Delia’s POV
I spent the afternoon in a state of vibrating anxiety, pacing the length of my solitary bedroom and checking the clock every five minutes. The humiliation from the morning still burned in the back of my throat. The image of that model, the sting of her words, and the absolute coldness of Julian’s gaze. But my mother was coming. Martha Kensington didn't just visit; she inspected. And if Julian didn't play his part, the facade of my perfect life would shatter before the first course was served.
I had sent Julian a text, my fingers trembling as I typed. Mother is coming for dinner at seven.
I expected him not to respond. I expected a cold assistant to call and say he was "detained" or busy, but no response came. Julian was cold to me in every way possible.
At precisely six-thi
