Betrayed Heiress Strikes Back

Chapter 17

The night after the engagement party, Kya lay in her bed staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of the city lights spilling through her curtains. Julian had bid her good night with a kiss to her hand, his voice low and steady, promising tomorrow would be easier. Yet as the silence settled around her, unease crept in.

Was she making the right decision?

Her mind replayed Elena’s venomous smile, Alexander’s reckless charm, the whispers that clung to her like shadows. She turned onto her side, searching for certainty, but no answer came. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under, and she fell asleep with the question still lingering, unanswered.

Morning arrived with pale sunlight filtering through the windows. Kya rose slowly, her body heavy with the remnants of doubt. Today was the Whitmore lunch—a meeting that carried more weight than any party. Reginald Whitmore, Julian’s grandfather, had asked to see them. It was not a request to be taken lightly.

She stood before her wardrobe, fingers brushing over silks and satins, gowns that shimmered with extravagance. None felt right. Mr. Whitmore was a man of legacy, of quiet authority. He would not be impressed by flash or vanity. He would respect simplicity.

Kya chose a dress of soft ivory, tailored but understated, its elegance lying in its restraint. She applied only the barest touch of makeup—just enough to highlight her features without altering them. She wanted to appear as herself, unadorned, composed, and sincere.

As she fastened the clasp of her bracelet, another thought struck her. A gift. She could not arrive empty‑handed. Her mind raced until she remembered the one‑of‑a‑kind cashmere blanket she had purchased weeks ago, woven with intricate detail, warm yet refined. Perfect for a man whose knees ached with arthritis, whose body betrayed him even as his mind remained sharp.

She folded it carefully, wrapping it in tissue and ribbon, her hands lingering on the softness. It was not just a gift—it was a gesture of respect, of thoughtfulness, of understanding.

A car horn sounded faintly outside. Julian had arrived.

Kya took a deep breath, smoothing her dress, lifting the gift in her hands. Today would be a test—not of glamour, but of grace. And she was determined to meet it head‑on.

**

The city faded behind them as Julian steered the car onto the long stretch of country road. Without a driver, it was just the two of them, the hum of the engine and the rhythm of tires against asphalt filling the quiet.

Julian looked effortlessly at ease—casual clothes, sleeves rolled, his profile lit by the pale winter sun. His expression was bright, untroubled, as though the weight of legacy and expectation didn’t press on him at all.

Kya sat back, her fingers brushing the ribbon of the gift in her lap. The cashmere blanket felt heavier now, not just fabric but a symbol of her attempt to belong, to be accepted. She glanced at Julian, her voice soft but edged with uncertainty.

“Do you think Mr. Whitmore will approve of me?”

Julian’s eyes flicked toward her, then back to the road. His smile was steady, reassuring. “There’s no reason for him not to.”

Kya exhaled, though her chest still tightened. “He’s a man of tradition. I’m not… exactly traditional.”

Julian chuckled, the sound warm, easy. “That’s what makes you perfect. He’ll see it. Trust me.”

She studied him, the calm in his voice, the confidence in his posture. He didn’t look worried—not about Whitmore, not about Elena, not about Alexander. It was as if he believed their bond was unshakable, untouchable.

Kya turned her gaze to the window, watching the landscape shift from steel and glass to rolling fields and quiet estates. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with the unspoken truth that today mattered—not for glamour, but for legacy.

Julian reached over, his hand brushing hers lightly on the console. “Stop worrying. You’re exactly what he’ll want to see.”

Kya’s lips curved faintly, though her thoughts still lingered. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe there was no reason for doubt. But as the road carried them closer to the Whitmore estate, the question remained—would Reginald Whitmore see her as Julian did, or would he see something else entirely?

Julian slowed the car near a sprawling oak tree, its branches stretching wide like a crown against the pale sky. He pulled over, gesturing toward the horizon.

