CHAPTER 220: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY

A fire crackled in the large marble fireplace, but its warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled over the family gathered there. A fine silver tea service sat on a low table, completely untouched. The drawing room of the Carson mansion fell quiet after Delia had finished speaking.

Dowager Duchess Elena, the matriarch of the family, sat ramrod straight in her high-backed chair, her face a mask of disbelief.

Her sharp, intelligent eyes were fixed on Delia, who sat on a sofa beside Eric. "What in the world are you telling me?" Elena asked, her voice tight with a mixture of horror and outrage. "How could something like this possibly happen, right under our noses?" She shook her head, her perfectly styled low bun silver hair not moving an inch. "Your father was being slowly poisoned in his own bed?"

Lyra leaned forward, her expression etched with a deep concern. She looked at Delia, her eyes full of worry. "Delia, will you be all right? Augusta won’t just sit back and accept this. You know how she is. She is dangerous." A dark memory surfaced, and Lyra’s voice dropped. "She went as far as to try to poison you, too."

Amber gasped. She looked from her mother to Delia, her eyes wide with shock. "What do you mean? Poison? When did this happen?" She looked at Delia, her face filled with worry. " You didn’t tell me."

"She did that when Delia was still a child," Lyra replied, her voice grim. " She even tried to cover up all the evidence, but when Delia told me, I knew it was her. I never trusted that woman." She looked around the room, her gaze lingering for a moment on her other son, Philip before going back to Delia. "What does she have against Delia? What has she ever had against this child to harbor such a deep and twisted hatred?"

Philip just sat in his armchair, slightly apart from the family clustered on the sofas. He was a silent spectator to the news being shared, his handsome face an unreadable mask. He tapped calmly at the head of the cane he was holding, his expression cool and detached.

Elena’s sharp gaze returned to Delia, cutting through the rising emotion in the room. "So, what will you do now, child? What is your plan?"

Delia, who had been listening quietly, took a deep, steadying breath. Eric’s hand rested comfortingly on her back, a source of strength. "She was arrested, but she escaped during the transport," she said, her voice quiet but clear. She took a quick, almost imperceptible glance at Philip, a flicker of something in her eyes. "They are still looking for her, of course." She then turned her full attention back to the Dowager Duchess. "And besides that, Grandmother, I’m still weighing my options on the company matters."

"Ellington Textiles?" Elena clarified.

Delia nodded. "My grandfather, Baron Edgar, is giving me all of his assets. The shares, the properties... his controlling interest in the company."

At this, Philip, who had seemed so detached, finally reacted. His head snapped up, and he looked at Delia, genuine shock in his eyes. His mind raced.

All of his assets? To her? What does this mean for my deal with Augusta? The entire establishment has a new management. His carefully laid plans, his secret alliance with Augusta to secure Anne’s position in Ellington Textile—and by extension, his own influence—had just turned to dust. " So that means Anne is no longer useful to me." He thought to himself.

Elena looked just as surprised, though for different reasons. "Baron Edgar?" she said, her voice dripping with an old disdain. "That greedy and selfish old man finally gave you what was rightfully yours?"

Delia smiled, a small, tired smile. "I won’t run the establishment myself, not for now," she explained, anticipating their questions. "I will bring in a professional, an expert in the field, to manage it."

Lyra looked intrigued. "A professional? Someone from outside your family?"

"Yes," Delia replied, her voice gaining confidence as she laid out the philosophy that had formed in the crucible of her family’s destructive drama. "Everything that has happened in my family, all the pain and the lies, it all stemmed from greed. From the obsessive desire to take over the company for personal gain." She looked around at the powerful family she had married into. "There is no rule that says only family members get to be the ones to run a family business. If there is someone more competent, someone more skilled than the family members, someone who will bring positive results for the company and all the people who work for it, then I don’t see why that is not possible."

A short, bitter scoff escaped Philip’s lips. It was a small, ugly sound in the quiet room. He tried to cover it with a cough, but the damage was done. His thoughts were a storm of silent rage. Who does she think she is? Spouting such nonsense. Is she saying that if I am not deemed ’competent’, then my own brother, Eric, or some common outsider should run my family’s company? What an incredible insult.

The room fell quiet. Delia, hearing his scoff, faltered, believing she had offended them all with her unconventional ideas. "I’m sorry," she said, her voice low. "I didn’t mean to..."

"No," Elena interrupted, her voice sharp and clear as a bell. She looked at Delia with a profound respect. "You are absolutely right. Running a company is not a birthright; it is a responsibility. It should be the job of someone who is good at it, regardless of their bloodline, though bloodline is also important but shouldn’t be the only criteria."

The Dowager Duchess, the very embodiment of tradition, had just sided with radical change. She looked at Delia, a rare, genuine smile on her face. "Delia, you are a wise person."

Eric looked at his wife, his own face beaming with pride. Elena continued, her voice softening. "Even after all the hardship that woman put you through, all the pain and neglect, you have turned out so well. You are strong, and you are clever. I am proud of you, my dear."

Eric took Delia’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, flashing her a warm, loving smile. Delia, her heart swelling with a gratitude so deep it almost brought tears to her eyes, returned his smile.

Meanwhile, across the room, Lyra was not watching the heartwarming scene. Her observant eyes were fixed on her elder son, Philip. He had regained his composure, his face once again a mask of cool indifference. But she saw the tight clench of his jaw, the hard, cold light in his eyes, and the way his fingers gripped his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white. While the rest of the family celebrated a victory, Philip was silently nursing a bitter, dangerous defeat.