Collide Into Ruin

Chapter 53 Red Velvet & Razor Blades

Henry barely registered the voices around him as Jason and Beau sprang into action, methodically cleaning up the ruined red velvet cake. His mind was stuck, spinning in the haze of what had just happened.

The threat was no longer some distant, creeping possibility.

It was here.

Staring them in the face.

Leaving its twisted message in the form of razor blades hidden in something meant to be shared in joy.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His breathing came shallow, uneven.

Zoey.

She had made him swerve the car that night. He remembered it now—the way his knuckles had turned white on the steering wheel, the sharp turn nearly sending them into oncoming traffic. The shrill of her scream. The sheer terror in her voice. And then—

Silence.

They told him she died on impact.

The memory crashed into him like a tidal wave. But it wasn't grief that twisted his gut—it was the bitter taste of betrayal.

Because before that night, he had caught her. Again. In some back alley, wrapped around the same guy he had found her with before, hands grasping, lips murmuring secrets meant for someone else. But that wasn't what had shattered him the most.

She was buying drugs.

"You really thought I wouldn't catch you this time?" His voice had been low, quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that preceded a storm.

Zoey had only laughed, her smirk cutting deeper than any blade ever could. "Please, Henry. You're just mad you're not the one I want."

That was the night he finally had enough.

After catching her cheating yet again, something inside him had snapped. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't keep pretending things would change, that she would change. If she wanted out, he would give her an out—but he wasn't heartless.

He wanted to help her, too.

So he had made a decision.

He was going to end the engagement.

And then, he was going to drive her to rehab.

He had planned it all in his head, trying to rationalize the heartbreak clawing at his chest, trying to tell himself it was the right thing to do. She needed help. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to fix herself if he showed her the path.

But Zoey had sensed it, had felt the shift in him that night. And she had lashed out.

"You're such a bastard!" she had screamed at him from the passenger seat. "You don't love me anymore, do you? You never fucking did!"

Henry had gritted his teeth, hands locked on the wheel. "I did, Zoey. But you threw it away. Over and over again."

She had let out a bitter, manic laugh. "Then why the hell are you still here?!"

She grabbed the wheel.

Everything had happened so fast.

The swerve.

The tires screeching.

The terror that had shot down his spine as he fought to regain control.

And then—

The crash.

The impact had stolen everything.

The sounds.

The breath in his lungs.

The woman he had once thought he would marry.

But not the pain.

That lingered. It had lived in him for so long that he thought it was all he would ever know.

Until Emilia.

A sharp breath pulled him back to the present.

Zoey was dead.

He knew that.

So who the hell was messing with his girl?

Henry really didn't have a lot of enemies. Most people were too afraid of him to even think about it. But someone had crossed a line. Someone had just made this personal.

His vision tunneled for a second, rage coiling hot and sharp in his chest. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

He was going to end them.

"Roxanne," Emilia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "She's going to be here soon."

Henry turned sharply at the shift in her expression. "Shit," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. With everything that had just happened, Emilia's best friend arriving had completely slipped his mind.

Jason, who had been bagging evidence, let out a dry chuckle. "Well, this is the most Criminal Minds shit I've ever seen. Remind me to call Garcia."

Beau snorted. "I call dibs on being Morgan. You can be Reid."

"Hell no, I want to be Hotch."

Henry barely heard them. His focus was on Emilia—how still she was, how hollow her expression seemed. She was frozen, staring at the wreckage like it wasn't real.

The sight sent something dark curling in his stomach.

Was she mad at him? Did she hate him for keeping this from her?

Beau's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "She needs you," he murmured, low enough that only Henry could hear. "Go to her."

Henry's hands flexed at his sides before he finally peeled the gloves off and moved toward her. He knelt in front of her, resting his hands gently on her knees.

"Emmy," he said softly, urgently.

She blinked, eyes finally snapping to his. And there it was—the fear, the weight of it all crushing down on her, pressing her into the couch.

"I should have told you," Henry admitted, voice raw. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her leggings. "I thought I was protecting you, but I should have trusted you to handle this with me. I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Please don't hate me."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Henry," she whispered, voice unsteady. "I don't hate you."

His heart slammed against his ribs. "You don't?"

She shook her head, her fingers slowly reaching for his. "I just... I can't believe someone would go this far."

Henry cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't even realized had fallen. His voice dropped, low and full of steel.

"We're going to find out who did this."

"And they will pay."

