THE SUICIDE

Chapter Eleven : Beneath The Silence

The Delacroix estate buzzed back to life on Sunday evening.

Mr. Delacroix returned from his political trip with a convoy of aides and security, discussing headlines and campaign strategies. Mrs. Delacroix swept in not long after, her perfume filling the air before she even entered the room, still dressed in satin from the gala, laughing on the phone with a fellow socialite.

Juliet heard the voices from her room.

She sat on her bed, dressed neatly, hair brushed, as if nothing had happened. As if her body didn’t ache. As if her soul hadn’t shattered just the day before.

She had barely eaten. I barely slept. She hadn't even cried again. There were no more tears left.

Later that night, at the long marble dining table, her parents sat at opposite ends, talking politics and appearances. Her mother spoke of donors and dresses. Her father, of polls and plans. Juliet sat quietly, her food untouched.

They didn’t notice.

Not the way she winced when she moved. Not the way she flinched when someone touched her shoulder. Not the dullness in her eyes.

But they did notice her silence.

“Are you unwell?” her father asked casually, without looking up from his tablet.

“You look pale,” her mother added, not unkindly—but distracted, already scrolling through her messages.

Juliet looked at them both. Her lips parted.

She could feel the truth burning in her throat. It clawed at her chest. Saying it, something inside her begged. Just say it.

“Mom?” she said quietly.

Her mother didn’t hear. “Hmm?”

Juliet tried again. “Mom… I need to talk to you.”

Mrs. Delacroix didn’t look up. “Make it quick, darling. I have a call with a sponsor in ten minutes.”

Juliet hesitated. Her voice cracked. “It’s… about Uncle Claude.”

That got her attention—but not the way Juliet hoped.

Mrs. Delacroix sighed. “Oh, not this again. He told us you were acting cold to him. Honestly, Juliet, he was only trying to bond with you.”

Juliet blinked. “No, you don’t understand. He—he hurt me. He came here yesterday when you weren’t home, and—”

Her mother raised a hand gently, as though quieting a child’s tantrum. “Juliet, sweetheart. Your uncle is family. He’s always been kind to you. Are you sure you’re not just imagining things again? You’ve been sensitive lately.”

Juliet stared at her.

Imagining?

“I’m telling you something serious,” she whispered, barely able to breathe.

Mrs. Delacroix stood, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “You’re not lacking anything, Juliet. You have the best clothes, a driver, the best school, private lessons, even your own credit account. What more do you need?”

Juliet couldn’t speak.

The truth fell back into her chest, swallowed by silence. And just like that, the moment passed. Her mother left the room without looking back.

Juliet sat alone at the table, the world spinning around her like she was invisible.

She had spoken.

And still, no one heard her.