The Patriarch's Disdain

The hallway stretching before them lay vacant and stifling, a long corridor lined with antique portraits that seemed to glare down at her. Serena walked ahead, her slender heels sinking into the thick, patterned plush carpet, swallowing the sharp, rhythmic click of her footsteps. Yet, the heavy silence offered no comfort. Behind her, Damian followed at a measured, predatory pace. She could feel the unyielding, heavy weight of his gaze burning into her spine, tracing the exposed skin of her shoulders and back. It was a relentless pressure that clawed at her nerves, making the air between them feel impossibly thick and hard to breathe.

Unable to bear the intense, oppressive quiet for another second, she stopped in her tracks. Her heels pivoted on the soft carpet, and she turned to face him squarely.

She tilted her chin, a sarcastic edge sharpening her voice as she challenged him. "Mr. Sinclair, do you enjoy what you see?"

Damian did not flinch or look away. Caught staring, he offered no apology and showed not a hint of embarrassment. His dark eyes did not waver out of shyness. He simply met her defiant stare with his usual haughty, emotionless calm. He stood there, majestic and commanding, sizing her up with an icy detachment that infuriated her.

His lips parted, and he bluntly uttered a single word. "Ugly."

A sharp scoff escaped Serena’s throat. She found the blatant insult so annoying it bordered on amusing. "If I am so ugly, then why were you staring at me so intensely? You looked at me like you had never seen a woman before."

Back in the banquet hall, she had endured countless stares—contempt, malice, surprise. But Damian’s gaze was the most unsettling. For a brief second, she thought she had seen a raw flash of possession in his dark eyes, but now, all she saw was freezing tranquility.

Damian’s jaw tightened. He looked down at her, his expression colder than ice. "What you are wearing is grotesque. Are you intentionally wearing something so garish just to attract attention?"

Serena stared at him, baffled by his sheer audacity. She glanced down at herself. Grotesque? She was wearing an elegant, strapless claret gown. The deep red fabric cascaded gracefully down her legs, highlighting her slim, curvy figure. The strapless design left her slender neck and collarbones bare, a look Tessa had just praised loudly as the most stunning of the night. Was the man blind? Or was he just looking for a reason to pick a fight?

"Right," Serena said lightly, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "I forgot about your terrible aesthetics. Clearly, only the Mercer women match your specific taste."

She took a deliberate step toward him, her tone dropping into a biting whisper. "But let me give you a piece of advice, Damian. No matter how eager you are, you should wait a few days. If some righteous media outlet decides to shed light on your little relationship with Miss Mercer before our divorce is finalized... well, Vivian's pristine future will be ruined."

The threat triggered an immediate, terrifying reaction.

Damian stepped forcefully forward. The sudden movement erased the distance between them in a heartbeat, and he towered over her. A terrifying physical tension rolled off his broad shoulders, radiating a dark, suffocating energy. He cast a heavy shadow over her face, his presence overwhelming.

His voice lowered to a dangerous, gravelly pitch that vibrated in the quiet hall. "What did... you just say?"

Serena froze. Genuine danger radiated from his towering frame. Instinctively, she took a hurried step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was deeply confused by his sudden, explosive fury. She had merely made a comment about the media—why was he reacting like she had just threatened Vivian's life? Did he misunderstand her warning as a vicious blackmail scheme?

Before Damian could escalate the confrontation further, a nearby oak door clicked open. The sudden noise shattered the heavy tension in the hallway.

An elderly butler with gray hair stepped out. He offered a polite, practiced smile. "Sir, Missus. Senior Sinclair was just asking about you two. Please, come inside."

Damian held her gaze for one more breathless second, his jaw clenched tight, before he turned and strode toward the room. Serena released a shaky breath and followed, her pulse still racing from the hostile encounter.

Inside the private room, the air felt lighter, scented with expensive tea leaves and old wood. The hale and imposing Senior Sinclair sat in a high-backed armchair. Despite his gray hair and aged face, his presence commanded the room with undeniable authority.

Upon seeing Damian, the old man’s face brightened with genuine warmth. "Damian, you are here."

Damian stepped forward, presenting an extravagant, beautifully wrapped box. "Happy birthday, Grandpa."