Her lower lip quivered, but she nodded. Then, before he could say anything else, she leaned forward, arms sliding around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder.

Henry held her tightly, grounding himself in her warmth. And in that moment, it hit him—not like a slow realization, but like a thunderclap cracking open his entire world.

Love wasn't the poison he had thought it was.

It wasn't pain and betrayal and hollow promises.

Love was Emilia.

It was in the way she looked at him, in the way she trusted him even after everything. It was in the way she held him now, as if she knew he needed it just as much as she did.

Love was this.

It was her.

It was them.

Jason cleared his throat. "Alright, lovebirds. We still have a psychotic stalker to deal with."

Emilia let out a soft, breathy laugh, and the sound sent something fierce and unyielding through Henry's chest.

They would get through this.

Together.

__________________________________________________

Roxanne adjusted the hem of her simple black AC/DC shirt, pairing it with a well-worn pair of distressed jeans. She ran a brush through her hair, excitement bubbling in her chest. It had been too long since she'd seen Emilia, and she was more than ready for a long-overdue best-friend lunch.

The resort was gorgeous, no doubt, but nothing beat quality time with Em.

Meanwhile, in Henry and Emilia's suite, things were finally calming down. Jason and Beau had discreetly left, taking the evidence with them. There was no need to tell Roxanne right away—no need to cause unnecessary panic.

Right now, all Emilia needed was a moment of normalcy.

And normal, at least for her, included her best friend and food.

A sharp knock on the door signaled Roxanne's arrival, and Emilia practically launched herself forward to open it.

"Rox!" Emilia breathed, instantly pulling her into a tight hug.

"Oh my God, Em!" Roxanne squealed, squeezing her back just as hard. "I missed your face!" She pulled away, grinning. "Okay, first things first—what's for lunch? And I swear, if you cooked, I'm calling the fire department preemptively."

Emilia's cheeks instantly flushed a deep red. "Uh—well—"

"She ordered room service."

The smooth baritone voice belonged to Henry.

Roxanne gasped, mock betrayal written all over her face. "You mean to tell me that I ran all the way out here and you didn't even attempt to burn down the kitchen for me? Wow, Em. Wow."

Emilia laughed nervously, glancing at Henry, who was clearly fighting back a grin.

"Yeah, well, I figured I'd spare us all today."

"Mhmm, sounds fake, but okay," Roxanne teased, before finally turning her attention to Henry.

And just like that—her playful demeanor shifted.

Her arms crossed, eyes narrowing with the kind of scrutiny that could strip paint off walls.

"And you. You're the infamous Henry Kingsley."

Henry, unfazed, leaned against the counter, arms folded. "That would be me."

Roxanne studied him like a scientist examining a suspicious bacterium.

"What do you want with my best friend?"

Emilia groaned. "Roxanne—"

"No, no, this is important, Em," Roxanne interrupted, waving her off. "This is the best friend inquisition. Standard procedure."

Henry tilted his head, feigning deep thought. "Well, originally, I just wanted to lure her in with my undeniable charm, make her fall madly in love with me, and then spend the rest of my life cooking her elaborate meals so she'd never leave."

Roxanne blinked.

"...Shit, that's a solid plan."

"I know, right?" Henry deadpanned. "I really thought it through."

Emilia buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God."

But Roxanne wasn't done.

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing even more.

"Alright, fine. But let's get down to business. What's your biggest red flag?"

Henry smirked. "I work too much."

Roxanne scoffed. "Please. That's not a red flag. That's LinkedIn propaganda. Try again."

Henry chuckled. "Fine. I tend to be... possessive."

Roxanne's head tilted slightly. Interesting.

"On a scale of 'I get a little jealous' to 'I would burn the city to the ground for her honor'—where are we landing?"

Henry met her stare without flinching.

"What's below arson but above keying someone's car?"

Roxanne pursed her lips. "Slashing tires?"

Henry nodded. "That feels right."

Roxanne hummed, as if considering. "Alright. Question two. Have you ever ghosted a girl?"

"No."

"Left someone on read for more than a day?"

"I have a job."

"Excuses. Fine—" she squinted, "—have you ever made a girl a playlist, or are you one of those 'real men don't curate music' types?"

Henry smirked. "I make playlists."

"What's the most recent one called?"

"'Songs Emilia Will Like But Won't Admit She Likes.'"

Roxanne paused.

Then grinned.

"Damn it. That's actually adorable."

Henry shrugged. "I have my moments."

