Chapter 36 Expulsion
Mira collapsed to her knees, her voice breaking into pitiful sobs. "Mr. Anderson, please… no, Mr. Anderson, I know I was wrong, I beg you."
Terrence did not spare her a glance. His eyes shifted instead to Robert, whose face had gone ashen. "You failed to keep order. You indulged your relatives. You will answer for this too."
Robert's legs buckled, and he dropped to the floor. Cold sweat soaked through the back of his shirt in seconds.
He knew Terrence was deadly serious this time—and there would be no mercy.
"Mr. Anderson, have mercy… I was foolish. Please, for the years I have served—"
Terrence's brow creased in irritation.
"Take him out."
"Mr. Anderson, I truly know my mistake!" Mira's voice rose again, ragged and desperate. "Please, remember that I once saved your life… just give me one more chance." The polished veneer she had so carefully maintained over the years had shattered, leaving only raw, unfiltered panic.
Bianca watched the exchange with an almost clinical calm, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable. Pity was a currency she did not spend, especially not on someone who had, time and again, tried to chip away at her standing, to wedge herself between Bianca and Terrence like a slow-working poison.
Terrence's patience had reached its limit. "Saved my life?" he echoed, the words flat enough to be dangerous. There was the faintest pull at his mouth, not a smile, but something colder, something that warned of trouble.
"Do you honestly believe," he went on, voice low but cutting, "that after everything the Anderson family has poured into you, your so-called debt still stands? The comfort you've wrapped yourself in, the privileges you've paraded, even the authority you threw around in Crystal Gardens, each one has paid off that little act of charity a dozen times over."
His eyes moved past Mira's pale, frozen face and landed on Bianca.
She met his gaze without flinching, tilting her head just slightly. "The Anderson family has no room for those with twisted loyalties who think themselves above their betters. Walk out on your own… and spare yourself the humiliation."
The words seemed to drain the last of Mira's strength. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, shoulders slack, eyes glassy. Her lips moved, barely forming sound. "It's not supposed to be like this… it's not supposed to be…"
Robert knew the fight was over. To resist further would mean consequences far worse than being cast out. His face twisted with bitterness as he forced himself to his feet. "Yes, Mr. Anderson."
With Mira gone, Bianca's mood lifted. Terrence stepped closer without hesitation, his warm, steady hand closing around hers. His palm was dry, solid, and carried a quiet strength that anchored her.
Bianca blinked at him, puzzled.
Terrence turned to the household staff, who still lingered in stunned silence. "Bianca is my fiancée. She is the only mistress of Crystal Gardens. From this moment on, her word is my word. Anyone who dares to slight her or play false will meet the same fate as those before you."
The weight of his words fell like a hammer, each syllable sealing Bianca's position beyond challenge. Heads bowed in unison, respectful voices murmuring assent. When their eyes lifted toward Bianca again, there was no trace of doubt—only deference.
Night settled over the estate. In the master bedroom, only a single wall lamp glowed, casting a warm, golden circle over the room. The air felt hushed, intimate.
Bianca knelt behind Terrence, her fingertips dipped in cool, fragrant oil as she worked gentle circles into his temples. His eyes were closed, the sharp lines of his face softened by the light. The ruthless decisiveness of the day had receded, replaced by a rare ease.
"Thank you for today," Bianca said softly.
Terrence's eyes opened slowly. He caught her wrist, drawing her forward until she was in front of him. His gaze, deep as still water at night, held hers without wavering.
"You don't need to thank me." His thumb traced over the smooth skin of her hand, his tone deliberate. "Bianca, I don't care why you've chosen to stay now—whether it's for me, or for some other reason…"
He paused, his eyes searching hers.
"But since you've chosen to stay, and chosen to go with me tomorrow to get our license, I won't give you the chance to change your mind. Once this marriage begins, it ends only with death. Do you understand?"
It was the last choice he would give her, and the final confirmation he needed for himself. He was willing—just this once—to gamble his guarded heart on her.
Bianca's chest tightened. In her mind, another image surfaced—Terrence in a warehouse, covered in blood, his gaze locked on hers with the same unyielding resolve. Was he, even then, holding the same vow in his heart? Had he walked into danger knowing it was a trap, just to reach her?
The weight of all the times he had stood between her and harm, hidden beneath his cold exterior, crashed into her like a tide.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled, bright and sure, meeting his steady gaze. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his, letting the kiss be her answer.
It was soft at first, then deepened, lingering.
Terrence froze for a heartbeat before his hand slid to the back of her neck, taking control and pulling her closer. The kiss grew more intense, heat threading through the air between them.
Bianca's breath hitched, her lungs burning. She tried to push him back for air, but her arm brushed against a glass of water on the side table. It tipped, spilling a rush of cool liquid across his shirt, darkening the fabric over his chest.
The kiss broke.
Terrence glanced down at the spreading water stain, then back at her flushed face. His eyes darkened, voice rough. "I'll take a shower."
She watched him disappear into the bathroom, her hand pressed over the wild beat of her heart. The warmth in her cheeks lingered, matched by a deep, quiet contentment.
The sound of running water filled the room, then stopped. The door opened.
Terrence stepped out, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water slid down the planes of his chest and over the ridges of his abdomen, vanishing into the line of muscle at his waist. His damp hair fell in loose strands across his brow, softening his usual severity with an edge of untamed heat.
Bianca had seen him like this before, but tonight—after everything—they felt like a different kind of sight. She didn't look away. Instead, her gaze swept over him openly, her expression one of frank appreciation.
She crossed the space between them, lifting one slender finger to tap lightly against the firm muscle of his chest. "Terrence, you've kept yourself in excellent shape."
Her boldness caught him off guard. Then something darker stirred in his eyes. His arm came around her in one smooth motion, pulling her flush against him.
"Only excellent?" His voice was low, his breath hot against the curve of her ear.
The heat of his skin burned through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. Bianca's composure wavered, and she took a small step back—forgetting about the water that had splashed onto the floor earlier.
Her foot slipped.
She let out a startled cry as her body tilted backward. Her hand shot out instinctively to grab something for balance.
The towel at his waist came loose under her grip… and slid to the floor.