Chapter 136: Humiliation I

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Soon, the plate arrived, and to Rose's surprise, her father reached over, cutting half of the steak from her plate. He placed it on his own, leaving the half she had already begun eating.

Wine was served. She glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but he was already cutting into his steak, eating small, deliberate pieces. She waited for an outburst, for the simmering rage she knew so well, but none came. He continued eating as if nothing had happened.

She knew how awful the steak tasted, so why?

A Hansley never leaves a Hansley.

The whisper echoed faintly in her mind, like a voice from her old self—a part of her long buried. The thought made her stomach twist uneasily.

Rose straightened, forcing herself to sit with her usual composure. Slowly, she began eating the remaining half of her steak, though every movement was deliberate, careful. The spot where he had struck her throbbed, a sharp reminder of the pain that lingered.

Instructions for the ships and air force began filtering through the room. Rose caught glimpses of Jonathan and the others sending her worried, panicked glances. Brianna's wide, frightened eyes darted to Rose occasionally, but the child was too frozen to look at her mother, fearing even the smallest movement might provoke a response.

Her gaze shifted to Elijah, who had retreated into a shadowed corner of the room. He wasn't looking at the monitors or the others. He was watching her.

She feared, for a fleeting moment, that he might act—that his composure might crack. But something in his posture told her otherwise. She could almost feel his mind working, going over the words she had told him yesterday. Elijah was thinking, calculating, and yet she could feel the weight of his gaze on her, heavy and unreadable.

Rose's attention returned to her father. He sipped his wine with the ease of a man utterly in control, his calm demeanor unnerving. Slowly, she picked up her own glass and drank, matching his pace as they ate in silence.

Brianna sat at the edge of the table, frozen, her small body trembling. Teresa, her mother, who watched helplessly, caught between anguish and restraint.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, as if the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.

Soon, both finished their steaks in silence, every movement precise and filled with a chilling elegance.

They drank their wine almost in unison, the clink of their glasses against the table the only sound breaking the heavy quiet.

Their eyes met across the table.

One burned with anger—a fire barely contained, simmering just below the surface.

The other held defiance—unyielding, unbroken, a quiet storm daring the fire to consume it.

"Another bottle," her father ordered, his voice calm, his gaze never leaving hers.

Rose watched as he picked up a cloth-wrapped bundle of ice. Without a word, he stood and leaned closer, reaching for her cheek. She tensed, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table, but she didn't resist. She let him place the ice against the tender spot where he'd struck her.

They remained like that, locked in silence, their eyes meeting across the tense space. Hers were guarded, simmering with defiance. His held an unreadable mix of calculation and something colder, almost empty.

Around them, the faint sound of voices and hurried footsteps filtered in—soldiers working, troops preparing, plans unfolding—but neither moved, neither spoke.

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