Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

The tense standoff between the two duchesses had sucked all the air out of the room. The other ladies stood frozen, their paintbrushes hovering, their mouths agape. It was Delia who finally broke the spell, her voice cutting through the silence with a clear, commanding authority.

"Let her go, Duchess Adeline!"

Adeline, her hand still twisted in Lyra's apron, turned her furious gaze on Delia. "Mind your own business, you little whelp!"

"This is my business," Delia replied, her voice dangerously calm. "My mother-in-law is being assaulted. Do you want me to call the club guards and report to them that you are attacking someone in plain sight?"

Adeline saw the look in Delia's eyes. It was not the look of a scared, young girl. It was the look of a woman who was serious, a woman who would not hesitate to follow through on her threat. With a final, angry snarl, Adeline let go of Lyra, but not before giving her a hard, spiteful push.

The shove sent Lyra stumbling backwards. She tripped over the leg of her own easel, which went crashing to the floor, her half-finished painting of a peaceful sunset landing face-down.

"Mother!" Delia rushed forward, grabbing Lyra's arm to steady her so that she didn't injure herself in the fall. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Lyra, shocked and breathless from the confrontation, could only gain her footing and shake her head, unable to answer.

Adeline turned her anger on Delia, her voice a low, hateful hiss. "You dare to threaten me? You, a bastard child from a disgraced family? You think anyone in this city will believe a word you say over mine?"

Lyra was about to respond, to defend her daughter-in-law, but Delia spoke first, her own voice as cold and as sharp as ice. "We will see about that, won't we?"

"What did you say?" Adeline asked, her eyes narrowing.

"You heard what my mother, the Duchess Lyra, said earlier about your son," Delia continued, her voice rising with a controlled, dangerous power. "Just know that one more word from this 'bastard child,' one little whisper to the right gossip columnist, and your immoral, cheating son gets divorced. I wonder how the Prime Minister would feel about his daughter being so publicly humiliated."

The threat was a direct hit. Adeline, her face now a veil of raw, unrestrained rage at having her family's dirty secrets used against her, lunged forward and slapped Delia hard across the face.

The women in the room gasped, their hands flying to their mouths in collective shock. Lady Isla, the club's owner, came rushing into the room at that exact moment, having been alerted by the sound of the crash. She saw the ugly, red handprint blooming on Delia's cheek.

Lyra wanted to retaliate, to tear Adeline apart for daring to lay a hand on her son's wife, but Delia was ahead of her. With a speed that was shocking, Delia slapped Adeline back, the sound of the blow cracking through the silent, stunned room like a whip with just the same intensity as her own.

"How dare you?" Adeline shrieked, her hand flying to her own stinging cheek, her expression one of utter disbelief.

Lyra opened her own mouth in shock. She had never seen such a display of fierce, immediate defiance.

"I just gave back what you gave to me," Delia replied, her voice cold and even.

"Oh, you put your hands on me!" Adeline cried, her voice now taking on a victimized tone. "That is a crime, you know! Assaulting a Duchess! I will have you arrested!"

"A crime?" Lady Isla's voice cut in, calm and authoritative as she came into the center of the scene. "You hit her first, Duchess Adeline. Everyone in this room saw you do it."

Adeline turned to Isla, her expression shifting to one of a wronged party. "Lady Isla, I can explain," she said, her voice now a desperate whine. She looked at Delia with a burning hatred as she began to physically poke Delia's shoulder with her finger, over and over. "This… this blue-eyed witch picked a fight with me first! She was provoking me!"

"I think," Lady Isla said, her own voice now becoming as cold and as serious as steel, "that you should stop coming to my establishment, Duchess Adeline. Your violent and undignified behavior is unacceptable, and it will not be tolerated here anymore."

Adeline glared at her, but Isla returned the stare, her gaze fixed. "Or," Isla continued, her voice a low, clear threat, "do you want me to make a bigger, more public deal out of this unfortunate incident?"

Adeline let out a harsh, bitter laugh. She looked at Delia with a final, hateful glare as she untied the ribbons of her painting apron. "Fine!" she snapped. "I am out of here! This place has become common, anyway."

"Before you go, Duchess Adeline," Delia's voice called out, stopping her once more. "You should apologize."

Adeline turned, her expression one of sheer disbelief. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Delia continued, her own voice now ringing with an authority that matched the Duchess's. "Apologize to my mother. Properly. For your disgusting words and for putting your hands on her. If you do not, I promise you, I will not be staying still and you won't like the consequences."

Lyra, who was standing just behind Delia, looked at the young woman who was standing in front of her, protecting her, defending her honor with a ferocity she would have expected from her own daughter, Amber. In that moment, something inside her shifted, and a wave of deep, profound affection for this brave, impossible girl washed over her. She was still hurt but no longer angry.

Duchess Adeline looked at Delia, at the intimidating, unyielding stare she was being given. She knew she was beaten. With a look of hatred, she turned to Lyra and mumbled a barely audible, "I apologize."

She then took her things and stormed out of the club.