Chapter Two: Storms Within
The silence in the grand Cole estate was suffocating, heavy like a storm brewing in the walls. Naomi stood in the middle of the marble foyer, her jaw tight, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Dorothy, with her wide doe eyes and trembling lips, played her part like a seasoned actress, her tears soaking the lace collar of her designer dress.
"Sis… I know I was wrong," Dorothy whispered, voice breaking, "but the baby is innocent. I don't want the child to be born without a father. You said you'd take care of me once. Please, Naomi… just let me have Marcus."
The plea was so pathetic, so rehearsed, Naomi almost laughed. And then she did. A sharp, bitter sound ripped through her throat.
"Don't try to guilt trip me!" Naomi snapped, her voice ringing against the cold marble walls. "If you knew the baby was innocent, why did you spread your legs without protection? You knew it was wrong, Dorothy, but you did it anyway. On purpose. You lying, manipulative piece of shit."
The words cracked like a whip.
"Enough!" Franklin Cole's voice thundered as he surged up from his leather chair. His broad hand swung before Naomi could even flinch.
Smack!
The slap was brutal, his palm colliding with her cheek so hard the sound echoed in the cavernous hall. Naomi's head jerked sideways, her skin burning, her ears ringing.
For a moment she just stood there, stunned.
Her father—no, her adoptive father—had never laid a hand on her before. Cold indifference, sharp words, constant criticism—yes. But never this. And in that moment, Naomi finally understood: Franklin hadn't slapped her because she had gone too far. He slapped her because she had dared to speak the truth.
Her throat tightened. Her chest ached. But she refused to cry.
She looked at him—at the man she had tried for years to please, the man whose approval she had chased like sunlight. She had studied hard, spoken softly, dressed neatly, all in hopes that one day Franklin Cole might look at her and see a daughter worth claiming.
But she wasn't Dorothy.
She never would be.
Franklin's face remained hard, unrepentant. He smoothed the cuff of his sleeve as if nothing had happened. "I didn't bring you here to argue, Naomi," he said flatly. "I came to inform you that Marcus and Dorothy are getting engaged next month."
The words sliced through her like a knife.
Naomi's lungs burned with the effort to stay calm, to keep her face expressionless. She had cried enough for these people. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of watching her fall apart.
She swallowed hard. "Mom?" Her voice was softer, pleading without meaning to be. She turned to Celeste—the only hope she had left, the woman who had once brushed her hair every night and told her she was beautiful.
Celeste dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, her lips trembling. "Naomi, Dorothy has been through a lot. She's young. She's made mistakes. But she's pregnant. Please, just… let her have this. You can always find someone else."
Someone else.
The words knocked the air from Naomi's chest harder than Franklin's slap.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Because at that moment, Naomi understood—Celeste hadn't been crying for her. She was crying for Dorothy.
She wanted Naomi to step aside, to sacrifice quietly, as she always had.
A cold laugh escaped Naomi's lips, sharp and humorless. "Of course," she said. "Why not? Dorothy breaks my engagement, steals my future, and I'm the one who has to be grateful? Again?"
Her voice cracked, but she didn't care.
The memories came rushing back.
The toys taken from her room after Dorothy's birth, donated to "less fortunate children." The dresses that stopped arriving in fancy boxes. The constant reminder that she was adopted, a charity case, lucky to have food and shelter at all.
She had let it all go. She had told herself it didn't matter. But this? This was different. This was Marcus. Her fiancé. Her love. The man she had clung to when her family made her feel like nothing.
And now, they were ripping even that away.
Naomi's knees buckled before she realized what she was doing. She sank to the cold marble floor, her palms pressed flat against it. Her head bowed.
Celeste and Franklin exchanged a startled glance. Dorothy hiccupped through her crocodile tears.
"Thank you," Naomi said, her voice low but steady. "Thank you for raising me. For feeding me. For clothing me when I would have starved. I know I am not your daughter by blood. And since you want me to step aside for Dorothy, I will. Consider it my way of repaying your kindness."
Her words hung in the air like shards of glass.
Franklin's face softened with smug satisfaction. Celeste sniffled into her handkerchief. Dorothy exhaled a shaky breath of relief, as though she had just won the battle of her life.
But Naomi wasn't finished.
She lifted her head, her eyes burning—not with tears, but with fire. "But from this moment on," she whispered, "I am no longer a Cole. I will repay your kindness in full, but you will never again have the right to claim me as your daughter."
She rose slowly, her cheek still stinging from Franklin's hand, her body trembling with rage she refused to release.
"I hope Dorothy and Marcus enjoy their engagement," she added with a cold smile. "They deserve each other." A cheating man isn't worth fighting for.
Thank you Dorothy for taking my trash.
Then she turned, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, and walked away without looking back.
For the first time in her life, Naomi felt truly alone. And yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, one name lingered.
Damian.
The stranger who wasn't supposed to matter.
The man who had made her forget for just one night, that she was unloved.
And she wondered, fleetingly, if walking out of this house meant walking straight back into his arms.