Chapter 13 The Cake Won't Save You
Caroline forced her eyes open. The effort felt like dragging herself up from the bottom of a frozen lake. Her vision was blurred, shapes bleeding into light, but she could make out several silhouettes standing at the doorway.
The glare behind them made it impossible to see faces, yet she knew that tall, unmistakable figure in the center.
Alexander.
He had come.
He had finally come.
A pathetic flicker of relief stirred in her chest, one she despised herself for feeling. At least… at least he remembered she was still down here.
But the next moment, his low, derisive laugh cut through the air like a blade.
"So you realized pretending to be sick wouldn't work, so now you're pretending to be dead. Caroline, your tricks are still as cheap as ever."
She wanted to tell him she wasn't pretending. She was dying. But even opening her mouth felt impossible. Her lips wouldn't move.
The family doctor stood beside Alexander, his expression uneasy. "Sir… her skin is showing signs of rot. She's burning up with fever."
Alexander's gaze snapped to him, cold and sharp enough to silence the man instantly.
Then he turned that same look on Caroline, his mouth curling in distaste. "Fix her. Don't let her die."
The doctor hesitated. "Here? Alex, she's clearly infected. High fever, the wound needs debridement. This place is filthy. She needs to be moved to a clean room for proper treatment—"
"I said here." Alexander's voice was iron. He turned his head just enough to lock eyes with the doctor.
"She loves to perform. Loves to beg for sympathy. Let her perform here. As for anything else…"
His gaze swept down to Caroline's limp body.
"She doesn't need it."
He pivoted sharply, leaving without another word.
And yet, in that split second as he turned, his rigid spine loosened ever so slightly.
She wasn't dead.
Thank God… she could still live long enough to pay.
Caroline remained in the basement for three more days.
The doctor appeared every day, right on time, treating her with quiet efficiency. He spoke little, his hands gentle, but his eyes carried something—sympathy, maybe resignation, maybe the dull hatred of a man trapped in a job he despised.
Caroline cooperated. No tears, no protests, barely any words at all. She was like an empty shell, accepting whatever came. The fever ebbed under the drugs, the swelling around her wound subsided, but her body was still weak. Every time the doctor helped her sit up, her vision swam and cold sweat broke across her skin.
On the third evening, the iron door opened again.
It wasn't the doctor this time.
Alexander stepped inside.
"Get up." His voice was a command.
Caroline braced herself against the wall, pushing to her feet. Her legs felt like paper, trembling beneath her, but she forced herself upright. She kept her head down, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Tomorrow is Ms. Isabella York's birthday." His tone was flat, echoing in the basement. "There will be a family dinner. You're coming with me."
Caroline's head snapped up, disbelief tightening her throat.
Isabella's birthday? He was taking her there?
Isabella would rather see her erased from existence. Why would she agree to see her? And in this state…
Alexander's mouth curved into a faint, mocking smile, as if reading her mind. "What's wrong? Afraid to face your mother? Or do you think you look too much like hell to stand in the Neville Family's dining room?"
Caroline pressed her lips together, silent.
"Whether you want to or not isn't your choice." He turned away, tossing the words over his shoulder. "Tomorrow at four, someone will come for you. Make yourself presentable. Don't embarrass me."
The door slammed shut.
Isabella had been clear—she didn't want to see her. Damon's stance was uncertain at best. Why was Alexander taking her? To provoke Isabella? Or to humiliate her in front of everyone?
She didn't know. She didn't want to guess.
The next day at four, a maid came down, bringing fresh clothes and toiletries.
Caroline washed in silence, changed, and stared at the mirror.
Her face was deathly pale, eyes sunken, cheekbones sharp. Even powder couldn't hide the sickly hue. Her hair was brittle, dull, her lips drained of color.
She looked like a corpse dressed for display.
They drove to the Neville Mansion.
The mansion blazed with light, the front drive packed with guests' cars. Caroline followed Alexander half a step behind, head lowered, into the grand hall.
Noise washed over her—laughter, clinking glasses, music. It made her dizzy. She felt eyes on her from every direction—curious, contemptuous, gleeful in their cruelty. Each stare pricked like a needle.
Alexander ignored her, heading straight for Isabella.
Isabella was surrounded by guests, accepting wishes with a gracious smile. Celeste hovered at her side, making her laugh.
The moment Isabella saw Alexander and Caroline, her smile froze. It vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by cool detachment.
Celeste's voice was sweet as sugar. "Alex." Her gaze flicked to Caroline, a glint of satisfaction flashing there.
"Isabella, happy birthday." Alexander handed over a gift.
"Thank you," Isabella said, her tone polite but distant.
Her eyes slid past him to Caroline, and the warmth vanished altogether. Caroline's chest tightened. She stepped forward, voice low. "Mom… happy birthday."
Isabella didn't answer. She didn't even look at her. She turned to Alexander instead.
"Mr. Hamilton, you've gone to trouble. Please, enjoy yourself."
