Chapter 7 - The Awakening of the Dragon
Morning light broke over the jagged cliffs of Newport, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone facade of Hawthorne Manor.
Inside her room, Evelyn sat by the window, staring blankly at her reflection in the glass. She hadn't slept a single minute. Her mind was a battlefield of shock, grief, rage, and a terrifying realization: crying would save her nothing. Pity would find no home in these walls.
If Nathaniel Hawthorne wanted a captive bird to decorate his cage, he had severely miscalculated the species.
When Anna unlocked the door at eight o’clock to deliver breakfast, she found Evelyn sitting at the writing desk, fully dressed in a sharp black blazer and trousers she had found in the walk-in closet—garments that had clearly been left behind by some previous occupant or specially ordered for her arrival.
“Miss Parker?” Anna stammered, staring at her attire in confusion. “Breakfast is served... aren't you going to eat?”
“Take it back,” Evelyn said, her voice steady, cold, and entirely devoid of the trembling fear Anna had seen days prior. She turned her head, her hazel eyes locked onto the maid with an authority that made Anna take an involuntary step back. “And tell Mr. Hawthorne that his wife requests an audience in his study immediately.”
Anna turned pale as paper. “M-Mrs. Hawthorne, you can't... the master doesn't see anyone before noon, and the west tower is—”
“I don't care what the master does or doesn't do,” Evelyn interrupted, standing up from the desk with a grace and poise that commanded the entire room. She walked right past the terrified maid and stepped out into the hallway. “If he wants a prisoner, he’s going to learn very quickly that prisoners bite.”
Walking with deliberate, echoing strides down the corridor, Evelyn ignored every internal voice screaming at her to turn back. She marched straight to the iron-reinforced double doors of the west tower.
She didn't knock.
She raised her hand and slammed her fist against the heavy wood three times, hard and fast, refusing to wait for an invitation.
For a moment, absolute silence answered her. Then, the heavy locks disengaged with a loud, mechanical thud.
The door swung open.
Nathaniel Hawthorne stood in the doorway, wearing a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing sculpted forearms. His expression was a dark, dangerous thundercloud of unmitigated fury at being disturbed.
“You have exactly five seconds to give me a very good reason why I shouldn't have security throw you out into the Atlantic surf,” Nathaniel growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence.
Evelyn didn't flinch. She stepped forward, invading his personal space, her chin lifted high, her eyes blazing with a fire that matched his own.
“You want your revenge on my father?” Evelyn said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the grand hallway. “You want to bleed him and everyone connected to him? Fine. But if I am your wife, and if I am locked in this gilded cage, I am not going to sit here and embroider handkerchiefs while you play corporate warlord. I want access to the books. I want to learn how your empire works. And I want to help you destroy every single person who helped my father ruin your company.”
Nathaniel froze.
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The dark, menacing glare in his eyes slowly shifted, replaced by a profound, calculating shock. He looked down at the eighteen-year-old girl standing before him—no longer trembling, no longer weeping, but looking at him like a general inspecting an ally on the eve of battle.
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