Senior Sinclair accepted the lavish gift with a joyful smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked genuinely pleased to see his grandson. But the moment his gaze shifted past Damian’s shoulder to the woman standing behind him, the entire atmosphere froze over.

The joyful smile vanished from Senior Sinclair’s face instantly. The warmth drained from his cloudy eyes, replaced by a chilling, absolute disdain.

Serena swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She stepped forward, extending her own carefully chosen gift. "Happy birthday, Grandpa. I wish you a long and happy life."

The room descended into a dead, unnatural silence. Senior Sinclair did not reach out. He did not move a single muscle to take the box from her hands. His gaze remained fixed on her face, radiating pure, unfiltered hatred.

"Serena," the patriarch stated coldly, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "I cannot accept your present. Take it back."

Serena’s hands froze mid-air. The rejection stung like a physical slap across the face. She glanced sideways at Damian, hoping her husband might offer a single word to break the tension or smooth over the blatant humiliation. But Damian stood by with an emotionless expression, offering his legal wife no support whatsoever. He simply watched the exchange, detached and aloof.

Suppressing her intense embarrassment, Serena slowly lowered her hands. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to remain composed under the old man's scathing glare. "Grandpa," she began tentatively, searching his hostile face. "Do you really hate me that much? Is it simply because I married into the Sinclair family?"

Senior Sinclair’s lip curled in a sneer. "Do you not know the things you did in the past?"

Serena’s brow furrowed. What past? She observed his rigid posture and the undisguised loathing in his eyes. She decided to press forward, throwing caution to the wind. "Well, it does not matter anymore. I am about to divorce Damian soon anyway."

At the word 'divorce,' Senior Sinclair’s eyes twitched. His aged face contorted as if he had just been struck, reacting to the declaration as if he had heard unbelievable news. The shock quickly morphed back into raw disgust.

He abruptly waved a hand at them, turning his head away to stare out the window. "I am tired. Both of you may leave."

Damian turned on his heel and walked out, his face an unreadable mask. Serena stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds longer, staring at the old man's dismissive back. A chilling certainty washed over her. Her forced marriage into the Sinclair family wasn't the sole reason for the patriarch's profound, deeply rooted hatred. There was a darker past here, something severe that she had forgotten, something that made the old man look at her like she was a monster.

She turned and exited the room, stepping back into the quiet hallway. She needed to find Tessa and process what had just happened.

She had barely taken three steps when Damian’s husky, commanding voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Change your outfit."

Serena halted. She turned her head, shooting him a deeply perplexed look. After everything that just happened in that room, was he seriously still hung up on her dress? She coldly refused. "No."

She turned back around to walk away.

"I said, change it," Damian insisted firmly. He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

As she tried to walk away, his large hand shot out. He physically grabbed her bare wrist, his long fingers wrapping tightly around her delicate skin. The unexpected physical tension sent a jolt up her arm. The heat of his palm contrasted sharply with the icy, authoritarian tone of his voice.

Serena gasped, jerking her arm in a futile attempt to break free. "Let go of me! What does my dress have to do with you?"

Damian stared down at her, his grip unyielding and dominant. He coldly repeated the same singular insult. "Ugly."

A fresh wave of disgust washed over her. He hated her, he stood by while his grandfather humiliated her, and yet he still harbored this lingering urge to boss her around. He thought he could control her body and dictate what she wore just because he disliked her dress. Was she supposed to just obey him like a mindless puppet? The sheer audacity of his possessive, controlling behavior made her blood boil.

"You are crazy," Serena hissed. She planted her feet and forcefully flung his hand away, breaking his tight grip with a sudden surge of aggressive energy.

Without waiting for his response, she turned and aggressively walked off down the hallway, the slit of her claret gown swaying with her rapid, angry strides.

"Serena Sterling!"

His deep, commanding voice chased her down the vacant hall, echoing off the paneled walls with unmistakable, heavy authority. "This is the last time I will ask you. Change your outfit!"

Serena stopped in her tracks. The stifling air of the estate, the hostile events of the evening, and his relentless commands culminated into a fiery rebellion in her chest. She slowly turned back to face him, the length of the long hallway separating them. She flashed him a rebellious glare, her eyes blazing with defiance as she met his furious stare head-on.

"What if I don't?"