Chapter 187
After visiting Grandma, the family stepped out through the hospital doors.
Dusk had already settled over the city. Valencia kept her arm linked tightly with Lucinda's the entire way back.
Once home, Valencia immediately summoned a five-star hotel chef, then stood personally at the kitchen doorway, watching him methodically prepare each ingredient.
Every few minutes, she'd lean in with quiet instructions—less oil, lighter sauce, even the plating had to be precise and elegant.
Less than an hour later, the dining table was covered with dishes.
Lobster baked in cream with garlic butter, pan-seared Angus steak with black truffle mashed potatoes, herb-roasted chicken with roasted vegetables, butter-seared scallops paired with pea puree, a tureen of creamy mushroom soup, and a plate of crème brûlée.
Valencia sat across from Lucinda, eyes brimming with affection as she served her daughter with the communal utensils, constantly adding more to her plate. "Eat more. You've been at the hospital all day—you must be starving. Look at you, your chin's gotten so thin."
Lucinda's plate was piled high. She cut a piece of steak and chewed slowly.
Valencia watched her for a long moment, then reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, voice soft. "Cindy, thank you. For everything."
Lucinda's fork paused mid-air. She looked up, meeting Valencia's reddened eyes, and her lips curved slightly. "It wasn't hard, Mom."
Dahlia sat at the far end of the table, her plate barely touched.
She watched Valencia serve Lucinda with such tenderness. Watched Wesley push the soup bowl closer to Lucinda's hand. Watched Manuel spoon mashed potatoes onto her plate. Every pair of eyes at that table was fixed on Lucinda.
Why?
Dahlia's grip tightened around her knife and fork.
She'd worked for over twenty years. But the moment Lucinda came back, Valencia and Wesley practically threw connections, resources, status—everything—into her lap like it meant nothing.
What gave Lucinda the right?
She lowered her head, cut a small piece of chicken, and chewed for a long time before forcing it down.
She waited. Waited for Dad or Mom to notice her, maybe ask why she wasn't eating.
But by the time Lucinda had finished everything on her plate, no one had.
Every gaze at that table orbited Lucinda. Dahlia sat at the far end like a forgotten shadow.
Her eyes began to sting.
She couldn't take it anymore. She set down her utensils and headed upstairs.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her. Dahlia stood there, drawing a deep breath, pushing down the sourness rising in her throat.
She was about to walk toward her vanity when two sharp knocks sounded at the door.
"Dahlia, open up."
Manuel's voice.
Dahlia's heart skipped a beat, then surged with wild hope.
Manuel finally noticed her?
She smiled, quickly composed herself, and hurried to the door.
When she pulled it open, she'd already arranged her expression into something sweet and obedient. "Manuel? Did you need something?"
Manuel stood in the doorway, looking at her. The warmth he'd shown Lucinda earlier was gone.
After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Let's talk inside."
Dahlia nodded and stepped aside.
Manuel walked in and leaned back against a chair, gaze steady on her face. His tone was measured. "Dahlia, there are some things I've never said to you. I think it's time we had this conversation."
Dahlia sat across from him, spine straight, posture perfect—like a good child waiting to hear what the adults had to say. "Manuel, go ahead. I'm listening."
Manuel studied her for a moment, something like regret flickering in his eyes. "You've lived in the Douglas family for twenty years."
Under Dahlia's expectant gaze, he spoke slowly, deliberately. "For twenty years, Mom and Dad raised you like their own daughter. They gave you the best education, the best life, the best resources. No one ever called you 'adopted' to your face. Because we already gave you everything."
Dahlia's fingers curled slightly, but her expression didn't change. She kept smiling. "Manuel, I know Mom and Dad have been good to me. I've always been grateful—"
"Gratitude isn't something you take by force." Manuel cut her off.
Dahlia's smile froze for a split second.
Manuel's voice remained calm. "Dahlia, this family was never yours to begin with."
The room went silent.
Dahlia's breath hitched, like something had struck her square in the chest.
She pressed her lips together, eyes beginning to redden. "Manuel, I know I'm not their biological daughter. But I've lived here for twenty years. Doesn't my love for this family count for anything?"
"It does. But not the way you're using it." Manuel looked directly at her, all traces of his former indulgence gone. "You lived in this house for twenty years. This family gave you twenty years of everything. Now Cindy's back. She's your sister. She's the biological daughter of this family. You don't need to compete with her, because she never took anything from you. Before she came back, you had everything—and she had none of it. After she came back, you still had everything—and she never touched it."
"But if you keep going down this path, using those tactics, playing those games, you're going to lose a lot more than you think." He paused. "Dahlia, cherish what you have now. Once it's gone, it's gone forever."
He stood and headed for the door.
At the threshold, he glanced back at her. "Think about it."
The room fell silent again.
Dahlia sat on the sofa, fingers slowly clenching the fabric of her skirt.
Cherish?
What she had now?
What she had was already hers.
It was only after Lucinda came back that everything started getting taken away, piece by piece.
Her parents' attention. Her brother's care. The Lancaster family engagement. Everyone's focus—all of it stolen by that woman.
She hadn't done anything wrong. Just because she wasn't their biological daughter, she was supposed to give up everything?
She slowly unclenched her fists, letting the churning emotions in her chest settle.
'It's not my fault.'
She told herself.
Lucinda shouldn't have come back.
Once she was gone, everything would go back to the way it was.