Chapter 6 - The Confession on the Penthouse Floor
The master bedroom of the penthouse was quiet, warm, and scented with fresh white orchids that Mrs. Petrova had brought up from the hotel conservatory.
Della sat propped up against a mountain of plush silk pillows, a warm cup of herbal tea resting in her hands. The dull ache in her back had subsided to a faint soreness, and the soft, rhythmic hum of the monitor confirmed her baby was sleeping peacefully.
The heavy oak doors of the suite opened.
Royce walked in first. Behind him, flanked by Leo and two massive security guards, walked Cordelia Vance.
Cordelia was a shadow of the woman who had dominated the lobby two hours earlier. Her red silk gown was wrinkled, her mascara smeared down her cheeks, and her body trembled with violent, helpless shame.
Della set her tea cup down on the nightstand, her eyes widening as she saw the wealthy socialite being led into her room.
"Royce..." Della murmured, her voice tight. "What is this?"
Royce walked to the side of the bed, leaning down slightly. "She has something to say to you, Della."
Cordelia stopped three feet from the edge of the bed. She looked at Della—at the cheap server’s tunic hanging over the chair, at the faint red mark on her neck, and at the hand wrapped around her stomach.
Richard Vance stepped into the doorway behind his daughter, whispering fiercely, "Do it, Cordelia. Now."
Cordelia’s knees buckled.
She dropped onto the hardwood floor, her red silk dress pooling around her like spilt wine. She bowed her head until her forehead touched the floor at Della’s feet.
"I... I am sorry," Cordelia sobbed, her voice breaking into pathetic, ragged hitches. "Please... please forgive me, Miss Marsh. I was wrong... I was cruel... I am so sorry for what I did to you and your baby..."
Della sat frozen in the bed.
For months, she had lived in a world where rich people looked through her like she was made of glass. She had been yelled at by customers, cheated out of tips by managers, and pushed around by a landlord who knew she had nowhere else to go. She was used to being the person who apologized for simply existing.
Now, the wealthiest socialite in the city was on her knees, weeping in front of her, begging for her mercy.
Della looked at Royce. He stood beside her bed, his broad frame relaxed, his dark eyes fixed on her face, waiting for her command.
She realized then the staggering extent of his power. He hadn't just saved her from a fall; he had completely inverted the hierarchy of the city for her sake.
Della took a long, quiet breath.
"Get up," Della said softly.
Cordelia lifted her tear-streaked face, looking up in desperate hope. "Will... will you forgive me?"
"I don't care enough about you to hate you," Della said, her voice remarkable in its calm, quiet dignity. "Take your money, take your dress, and leave. Just... never come near me or my child again."
Cordelia looked at Royce, who gave a single, curt nod.
"Out," Leo barked, grabbing Cordelia by the elbow and hauling her to her feet.
Within thirty seconds, the room was cleared. The doors clicked shut, leaving only Della and Royce in the quiet, warm expanse of the penthouse.
Della looked down at her lap, her fingers tracing the seam of the silk duvet. "Did you really force her father to give me fifty-one percent of his company?"
Royce sat down on the edge of the bed, his broad frame taking up the space beside her without invading her personal perimeter.
"Yes," he said simply.
"Royce... I don't know how to run a real estate company," Della whispered, looking at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. "I'm a waitress. I make eleven dollars an hour plus tips."
"You don't need to run it," Royce said softly. "My legal team will manage the assets. But the income—roughly three million dollars a year—will be transferred to your personal account every quarter. You will never serve another drink, you will never worry about rent, and your child will never want for a single thing in this life."
Tears spilled over Della’s lashes, bright and hot in the soft light of the bedroom.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just threw a lantern seven years ago... I didn't even know who you were..."
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Royce reached out, his warm, large hand covering her right hand where it rested on the duvet, his thumb stroking the crescent scar.
"You gave me seven years to build an empire, Della," Royce said, his low voice carrying an absolute, unshakeable truth. "The least I can do is give you a piece of it."