Emilia, who had been silently suffering, finally threw her hands in the air.

"Can we please just eat before you two start plotting each other's downfall?"

Roxanne sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. But only because I'm starving."

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door—room service.

Emilia practically sprinted to answer, more than eager to move things along before Roxanne decided to interrogate Henry further.

As they settled in to eat, the atmosphere shifted into easy conversation, laughter flowing naturally between them. Emilia found herself smiling more than she had in hours, the weight of the earlier incident momentarily forgotten.

Henry, too, relaxed, though he never strayed too far from Emilia's side.

And Roxanne? She kept watching Henry like a hawk, throwing in a quip here and there.

But even she had to admit—

He might just be exactly what Emilia needed.

Even if she'd never say it out loud just yet.

___________________________________

The room was dark, save for the dim glow of a laptop screen casting eerie shadows across the walls. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk, condensation pooling at the base. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and something acrid—burnt plastic, maybe, from the cigarette that had been crushed out with more force than necessary.

And yet, none of it compared to the storm brewing inside.

A deep, ragged breath filled the silence. Then—

CRASH.

The whiskey glass shattered against the wall, amber liquid streaking down in slow, uneven trails.

She was still breathing.

Still fucking breathing.

Fingers curled, nails digging into the palms, deep enough to sting. The razor blades should have done their job. She should have been choking, gasping, bleeding out right there on that pristine hotel floor while Henry fucking Kingsley watched in horror. That was the plan. That was supposed to be the moment where the power shifted—where Emilia fell and never got back up.

But instead? Nothing.

That stupid cake had been cut up, divided. The blades—**the message—**diluted. Meaningless.

A sharp inhale, a violent exhale. The laptop screen flickered, casting distorted light over shaking hands. The news reports would trickle in soon—about a "disturbing incident" at the luxury resort. But no deaths. No tragedy. Just another failed attempt.

It wasn't just about Emilia anymore.

It was about control.

About making sure they knew who was pulling the strings.

The killer's breath came sharp and shallow now, fists slamming onto the desk. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Emilia wasn't supposed to be lucky. She wasn't supposed to have people. Henry, Jason, Beau—they weren't supposed to be there.

This had been meant to break her. To strip her of every ounce of safety, of certainty.

Instead, they rallied around her.

Instead, she laughed.

Laughter. Fucking laughter.

A raw, choked sound clawed up from their throat—half a laugh, half a scream. It hurt. The rage, the fury, the need to make this right.

Fingers twitched. Reached for the phone.

Time for a new plan.

No more warnings.

No more fucking games.

The next time Emilia Everett smiled—would be her last.

__________________________________________

Meanwhile, Chase sat in Henry's office, idly tapping his fingers on the desk. He had only stayed because curiosity gnawed at him—curiosity about Emilia. But as he checked his watch, he realized it had been over an hour and a half. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and dialed Henry's office.

"Kingsley Enterprises, this is Levi."Chase leaned back. "Yeah, I was hoping to reschedule with Mr. Kingsley. He just ran out the door on me."

Levi's response was immediate and clipped.

"We will call with a time, Mr. Blackwood. Mr. Kingsley had urgent family matters. Apologies."

Urgent family matters. The words twisted something sharp inside Chase. He had no right to be upset—this was his mess, after all. Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, he stood and grabbed his suitcase, deciding to check into a room.

He strode across the lobby like he owned the place, a single black duffel slung over his shoulder, dark eyes sweeping the area with casual interest. He wasn't here to relax. He wasn't here for business, either. Not in the traditional sense.

He was here because something was brewing.

He just didn't know what yet.

As he reached the front desk, a familiar voice greeted him—smooth, sultry, laced with the slightest edge of surprise.

"Well, well. Chase Blackwood. That's a face I didn't expect to see tonight."

Sabrina Rae.

Clad in a black silk dress that hugged her curves just right, she leaned against the counter with an effortless confidence only she could pull off. Her sharp green eyes flicked over him, calculating, as if trying to decide whether his appearance was coincidence or something more.

Chase smirked, setting his duffel down. "Sabrina." He nodded toward the concierge. "Checking in."

The young man behind the desk gave a polite nod and began processing his reservation, but Chase barely spared him a glance. His focus was on her.

Sabrina crossed her arms, one perfectly manicured brow arching. "What brings you to Emerald Bay? Don't tell me you're here for the spa."

Chase chuckled. "Not my thing, sweetheart."

Her lips twitched, but she masked it with a sip of her champagne. "Figures. So, what then? Work? Pleasure?"