“See that?” he said, leaning closer, his voice warm with nostalgia. “All of this—every field, every hill—belongs to the Whitmores. My grandfather used to bring me out here when I was a boy. He’d tell me the land was endless, and I believed him.”

Kya turned to look, her eyes tracing the vast expanse of green. “It does feel endless.”

Julian chuckled, his grin boyish. “Once, I tried to run across it. Thought I could reach the other side before sundown. I made it about half a mile before collapsing under this very tree. My grandfather found me snoring in the grass, covered in dirt, insisting I’d conquered the land.”

Kya laughed softly, the image vivid. She turned toward him, her smile lingering—and in that moment, his lips brushed hers. The contact was accidental, fleeting, but it held them still. Their eyes locked, the silence charged, until Julian leaned in and claimed her lips with another soft kiss.

Kya closed her eyes, surrendering to the warmth, the tenderness, the certainty in his touch. For a moment, the world narrowed to just them—the oak tree, the vast lands, and the promise of something unshakable.

Then the shrill ring of her phone shattered the moment.

Kya pulled back, breathless, fumbling for her phone. The screen lit up with a name that made her stomach tighten. Elena Carney.

Julian’s jaw clenched as Kya answered.

“Kya,” Elena’s voice was smooth, but edged with impatience. “Did you happen to see my handkerchief at the estate? I think I left it there last night at the party.”

Kya blinked, caught between disbelief and irritation. “Your handkerchief?”

“Yes,” Elena replied, her tone dripping with false sweetness. “It’s very dear to me. I’d hate to think it was misplaced.”

Julian’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, his expression darkening. Kya glanced at him, then back at the phone, her voice cool. “I didn’t see it. Perhaps you should ask the staff.”

Elena’s laugh was light, but it carried venom. “Of course. I’ll do that. Enjoy your day.”

The line went dead.

Kya lowered the phone slowly, her pulse quickening. The kiss lingered on her lips, but Elena’s intrusion left a bitter taste. She turned to Julian, who was staring out at the Whitmore lands, his jaw tight.

He started the car again, the oak tree fading behind them as the road carried them closer to the Whitmore estate—and the battles waiting ahead.

The car rolled past the final bend, and the Whitmore estate came into view—a sprawling manor of stone and ivy, its windows gleaming like watchful eyes. The grounds stretched wide, manicured gardens framing the long drive, every detail whispering of wealth and history.

Kya’s breath caught. The estate wasn’t just impressive—it was imposing, a reminder that she was stepping into a world built on centuries of power.

Julian slowed the car, his expression calm, almost casual. “We’re here,” he said softly, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

They pulled up to the front, where a butler in crisp attire greeted them with a bow. “Mr. Gray. Miss Byrd. Mr. Whitmore is expecting you.”

Kya clutched the wrapped cashmere blanket in her hands, her heart quickening. She followed Julian through the grand hall, portraits of stern ancestors lining the walls, their painted eyes seeming to judge her with every step.

But instead of the formal dining room, the butler led them through French doors into the garden. There, beneath a canopy of autumn leaves, sat Reginald Whitmore. His cane rested against the chair, his posture slightly stooped, but his eyes—sharp, piercing—missed nothing.

“Kya Byrd,” he said, his voice gravelly but strong. “And my grandson.”

Julian stepped forward, his tone warm. “Grandfather.”

Kya approached with grace, offering the gift. “Mr. Whitmore, I thought this might bring you comfort.” She placed the folded cashmere blanket before him.

Reginald’s brows lifted, his fingers brushing the fabric. “Thoughtful,” he murmured. “Practical. You understand what matters.” His gaze shifted to her, steady and unyielding. “That is good.”

Kya held his stare, her pulse racing, but she did not flinch.

Reginald leaned back, his voice carrying authority even in its softness. “Now, let us talk. I want to know what kind of woman intends to stand beside my grandson—and what kind of man he intends to be.”

The garden fell silent, the air heavy with expectation. This was no casual lunch. It was a test.