CHAPTER 223: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY THREE

The weight of Philip’s words settled on Anne, a heavy, suffocating blanket of despair. Her pride, her anger, her life—it was all worthless. She was a ship without a rudder, adrift in a stormy sea, and he was the only lighthouse in sight. She looked at him, her eyes pleading, her carefully constructed composure having crumbled into dust.

Philip watched her breakdown with a cool, detached satisfaction. He had her exactly where he wanted her: broken, desperate, and looking to him for a savior. He leaned forward, his expression shifting from one of feigned empathy to one of conspiratorial purpose.

"Those two must be relaxed now," he said, his voice a low, confident murmur. "Eric and Delia. They believe it’s all over. They think they have won this round." He smiled, a slow, cold curving of his lips. "That is their mistake. The timing is perfect for us to retaliate."

Just then, the server returned, moving silently into the room. He placed two large, ornate plates on the table before them. The aroma of roasted venison with a rich, dark sauce filled the air. The server bowed and departed, leaving them alone once more with their plotting and their meal.

Philip calmly unfolded the crisp, white napkin from the table and placed it on his lap. He picked up his silver knife and fork and began to expertly cut a small piece from the succulent flesh of the venison. His movements were unhurried, a picture of a man without a care in the world.

Anne, however, did not touch her plate. The rich smell of the food, which normally would have been a delight, now made her stomach churn uneasily. She ignored the feeling, her mind focused only on his last word. "Retaliate?" she asked, her voice a hopeful whisper. "Do you have a good idea to do that?"

Philip put a piece of meat in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before answering. He was drawing out the moment, making her wait, making her hunger for the plan as much as she hungered for her old life. "I will take care of the grand strategy," he said, finally swallowing. He smiled at her. "But you, Anne, have a very important part to play. You can do what I cannot."

Anne looked confused, her brow furrowed. "What I can do?"

Philip let out a soft sigh and gently placed his cutlery on the plate. He carefully looked around the room, a gesture to make sure nobody was listening. He leaned forward across the table, his voice dropping to a whisper that drew her in.

"You need to sell the textiles and dyes your mother secretly stashed away," he said, his eyes locked on hers.

Anne stared at him in disbelief, the suggestion so audacious it momentarily shocked her out of her misery. Steal from Ellington Textiles?

He saw the hesitation in her eyes and pressed his advantage, preying on her deepest fears. "Think about it, Anne," he urged. "Your grandfather and Delia are in control of the manor now. They will not let you stay there for long. You might get kicked out of the house soon, with nothing but the clothes on your back. You should collect the money from the hidden assets—the fine silks, the rare dyes—before that happens."

He let that terrifying image sink in before offering her a path to power. "If we are going to fight back, if we are going to bribe the council members and turn them against Eric, we will need money. A great deal of it." He reached across the table and briefly touched her hand, a gesture of false solidarity. "Your mother has gone this far. We can’t turn back now. We must see this through."

Anne hesitated, a storm of thoughts raging in her head. It was stealing. It was dangerous. If she were caught... But what was the alternative? To be a penniless outcast, dependent on the charity of the very people she despised? The thought of Delia looking down on her with pity was unbearable. And the thought of revenge, of reclaiming her rightful place, was a sweet, intoxicating poison.

"I... I will think about it," she replied, her voice sounding uncertain even to her own ears.

Philip smiled, a satisfied, knowing smile. He knew he had her. He calmly picked up his knife and fork and continued eating.

Anne waited for a while, watching him, her mind racing. She needed a safe place, a sanctuary away from the Ellington manor where she could plan, where she could hide. "And your manor," she asked, her voice small, "the one at Willow’s Creek. Can I... can I stay there for a while? Just until this is sorted out."

Philip stopped chewing for a moment, considering her request. Then he nodded. "Of course," he replied easily. "It is empty for the season. You will be quite comfortable there."

Then, for the first time since he had arrived, he seemed to truly look at her. His gaze moved over her dress, her hair, her pale, tired face. Her dress, once fashionable, now lacked the fine quality of her usual wardrobe. This was the first time he had ever seen her wearing something that was not from the very latest season, something that did not come from the most expensive modiste.

He smiled at her, and this time, the smile was filled with a convincing sympathy. "We will make the arrangements. And before you go to the manor, I will have Lewis accompany you to Madame Dubois’ shop to get some pretty new clothes. A woman in your position must look her best." He cut another piece of meat. "And he will give you some money, for you to get other things you might like later. A lady should never be without her own funds."

Hearing this, seeing this glimpse of the life she had lost being offered back to her, Anne let out her first genuine smile in days. The relief was so profound it was almost painful. He wasn’t just offering a plan; he was offering to restore her dignity even if it was for the time being. "Thank you, Philip," she said, her voice filled with a deep, sincere gratitude. "Thank you."

Philip returned her smile, his eyes holding a look of warm understanding. "We should help each other out," he said smoothly. "At least, while we are partners who need each other."

The "at least" was a small reminder that this was a temporary alliance of convenience, but Anne was too relieved to notice it. She simply nodded, her heart full of hope.

Philip gestured to her untouched plate with his fork. "Now, eat," he said, his tone one of gentle command. "You are looking even thinner. You must keep your strength up."

Anne unfolded her napkin. She looked at the rich, dark meat on her plate. She looked at Philip, who had taken another bite and was watching her expectantly. The aroma of the venison, which now seemed overpowering, made a fresh wave of nausea rise in her throat.

She gave him a quick, forced smile as she picked up her own cutlery. She cut a tiny, bite-sized piece of the meat. She raised it to her lips, her stomach churning in protest. She put it in her mouth and began to chew, the taste of the rich food a horrible, cloying sensation. She wanted to throw up, to run from the table. But she had to force herself to swallow. She had to appear normal. Because she couldn’t let him know what was really wrong with her. She couldn’t let him know about the one secret, the one she had been hiding for a while now.