Delia’s POV
The tires of the Rolls-Royce screeched as the chauffeur pulled into the Kensington driveway. I didn’t wait for him to open the door. I threw it open myself and stormed toward the front entrance, my heart hammering a beat against my ribs. The opulence of my childhood home usually calmed me, but today, every gilded frame and curtain felt like it was mocking me.
"Mother!" I yelled, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the foyer.
"In the kitchen!" Mother's voice drifted back, calm and domestic, as if the world wasn't currently crumbling beneath my feet.
I marched into the kitchen, the scent of expensive spices and lemon zest hitting me like a physical wall. My mother was standing by the island, elegantly dressed even for a casual afternoon at home. I didn’t sit. I could
