The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 722

Chapter 722 Shield 
The slur yanked Verity back to Kandria’s orphanage, to peeling paint and hushed voices slipping through cracked doors. 
Back then she hadn’t understood the ugly label. 
Understanding had come later, slow and cold, seeping into her bones like night air. 
Harvey sneered at Dawn. “Oh? Trying to save the bastard? You’re only a stand–in yourself!” His grin said he’d found a fresh wound. 
Dawn blinked, confusion clouding her eyes for an instant that Verity could almost feel. 
Verity wondered who Dawn could possibly be substituting for, and why no one had warned her. 
Harvey’s smile vanished. “Stay out of this, or we’ll toss you out too!” He lifted his foot again, aiming straight for Verity’s ribs. 
A dull thud echoed off the lockers. 
The blow never landed. Instead, Harvey stumbled backward, shoved hard by Dawn’s sudden rush. 
Dawn planted her small body in front of Verity. “I won’t let you kick her!” The words rang bigger than her frame. 
Harvey stared, stunned, and Verity saw what he saw–Dawn was shorter, almost fragile. 
Yet in that moment she felt enormous, a bronze wall shielding Verity from every waiting fist and foot. 
No one had ever stood in front of Verity like that 
Warmth prickled behind Verity’s eyes, pushing through bruises and fear. 
Something bright and hot spilled inside her chest, leaving her breathless. 
She didn’t know how to name the feeling, only that it tasted strangely like happiness. 
Harvey scrambled up, face blotched red. “You’re just a stand–in! Soon enough you’ll be out on the street too!” 
Dawn’s mouth tightened. “I’m nobody’s stand–in 
Mean snickers rose from the watching children. 
A girl sang out, “Think you’re Master Whitethorn’s daughter because you look like him? Wait till the real Miss Whitethorn returns–you’ll be sweeping the steps!” 
Puzzlement shadowed Dawn’s features. 
Verity recalled Uncle Wooley insisting Dawn was the true Miss Whitethorn. Rumor and fact were at war again. 
If another Miss Whitethorn existed, Verity had never seen her, yet doubt flickered across Dawn’s face like passing cloud. 
Dawn lifted her chin. “My father would never throw me out.” The declaration rang against metal lockers, bold and certain, and Verity found herself believing it, too. 
Her mother had whispered it more than once: Julius had loved her long before she drew breath, waiting with both hands on the curve of Quinn’s stomach. 
“Calling Master Whitethorn daddy? Shameless!” The shout cracked across the banquet hall, high and mean. Dawn felt the word daddy snap like an elastic band against her ribs. 
Another boy crowed, “My mom says Master Whitethorn never lets anyone call him Dad. Even Verity doesn’t dare!” 
“If he finds out, he’ll toss you out! Grab her, we’ll drag her to him right now!” Laughter tumbled after the order. The idea of rough hands closing around her arms punched cold air into her lungs. 
Harvey barked a command and every kid at his back straightened, eyes glittering like marbles about to roll. 
Dawn whipped around, seized Verity’s wrist, and hissed, “Run!” 
They were taller, heavier, and there were more of them. Only a fool would fight that math. So she chose the obvious answer–flight first, courage later. 
Hand in hand, they darted through the glittering banquet hall, shoes skidding over marble. 
Dawn angled toward pockets of adults, weaving between gowns and tuxedos. While her feet flew, her head kept swiveling, hunting for familiar faces. 
If she could just spot Mom or Dad, everything would stop hurting. 
Verity stumbled beside her, his small fingers clamped around hers as though the world might steal her away. 
Even the pounding footsteps behind them no longer scared him; she could feel it in the steadiness of his breathing. 
A flash of red flickered at the edge of her vision, and hope flared like a struck match. 
She veered, tugging Verity toward the crimson silhouette as fast as nerves would allow. 
“Mom!” The cry burst out before she could gauge distance. She threw her weight backward just in time, heels scraping to avoid slamming into the red dress. 
She’d learned early that grown–up bones broke too; the thought of her mother falling twisted her stomach. 
Quinn steadied both children, eyes sweeping from their flushed faces to the pack of pursuers. “What happened?” 
“They’re bullying us,” Dawn blurted, pointing with a trembling finger, “and they said I can’t call Dad ‘Dad.‘ They want to lock me up.” 
Harvey shouted from the rear, “Of course she can’t call Master Whitethorn Dad–she’s only a stand–in!” 
Quinn’s eyes narrowed, the first chill of anger crystallizing behind her lashes as the picture came together. 
“My daughter has every right to call Julius her father,” she said, voice calm but edged with glass. “And whether someone is a stand–in or not is never an excuse to bully them.” 
The kids traded smirks, her words bouncing off them like peas against a drum. 
A woman’s laugh, thin and sharp, cut through the noise. “My son is right–why should a mere stand–in claim Master Whitethorn as Father?” 
Helen Yuley glided forward, make–up flawless, chin lifted, disdain dripping like perfume. She planted herself beside Harvey, tossing Quinn a glance that measured and dismissed in the same heartbeat. 
So that was the mold Harvey had been poured from; cruelty copied straight from the source 
Quinn kept her composure. “And you are?” 
“Ha. You don’t deserve to know who I am,” Helen said, eyes gleaming with contempt. Your girl is just a stand–in. Did no one teach you to stay small? Master Whitethorn loathes children who call him Dad.” 
Verity froze, shoulders rigid, as his Aunt Helen’s mile curdled into open hostility. Back at the Lu house she had at least pretended kindness; here, the mask had slipped off with a thud 
She had even cheered silently while Harvey shoved him around; Dawn saw the memory choke him now, eyes shining but unshed.