Chapter 178: Confronting Delilah

She looked like she wanted to drop to her knees and beg.

She looked utterly, beautiful.

And he hadn’t said a word yet.

Delilah’s face wore the same practiced mask she’d perfected over years of Maxton privilege: chin lifted just enough, eyes cool and assessing, the subtle curve of her lips that said she was always in control, always the one giving orders.

But her hands betrayed her.

They were clasped in her lap, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles had gone pale, trembling faintly against the fabric of her skirt. And there, at the delicate hollow of her throat, her pulse fluttered wildly—rapid, desperate, a

hummingbird trapped

beneath porcelain skin.

She was nervous.

Good.

Phei stopped at the edge of the seating area. He didn’t sit. He simply stood, towering, letting the silence stretch like a wire pulled taut between them.

"You came," Delilah said at last. Her voice was smooth, carefully modulated, but a faint tremor threaded through it, betraying the effort it took to keep it steady.

"You

"summoned"."

"I didn’t

summon."

A quick, defensive edge. "I asked."

Phei tilted his head, violet eyes unreadable. "’Meet me. Now.’ That’s not asking, Delilah. That’s commanding. Old habits die hard?"

Something flickered across her face—uncertainty, swiftly buried beneath the mask.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing to the bench opposite her with the regal flick of her wrist she’d used on staff and lesser peers her entire life. "We need to talk."

He didn’t move.

The silence thickened.

Delilah’s composure wavered, just a crack. "I said sit—"

"I heard you."

"Then sit."

"No."

The single word landed sharp and flat, a quiet slap across the space between them. The kind of refusal no Maxton had ever dared voice in her presence.

Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." The corner of Phei’s mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Something colder. Something that saw straight through her. "You don’t give me orders anymore, Delilah. Those days are over."

"I

wasn’t—"

"You were." He took one deliberate step closer. Then another. Watching her eyes widen fractionally, watching her shoulders draw back almost imperceptibly before she forced herself still. "You dressed for battle. Chose this spot—your territory, where you’ve held court with your little circle for years. You texted me like I was still the kid you could snap your fingers at. You staged this whole scene so you’d hold the power."

Her jaw tightened. "That’s not—"

"It is." Another step. He loomed over her now, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "You wanted me to sit where you

pointed,

speak when

spoken

to. Princess granting audience to the peasant."

"I just wanted to talk—"

"Then talk." He stayed standing, immovable, letting his presence fill every inch of the space she’d tried to control. "I’m listening."

The mask cracked.

A flash of frustration tightened her eyes; her breath came sharper, almost a huff. Phei catalogued every tell—the way her fingers twisted harder in her lap, the faint flush rising on her throat.

"You’re being difficult," she said, voice quieter now.

"I’m being honest. There’s a difference."

"Can you just—" She gestured sharply, irritation breaking through. "Can you just sit down? Like a normal person? This is uncomfortable."

"What’s uncomfortable about it?"

"You’re looming."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Funny." His voice dropped, calm and cutting. "I don’t remember you ever caring about my comfort when I was the one being loomed over."

The words struck true.

He saw it hit—surprise flaring first, then defensiveness, then the briefest flicker of something that might have been shame before she buried it under anger.

"That was different," she said tightly.

"Was it?"

"Yes. You were—" She cut herself off, jaw working. Restarted. "Things were different."

"Mmm." Phei let the sound linger. "You mean I was

different.

Smaller. Weaker.

Someone you could toy with because there were never consequences."

"That’s not fair."

"Neither were the paintballs, Delilah."

Color flooded her cheeks—humiliation, anger, memory.

"That was—I was just—Danton said it would be funny—"

"And you went along with it." His tone stayed even, almost gentle in its precision. "You always went along. The comments. The cruelty. The little traps you’d set just to watch me stumble. You weren’t the worst—

that crown belongs to your brother

—but you were never innocent."

"I never actually hurt you—"

"Paintballs you helped get me into leave bruises."

She flinched as if struck.

"I had

welts

for two weeks," he continued quietly. "Couldn’t wear anything tight without pain. But you never noticed. Never asked. Never cared what happened to the charity case once the entertainment was over."

Delilah’s hands twisted harder in her lap, knuckles bone-white.

"That’s not why I asked you here," she said, voice small.

"Then why?"

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the fire, flames dancing across her face, illuminating the war playing out beneath the surface.

"I don’t know," she admitted finally, the words dragged out of her like teeth. "I just... needed to see you. Talk to you. Without Sierra glaring or Maddie sniping or everyone watching."

"And what did you think would happen?"

"I don’t know." The confession burst out, raw and frustrated. "I can’t stop thinking about you, okay? That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? I walk into walls in the hallway because I’m staring at you. I’ve watched that video of you and Sierra forty-seven times and I hate myself for it but I can’t stop."

Forty-seven. Up from twenty-eight last time he’d known.

"And I know I was awful," she rushed on, words spilling now that the dam had cracked. "I know I never stood up for you, never stopped it, treated you like you were nothing. But you’re different now and maybe I’m different and I don’t know what to do because every time I see you I just—"

She stopped.

Swallowed.

Looked away.

"You just what, Delilah?"

The question hung heavy in the warm air.

When she finally met his eyes again, the princess mask was gone. What remained was

younger; Uncertain.

Stripped bare.

"I don’t know," she whispered. "That’s the problem. I’ve always known exactly what I wanted. But with you... I just want. And I don’t know how to make it stop."

Phei studied her for a long moment, reading every fractured line of her expression.

This was the pivot. The moment he could take her—push her back against the bench, claim her mouth, add another spoiled princess to his collection before the fire burned low.

But not yet.

Not like this.

"Stand up," he said.

Delilah blinked. "What?"

"Stand up."

She hesitated—old entitlement warring with something new and unsteady—then rose slowly from the bench. Her heels brought her nearly eye-level with him, but she still felt small, still felt like she was looking up.

Phei stepped closer.

Close enough that her breath caught.

Close enough that her pupils blew wide, dark swallowing blue.

Close enough that the space between them crackled.

And then—