Chapter 30: Chapter 30- Should I kill Him?

Far Away — Dalton Estate

The bathroom was excessive in that way only old money could afford to be.

Marble floors. Gold fixtures. A bathtub the size of a small swimming pool that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

And in the center of it all, lounging in steaming water like some kind of Roman emperor, was Victor Dalton.

Twenty-three years old. Mayor’s son. Heir to a political dynasty built on corruption, backroom deals, and carefully maintained public image.

He had the kind of face that looked good in campaign photos—sharp jawline, neatly trimmed hair, the practiced smile of someone who’d been shaking hands and kissing babies since he could walk.

But right now, that face was twisted into an expression of pure, petulant irritation.

Two women flanked him on either side of the tub—both in their early twenties, both painfully average in looks. The kind of girls who were pretty enough to massage a rich man’s shoulders but not pretty enough to threaten his fiancée’s position.

They kneaded his muscles mechanically, their expressions blank and professional.

Standing in front of the bathtub, perfectly poised in a black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse, was his father’s secretary.

Marga Hale. Mid-thirties. Cold eyes. The kind of woman who could smile while destroying your life and make it look like a favor.

She held a tablet in one hand, scrolling through what looked like a detailed schedule.

“The election is in six weeks,” Marga was saying, her voice clipped and businesslike. “Your father has made it very clear that ’nothing’—and I mean ’nothing’—can jeopardize his campaign.”

Victor rolled his eyes, sinking lower into the water. “Yeah, I get it. Be a good boy. Smile for the cameras. Don’t fuck up.”

“Precisely.” Marga’s gaze didn’t waver. “That means no scandals. No public drunkenness. No questionable social media posts. And ’absolutely’ no—”

“No sex,” Victor interrupted bitterly. “Yeah, you’ve said that like five times already.”

“Because you clearly don’t understand the gravity of the situation.” Marga’s tone sharpened. “One leaked photo. One disgruntled woman selling a story to the press. That’s all it takes to tank your father’s numbers.”

Victor’s hands clenched into fists under the water.

“So what, you’re just going to ’lock me up’ for a month? Keep me on house arrest like some kind of prisoner?”

“We’re asking you to show restraint—”

“Bullshit!” Victor surged upward, water sloshing over the sides of the tub as he stood.

The two massage girls scrambled backward, eyes wide.

Victor grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist, his face flushed with rage.

“You want me to just sit here and do ’nothing’ while my father runs around playing politician?! What the hell am I supposed to do if I can’t even get laid?!”

Marga’s expression didn’t change. “Find a hobby.”

“A ’hobby’?!” Victor’s voice climbed another octave. “Are you fucking serious right now?!”

“Completely.”

Victor stared at her, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

Then he let out a frustrated yell and stormed past her, his bare feet slapping against the marble as he barged through the bathroom door.

“Victor—”

But he was already gone, stomping down the hallway toward the stairs like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Marga sighed, adjusted her glasses, and followed at a much more measured pace.

’

Victor took the stairs two at a time, his wet footprints leaving a trail across the expensive carpet.

He was still muttering angrily under his breath—something about being treated like a child, about how this was all bullshit—when he reached the bottom and turned toward the dining room.

And immediately froze.

The dining room was ’massive’. Long table that could seat twenty. Crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Walls lined with portraits of dead ancestors who’d probably been just as corrupt as the current generation.

And standing at the far end of the table, perfectly still, was his mother.

Veronica Dalton.

She was in her late forties but looked older—stress and years of silent suffering etched into every line of her face.

She’d been beautiful once. You could still see hints of it in the bone structure, the shape of her eyes.

But time and her husband had worn her down.

Right now, she was placing dishes on the table with trembling hands, her movements careful and deliberate like she was trying very hard not to drop anything.

And her face…

Victor’s stomach dropped.

Her left cheek was ’red’. Swollen. The clear outline of a handprint still visible against her pale skin.

She’d been slapped. Hard.

Veronica didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge his presence at all.

Just kept setting out plates and silverware with mechanical precision, her expression hollow and empty.

At the head of the table sat Alexander Dalton.

The mayor.

Sixty years old. Silver hair. The kind of presence that filled a room and demanded attention without saying a word.

He was reading a newspaper, his posture relaxed, like he hadn’t just struck his wife across the face minutes earlier.

Victor swallowed hard.

“I… I understand, Father,” he said quietly, his earlier anger evaporating like steam.

Because he knew better than to speak when his father was in ’this’ mood.

Alexander didn’t even look up from his paper. Just grunted once in acknowledgment.

Victor bowed slightly—an instinctive gesture born from years of walking on eggshells—and turned to leave.

But before he could take more than two steps, Marga’s heels clicked against the floor as she entered the dining room.

“Sir,” she said smoothly, addressing the mayor. “The briefing materials you requested.”

Alexander finally looked up, his eyes cold and assessing as they landed on his secretary.

“Good. Leave them on my desk.”

“Of course.”

But instead of turning to leave, Marga moved closer to the table.

And then—without hesitation, without a single change in her professional demeanor—she dropped to her knees and disappeared under the tablecloth.

Victor’s eyes widened.

Veronica’s hands stilled for just a moment, her grip tightening on the plate she was holding.

Alexander’s expression shifted into something that might’ve been satisfaction. Or maybe just mild interest.

His hand reached down under the table, resting on something—’someone’—that Victor couldn’t see.

There was the soft sound of a zipper being pulled down.

And then Alexander let out a low, pleased grunt.

“Mmph…”

The muffled sound came from under the table, followed by wet, obscene noises that made Victor’s face flush.

Veronica stood frozen at the other end of the table, staring at nothing.

Alexander leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting under the table, fingers presumably tangled in Marga’s hair as she worked.

“You should learn from her,” Alexander said suddenly, his voice directed at Veronica.

She flinched but didn’t respond.

“Marga knows how to be ’useful’,” he continued, his tone casual despite the situation. “She understands her place. Her ’value’.”

Another grunt, this one rougher.

“You, on the other hand…” Alexander’s eyes finally landed on his wife, cold and contemptuous. “You’ve gotten fat. Saggy. ’Loose’.”

Veronica’s face crumpled slightly, but she didn’t cry.

Just stood there, trembling, like she’d heard this exact speech a thousand times before.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

The wet sounds continued for another minute—maybe two—before Alexander let out a final, satisfied groan.

There was movement under the table, and then Marga emerged, smoothing down her skirt with one hand while pulling a tissue from her pocket with the other.

She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with practiced efficiency, her expression completely blank.

Like she’d just finished filing paperwork instead of sucking off her boss in front of his wife.

Alexander stood, zipping his pants and adjusting his belt.

“I won’t be home for two days,” he announced, addressing no one in particular. “Going to the farmhouse.”

He reached out and grabbed Marga’s ass with casual possessiveness, his fingers digging into the flesh through her skirt.

“Mmph—” She made a small sound but didn’t pull away.

“Fucking her,” Alexander added bluntly, his gaze sliding back to Veronica with something that might’ve been malice or just indifference. “She’s tighter.”

And with that, he turned and walked out of the dining room, Marga following a step behind like an obedient shadow.

The door closed.

Silence settled over the room like a shroud.

Veronica stood there for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Then she reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Her hands were still shaking as she placed one between her lips.

A maid appeared from the shadows—one of several who’d been standing silently along the walls, pretending they hadn’t just witnessed that entire degrading scene.

The maid lit the cigarette without a word.

Veronica took a long drag, her eyes hollow and distant.

“My Lady,” the maid said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Should I kill him?”

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