Chapter 30
Sienna‘s pov
Without money or status, even explanations felt pointless.
Who would believe me anyway?
Before I could speak, several employees barged in, yelling and pointing at me.
"Sienna, I can’t believe you’d do something like this! Sure, Mr. Blackwood choosing Elena Whitmore isn’t entirely her fault, but how could you lay a hand on Mrs. Whitmore? She has nothing to do with your issues!"
"This is too much. Sienna, you don’t deserve to be Elena Whitmore’s assistant."
I smiled, and the defense I’d prepared died on my lips, because nothing I said would change minds that were already made up.
I walked to my desk while the hallway buzzed with loud greetings for Elena and the little circle orbiting her, all of them eager to curry favor.
After lunch, Harrison called.
"Go home. You don’t need to come to the studio anymore."
I’d expected it.
Elena must have said something, found a way to push me out.
She didn’t want to see me, and I didn’t want to see her either.
And it proved something else: making me her assistant had been Harrison’s decision from the start.
"Okay."
No resistance. No complaints.
Everyone got what they wanted, and I was the sacrifice that made it happen.
There wasn’t much that belonged to me at my desk, so I packed up and left.
"I’ll give you a ride."
Elena stepped out of the recording studio, apology flickering in her eyes. "I’m sorry, but after discussing it, everyone agreed you’re not suitable for the assistant position, so we have to let you go."
I swept my gaze over the office, over every face that wouldn’t hold my stare.
"It’s fine. You and I both know the truth. You don’t need to drive me."
I still walked closer, lowering my voice until it was barely more than breath. "Elena, this is just the beginning. We’ll settle our score slowly."
Once I left the studio, I’d have more time for what I needed to do.
Elena tilted her head, and our eyes met; pride and smug satisfaction sat there, plain as daylight.
She could enjoy it for now.
Later, I’d make sure she understood what it meant to fall.
Even after I walked out, I could still hear the employees talking.
I didn’t care anymore.
At the building entrance, the usual car waited at the curb, the one that took us to and from work.
As soon as I got in, the driver said evenly, "Mrs. Blackwood, Mr. Blackwood asked me to take you home."
For a second, I thought I’d misheard, but I leaned back anyway, letting the tension loosen in my shoulders.
Fine. At least I wouldn’t end up in another accident like last time, right at the front door.
When I got back to Blackwood Estate, all I wanted was sleep.
I hadn’t even changed my shoes when a sharp female voice cut through the quiet.
"Finally. Took you long enough."
Chloe Blackwood didn’t bother to hide the contempt in her tone. "From now on, you don’t need to go anywhere. You’ll take care of Sophie."
That was when I noticed Chloe and her daughter on the couch.
Chloe left the second she saw me, and Sophie was still asleep on the cushions, uncovered, like she’d been dropped there and forgotten.
"When are you taking her back?"
I took off my coat and covered Sophie without turning around.
"Why so many questions? Even if you end up taking care of her forever, so what? In the Blackwood family, that’s all you’re good for now."
The door slammed, and Sophie startled awake.
She blinked around, then her mouth trembled when she realized her mother was gone.
"Aunt Sienna."
The truth was, I’d almost raised Sophie myself.
Chloe never liked staying home with kids, so the responsibility always slid onto me, the outsider with no real say.
Sophie and Adrian were about the same age. If Adrian weren’t so much like Elena, I might have liked seeing them play together.
"Still tired?" I patted Sophie’s back and lifted her into my arms. "Martha, please arrange a room for Sophie."
Thankfully, Sophie was close to me, so caring for her wasn’t difficult.
But how did Chloe know I’d be back at this time?
It didn’t take long to connect the dots.
Getting me kicked out of the studio probably had Chloe’s fingerprints on it.
Who knew what she’d told Harrison?
Still, leaving the studio was exactly what I wanted, even if the reason was humiliating.
After I settled Sophie, I went to my bedroom.
I stopped in the doorway.
Crayons and colored pencils were scattered across the floor, the bedsheets streaked with color, and the dress Harrison had prepared for me lay ruined in the middle of it all.
Adrian was squatting there, tugging at the lace as if he enjoyed watching it tear, his fingers wax-stained, the delicate edge soaked through with messy color.
I went still.
I’d designed a backup dress for myself—insurance, the kind you learn to keep when you live on a knife’s edge—but I hadn’t expected Adrian to destroy the one Harrison had custom-made.
"Adrian! Stop!"
The anger in my voice startled me with its force.
"Who let you into my room?"
I could ignore the mess.
But the dress was different. In five years of marriage, it was the only gown Harrison had ever had made for me.
And now it was ruined by Adrian, the love child Elena used like a weapon.
Adrian wasn’t afraid. He pulled a face at me, bold as anything.
"What do you mean your room? This house belongs to my mom and dad. I can go wherever I want. You bad woman—stop trying to seduce my dad!"
My hands clenched, nails biting into my palms, but I refused to fight with a child.
I grabbed his hand, dragged him into the bathroom, and dropped him into the bathtub.
"Martha, clean up my room and get Adrian a clean set of clothes."
I shut the door, turned on the shower, tested the temperature, and started washing the wax and color off him.
"Don’t touch me! I don’t want you to bathe me, bad woman!"
He thrashed hard for a five-year-old, and it took real effort to keep him still.
"If you don’t wash now, it won’t come off. You’ll walk around with a colorful face forever. Don’t blame me then."
Adrian went quiet instantly.
He pouted, but he stopped fighting.
For a moment, I looked at his small shoulders and felt something in me soften, against my will, because kids only became what the adults around them taught them to be.
I kept washing until the last of the color ran clear, draining away in thin ribbons.
Then Martha’s voice came through the door, careful and polite. "Ma’am, the bedroom is cleaned, and Adrian’s clothes are on your bed."