The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 72

Dinner, three days later.

The atmosphere at the Lehman family's long dining table was as oppressive as the ocean right before a violent storm.

For the first time, Manuel's highchair wasn't placed next to Lizzie.

The nanny, Zoey, had fed him early and whisked him away to his room on the third floor.

This was a glaring signal.

A signal that tonight's family meeting would not tolerate any childish interruptions.

Halfway through the meal, Lizzie finally set down her silver soup spoon.

The silver clinked against the bone china, producing a sharp, almost neurotic chime.

Everyone at the table froze.

Lizzie wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Her eyes, clouded from chronic insomnia, slowly swept over everyone present.

Ultimately, her gaze landed on Annelise.

"I called you all together today because there is a family matter that needs to be announced."

Her tone carried the unquestionable, absolute authority of the Lehman family matriarch.

She didn't look at anyone specifically. Her stare was vacant, as if she were talking to the empty air, or perhaps to the massive portrait of Elias hanging on the wall.

"Elias has been gone for three years now."

"For three years, our family has lived in mourning."

As she spoke, she reached out and grasped Clarissa's hand.

"Thank goodness for Clarissa. She's been such a good girl, keeping an old woman like me company."

"She stayed devoted to Elias, kept the Lehman family line alive, and gave us Manuel."

Her voice grew thick with emotion, and her eyes began to redden.

"Clarissa has sacrificed so much for this family. We cannot fail her."

The long, drawn-out prelude was finally over.

Lizzie's tone abruptly shifted. Her bloodshot eyes darted toward Annelise like two poison-laced daggers.

Throughout this entire monologue, Clarissa sat beside Lizzie, her head bowed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Her slender shoulders trembled slightly, perfectly playing the role of the innocent, helpless woman swept away by the cruel tides of fate.

Hackett sat across from Annelise, his face grave and completely silent.

His handsome features carried a trace of manufactured pain and struggle, acting as if this had nothing to do with him—as if he were merely a passive victim being pushed along by this so-called "romance."

Annelise's gaze slowly swept across the long table.

Barnum Lehman wasn't here tonight.

But his will hung over the room like an invisible ghost, suffocating everyone present.

Her mother-in-law was the executioner giving the orders.

Clarissa was the pitiful, fragile victim.

Hackett was the helpless bystander caught in the crossfire.

And she, Annelise Sargent, was nothing more than the inconvenient obstacle meant to willingly sacrifice herself at the altar of their grand, "trauma-bonded" love story.