Chase leaned against the counter, dropping his voice just enough to make her listen closer. "A little of both."

She studied him for a beat, then shook her head with a wry smile. "You're trouble."

"And yet, you love trouble."

Sabrina scoffed. "Debatable." She swirled the champagne in her glass. "Anyway, shouldn't you be groveling for a dinner invitation with someone else? Or have your standards finally risen?"

Chase grinned. "Actually, I was going to wish you a happy birthday."

Sabrina blinked. For the briefest second, something flickered across her face—genuine surprise. Then, just as quickly, she recovered, rolling her eyes. "Please, you don't keep track of birthdays."

"Yours, I do."

That shut her up.

Chase let the silence sit between them for a beat before continuing, "I was wondering if I could take you out for a birthday dinner tomorrow."

Sabrina gave him a slow, almost amused look. "You? Taking me out?"

"Don't sound so skeptical," Chase said smoothly. "I can be quite the gentleman when I want to be."

Sabrina took another sip of her drink, smirking against the rim of her glass. "Tempting, but no."

Chase wasn't deterred. As she turned to walk away, he reached out, catching her wrist gently but firmly. She glanced down, her eyes flashing, but before she could snap at him, Chase spoke.

"Wait."

Something in his tone made her pause. He wasn't flirting anymore.

She turned back to face him fully, her curiosity piqued. "What?"

Chase reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black thumb drive. He held it up between his fingers, letting it dangle just enough to catch the light.

"I need a favor," he said. "And I think you'll want in on this."

Sabrina's eyes flickered to the flash drive, then back to him. Her lips parted slightly, her mind already racing through possibilities.

This was different.

This wasn't Chase being cocky or charming or reckless.

This was Chase being serious.

And that was infinitely more dangerous.

Her fingers grazed the drive as she plucked it from his grasp, weighing it in her palm. She could feel the weight of whatever was inside it—whatever he had found.

"Alright, Blackwood," she murmured, tilting her head. "You have my attention."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good."

Because once she saw what was on that drive...

There was no turning back.

_____________________________________________

Hallie Rogers tapped her freshly manicured nails against the marble countertop, exhaling sharply as she pressed Scarlett Evans' name on her phone screen. The line rang once. Twice.

Then, a slow, measured answer. "Hallie. This is a surprise."

Hallie smirked, twirling a lock of her golden hair. "Just wanted to check in. I figured you'd be feeling pretty worthless now that Ryder's out of town. Must be tough, knowing you're nothing without him."

Scarlett let out a soft chuckle, the sound almost pitying. "You really called me just to say that? That's... sad, even for you."

Hallie's jaw clenched. "Oh, please. Let's not pretend Ryder didn't build you up. You were a nobody before him, and you'll be a nobody when he finally realizes where he truly belongs."

Scarlett sighed, unfazed. "You're exhausting, you know that? Always grasping for control, for some kind of relevance. But here's the thing, Hallie—Ryder isn't looking back. Not at you."

Hallie rolled her eyes, her fingers tightening around her phone. "You're delusional."

Scarlett's voice dropped, steady and certain. "Am I? Because he told me something. Something you're not going to like."

A flicker of unease passed through Hallie, but she masked it with a scoff. "Spit it out."

Scarlett didn't hesitate. "He said he regrets ever being with you. That if he could go back, he wouldn't waste a second."

The words sliced through Hallie like a blade, her pulse spiking. "You're lying."

Scarlett's smirk was almost audible. "Believe what you want."

And with that, the line clicked dead.

Hallie's breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she immediately called Ryder, her heart hammering against her ribs. The phone rang once, twice—then went to voicemail.

Then, a notification popped up on her screen.

A message from Chase's personal Instagram account. An Instagram reel.

With shaky fingers, she clicked on it. Her breath caught as Chase's face filled the screen, his expression grim yet resolute.

"I've made mistakes. Bad ones. I let myself be manipulated, and I hurt someone I care about for a person I thought was genuine. But I won't keep lying. The truth is—I am not the father of Hallie Rogers' baby. And I never was."

A pause. A deep breath.

"I let people believe something that wasn't true, and that's on me. But I need to set the record straight. I won't be part of this lie anymore."

The video ended, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake.

Hallie's stomach dropped. Her mind spun. The carefully controlled narrative she'd built—the leverage, the attention—was unraveling before her eyes.

For the first time in her life, Hallie Rogers was powerless.