She stopped herself before she could say ’friends’ or ’allies’. She no longer knew what they were.

Philip reached the table and, with a smooth, unhurried movement, took the seat opposite her. He placed his cane carefully beside his chair. "Work has been overwhelming lately," he said, the excuse rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "I was so busy." He gave her a small, polite smile that did not reach his cold dark eyes. "So," he began, getting straight to the point, his tone casual, as if discussing about a familiar topic. "What does this all mean, then? Is it true? Delia is the true heiress of the Ellington family?"

Anne swallowed the thick lump of humiliation that rose in her throat. She had been the celebrated daughter, the future of the family. Now, she was a footnote, a living lie. "My fa... father found out," she managed to say, the word ’father’ feeling strange and wrong now. She tried to cling to the last shreds of her old reality, her old sense of superiority. "But how sure is he that Delia isn’t a bastard child from another affair? Besides, she is still an illegitimate child. She is not meant to have rights to anything. The law is clear on that."

Philip picked up his own glass of water and took a slow, thoughtful sip. He set it down with a soft click. "But she carries the Baron’s blood," he said, his voice calm and reasonable, which only made his words more devastating. "In the eyes of your grandfather, the majority shareholder, that alone is enough. And now that he has publicly declared his intentions, the law will find a way to follow. Everything is already hers, Anne. The name, the company, the fortune. It’s all Delia’s now and you are left with nothing."

Anne sat back in her chair as if the words had physically pushed her. She was silent, the fight draining out of her.

Philip continued, his voice still quiet and smooth as he began to skillfully string her along, to guide her down the path of fear and despair he had prepared. "Anyway," he said with a sigh of feigned sympathy, "it seems like your territory, your world, is going to get even smaller. Have you considered that you and Delia might be trading places?"

Anne reacted as if he had slapped her. "Trade places?" The words came out of her mouth as a disgusted, horrified whisper. The thought of being like Delia—an outcast, a charity case, an object of pity and scorn—was more terrifying than anything she had ever imagined.

"Yes," Philip replied, his gaze unwavering. "You have never known what it feels like to be a burden in a stranger’s house, have you? To eat their food, to sleep under their roof, all the while knowing that you don’t truly belong, that your very presence is a matter of their charity."

Anne looked confused, her pampered life having never included such harsh realities.

Philip leaned forward, a look of false empathy on his face. "But I do," he said, his voice dropping to a confidential, almost intimate tone. "I know what it feels like. When my mother died and my father remarried the princess, I was the outsider in my own home. I was the son of the first wife, a constant reminder of a past they wanted to forget." It was a masterful lie, a twisting of his own privileged upbringing into a narrative of victimhood that he could use to connect with her.

"And let me tell you something about people like us, Anne," he continued, his voice a low, intense whisper. "If someone who has been treated that way is finally recognized as real, as the true heir... they will never let that go. They will hold onto that power with everything they have. They will remember every slight, every insult. And they will make sure that the people who made them feel small are finally put in their proper place."

He had painted a terrifying picture of a vengeful Delia, ready and eager to make Anne suffer the same way she had. He had taken all of Anne’s fears and given them a face and a name.

It worked. Anne’s carefully constructed composure finally shattered. Her face crumpled, and tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent tracks. The full, crushing weight of her new reality had finally landed. She was nothing. She had nothing. And the one person who now had everything had every reason to hate her.

"What can I do?" she asked, her voice a broken, desperate plea. She looked at Philip as if he were her last and only hope in a world that was sinking into the sea. "Delia got my...father... to arrest my mother. She got my grandfather and father on her side. They control everything. What can I do? What should I do?"

Philip did not answer immediately. He simply sat there, watching her cry, his expression one of deep, thoughtful concentration. He let her desperation hang in the air, letting her feel the full extent of her helplessness. He had her. She was broken, afraid, and looking for a savior. He had strung her along perfectly, and now, she was his to use.