She took Celeste's arm and moved on to greet other guests.
It felt like a slap. Isabella wouldn't even acknowledge Alexander as her son-in-law, let alone acknowledge Caroline as her daughter.
Alexander didn't react. He walked to the bar.
Caroline was left standing alone, the weight of countless stares pressing in. Cold seeped through her skin. She folded her arms tight.
"Caroline, why are you standing here by yourself?" Celeste reappeared, smiling sweetly.
"You look pale. Are you feeling unwell? Want to sit in the lounge?"
Caroline shook her head.
"By the way…" Celeste leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Mother is so happy today. She said she loves the brooch I gave her. Much better than those tacky things you used to send."
Caroline's fingers curled.
Last year, she'd spent weeks with Lina picking out pearl earrings, carefully sending them to Isabella. She'd later heard Isabella hadn't even looked at them before throwing them in the trash.
"But…" Celeste's tone shifted, feigning thoughtfulness. "She did say it's been ages since she had Edith's chocolate lava cake. That was Edith's specialty. Every year on her birthday, Edith would make it. She loved it."
The words hit like a hook to the gut.
Edith's chocolate lava cake…
Yes. Edith had been brilliant at it. Isabella had always praised it.
A thought rose unbidden.
If she could make it… would Isabella be pleased? Even a little? Would it soften her anger? Could it make up for the smallest fraction of her guilt?
For the first time in five years, Caroline wanted—needed—to do something. To get closer. Even if it ended in rejection.
She slipped out of the hall, into the kitchen. She tied on an apron, searching for ingredients.
The kitchen was stocked for the party. She found what she needed quickly. Her fingers trembled with weakness, but she forced herself to focus.
She replayed Edith's steps in her mind, careful with every motion.
Her wound burned with each strain of her arm. She bit down on the pain.
It wasn't smooth. She spilled sugar, nearly burned herself, adjusted the batter's thickness again and again.
Minute by minute, the rich scent of chocolate filled the air.
For a moment, she was back in another life—she and Edith stealing bites of cake from the pan, laughing until Isabella found them and chased them out.
The timer chimed.
Caroline pulled the tray from the oven with gloved hands.
It was perfect.
She carried the warm cake into the hall.
The party was winding down. Guests chatted in small clusters. Isabella sat in the main seat, speaking with elegant women. Celeste was beside her, making her smile.
Caroline approached, feeling every eye turn toward her. Her heart pounded harder.
She stopped before Isabella.
"Mom…" Her voice was rough. "I made a cake. It's… the one Edith used to make. Will you try it?"
She set the plate gently on the table, stepping back, head bowed.
Silence fell.
Isabella's smile vanished.
After a pause, she reached for the plate.
"You made this cake?"
Caroline's throat tightened. She nodded.
"You think you deserve to?" Isabella's voice snapped like a whip.
Her hand swept the plate to the floor. The cake shattered, molten chocolate spilling across the expensive carpet.
"Who gave you permission to touch Edith's things? To make her cake?" Isabella rose, her voice rising with fury. "You think you can please me with this? That I'll forget what you did? Caroline, you disgust me… you have no shame."
Caroline's face went bloodless. She stared at the ruin on the floor—the cake she had poured her frail hope into—now nothing but filth.
"Mom… I just… I only wanted—"
"Shut up! I don't want to hear your voice!" Isabella's cry shook. Tears filled her eyes. "When I see you, I see Edith. I see how she died. Get out! Get out of my sight forever!"
Around them, guests were silent. Some looked awkward. Others didn't bother to hide their disdain.
Celeste moved to comfort Isabella. "Mother, don't let her upset you."
Then she turned to Caroline, voice soft but cutting. "You know seeing you hurts her. Seeing anything tied to Edith hurts her more. Why would you do this? Isn't it just rubbing salt in the wound?"
As she spoke, she shifted her foot forward, stepping onto a shard of porcelain.
"Ah!" Celeste gasped, stumbling—straight into Caroline.
Caroline, already off-balance, couldn't react. Celeste hit her hard. She slipped on the spilled chocolate, falling backward.
Pain exploded in her palm. She pulled her hand back to see a deep gash, blood surging.
Celeste steadied herself, eyes wide with false innocence. "Caroline! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! I stepped on a shard and slipped! Are you okay?"
She reached for Caroline.
"Don't touch me!" Caroline jerked away.
Her gaze swept the room—past the false faces, the contempt—to Alexander.
He stood with his drink, watching as if it were theater. When her eyes met his, he lifted a brow, his mouth curving colder.
Her heart sank like a stone.
Celeste's eyes filled. "Mother, Alex, I swear I didn't mean it. I just wanted to help—"
Isabella patted her hand. "It's not your fault. She can't even stand properly."
Alexander finally moved.
He set down his glass, walked over, and stood above Caroline.
"Pathetic."
His eyes swept her from head to toe, taking in the mess she'd become.
Then he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.
She cried out.