Divorcing Billionaire Vincent

CHAPTER EIGHT - Something for Madam Kensington

I sat in the cold, damp cell, my back pressed against the rough stone wall. My limbs ached from sleeping on the hard ground, and my throat felt dry as sandpaper. Hunger gnawed at my insides, but I refused to let my misery show. I wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t break.

The only visitors I had were the maids — sent to check if I was still breathing. Today, they arrived again, their faces a mix of pity and fear.

“You should apologize,” one of them whispered. She was young, barely more than a child. Her voice trembled as though the walls themselves were listening.

“You really should,” the other urged. “Madam Kensington has ordered your funeral arrangements. She means to let you die here.”

I scoffed, though my dry throat made it sound more like a cough. “Apologize?” I forced a smile. “No. I won’t leave this cell until she apologizes to me.”

Both maids recoiled in horror. The younger one even made the sign of the cross as though she believed my words alone could summon death.

“You’re insane,” the older one whispered. “She’ll kill you for this.”

“Then so be it.” I let my head fall back against the wall, ignoring the way the cold stone bit into my scalp.

I don’t know how long passed before I heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. The lock turned, and the door creaked open.

“Ah,” Madam Kensington’s cold voice sliced through the air like a blade. “I see you’ve grown fond of this cell. Perhaps I should prepare a casket instead. Since you insist on being stubborn.”

I ignored her at first, my gaze fixed on the wall. But when her heels clicked closer, I shot my hand out and seized her wrist. Her eyes widened in surprise, but before she could scream, I yanked her closer, my lips brushing her ear.

“The last thing I’ll do before I die,” I whispered, “is paint your dirty little secret on this wall.”

She froze.

“Your son,” I murmured. “The one you pretend doesn’t exist. Dan. My friend. How will you explain that to Vincent? Imagine the shame when society finds out you had an illegitimate child.”

Madam Kensington jerked away from me as though my touch had burned her. Her face was pale, her hands shaking.

“Liar,” she spat, but her voice lacked its usual venom.

“Am I?” I stared her down. “Would you really risk me writing Dan’s name for all to see? Do you think your precious reputation can survive that?”

Her breath hitched, her eyes darting wildly. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the cell. Moments later, I heard a crash — the sharp shatter of porcelain. The maids whispered in panicked voices just outside my cell.

I smiled grimly to myself.

Soon enough, the door swung open again. This time, the guards grabbed my arms and dragged me out of the cell.

Madam Kensington stood at the end of the corridor, her face twisted in a mask of barely contained rage.

“You think you’re clever,” she hissed. “But I’ll have the last word. Don’t forget that.”

I barely had the strength to respond, but I met her gaze and smiled. “We’ll see.”

I was barely able to stand when the guards dragged me out of the cell. My legs buckled under me, and my bare feet scraped against the cold stone floor. My arms felt heavy as lead, and my throat was so dry that swallowing felt like pushing down sand. Still, I smirked. A slow, painful smile that tugged at the swollen side of my face.

Madam Kensington was pacing furiously when I was hauled into her room. The floral arrangements she’d prepared for my funeral lay in shambles — petals crushed beneath her heels. A fine china cup lay shattered near the doorway where she must have thrown it in a fit of rage. Her eyes were wild when they turned to me, sharp and desperate.

"Get out," she barked at the maids still hovering nearby. When they hesitated, she snatched the nearest candlestick and sent it crashing to the floor. "Out!"

The moment we were alone, she stormed up to me, her bony fingers digging painfully into my chin as she tilted my face upward.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you speak that name."

"I dare," I rasped, voice barely above a whisper, "because I know it’s true."

Her fingers tightened painfully, but I refused to look away. For years, she had hidden him — her shame, her mistake. Her precious Vincent couldn’t know, nor could her esteemed husband. An illegitimate child would shatter the image she worked so hard to build. The Kensington name stood for wealth, power, and control. If society knew she had borne a son out of wedlock... No. She couldn’t risk that.

"You’re bluffing," she sneered. "You have no proof."

"I don’t need proof," I shot back. "All I need is a wall. And a brush."

Her fingers trembled before she let me go, shoving me back against the wall. I staggered but kept my balance.

"You’d ruin yourself too," she spat. "You think Vincent would forgive you for spreading lies? You think he’d protect you if you tried to disgrace this family?"

"Lies?" I laughed, a dry and bitter sound. "You know better than anyone that it’s not a lie. And as for Vincent..." I shrugged. "He might never forgive me, but you? He’d despise you. He’d never speak to you again. And you know it."

She stared at me for a long moment, her sharp features twisted in frustration. I knew what she was thinking. If word got out — if the truth about Dan spread — her entire life’s work would crumble. Her reputation, her standing in society... gone in an instant.

"You’ve hidden him for so long," I murmured. "But if Vincent finds out..." I trailed off, letting her imagination fill in the blanks.

"Shut up," she snapped. Her hand trembled as it hovered near her face. "Shut your filthy mouth."

"I’ll keep quiet," I said softly. "But you’ll leave Ana alone. And if you touch me again, if you so much as think about locking me away..." I leaned forward, lowering my voice until it was a cold whisper. "The walls will speak for me."

Madam Kensington’s face twisted with rage. She opened her mouth — maybe to threaten me, maybe to scream — but no words came. Instead, she stormed to the door and flung it open. "Get her out of my sight," she barked to the guards.

I let them drag me away. My body screamed in protest, but I held my head high. The cell was nothing compared to what I’d endured these past months. I had survived worse. I would survive this too.

The maids whispered as I passed — terrified murmurs of my "madness." Some of them stared with wide, pitying eyes; others scurried away, as if afraid I might curse them with a single look. I didn’t care. None of them mattered. Only Ana did. Only Vincent did.

Hours later, I overheard the maids gossiping outside my door.

"She’s lost her mind," one of them whispered. "Did you see Madam Kensington earlier? Ripping down the funeral flowers like a madwoman..."

"She ordered the cell to be scrubbed," another voice chimed in. "Every inch of the walls, scrubbed and repainted. Said she wouldn’t risk any marks being left behind."

"As if the poor girl had strength to paint anything," the first scoffed.

"Maybe..." the second voice wavered. "Maybe she does. Why else would Madam Kensington be so scared?"

I smiled to myself as I curled deeper into my blankets.

Yes, let her be scared.