Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
JULIET
"Hey," I murmur as I return to him. I reach out, and when my hand finds his arm, my fingers curl around the sleeve of his jacket.
I feel the warmth of him through the wool, and he lets out a shaky breath, pulling me close without a word, his arms wrapping around me like I'm the only thing holding him together.
"She's going to be okay," I whisper against his chest, my voice soft, trying to believe it myself, but the guilt's there, gnawing at the edges, making my stomach knot. If Frances doesn't pull through, it's on me.
He nods, but I feel the tension in him, his heart thudding hard against my ear, and he doesn't let go, just holds me tighter, his chin resting on my head, the stubble rough against my hair.
We wait like that, minutes stretching into what feels like hours, the clock on the wall ticking too loudly, the occasional nurse passing by with quiet footsteps, until a doctor finally comes back.
He is tall, with wire-rimmed glasses and a white coat that's a little rumpled.
I stop breathing when he starts to speak, and only after he tells us that she is going to be fine, do I resume, my hand going to my chest.
He tells us that they've got her stabilized in a room on the second floor.
Relief floods Blake's face. Immediately, we hurry to her.
That furrow between his brows remains as we head up in the elevator, and I want more than anything to smoothen it out, to assure him, but I don't dare.
I have completely lost my confidence, especially now that I know it is only a matter of time before he finds out the truth and looks at me with disgust.
It is quiet in Frances's room. There is an adjustable bed with crisp white sheets, an IV stand dripping clear fluid, and monitors glowing with green lines tracking her heart, the faint beep-beep filling the air like a lifeline.
She looks pale and waxy against the pillows, silver hair tucked back, but her chest rises and falls steadily now.
Thank God, the oxygen mask is gone, just a nasal cannula whispering air into her nostrils.
Blake hurries to her and pulls up a chair right next to the bed, his hand covering hers gently, fingers tracing the veins on her knuckles like he's afraid she'll slip away if he looks elsewhere.
"Come on, Mom," he murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning forward, and I see the emotion cracking through him. The strong guy I know, but vulnerable now because of love. His eyes glisten as he watches her.
I hover by the door for a moment, hesitation gripping me because what if she wakes and sees me and thinks it was me who injected her, but then I decide to be brave and accept whatever consequences my actions have brought.
I move closer and place my hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly, feeling the muscle tense then relax under my touch.
"She's a Bessant. And Bessants are fighters. She’ll make it," I say quietly, bending to kiss his temple, my lips lingering, the salt of his skin on them.
He nods, covering my hand with his free one, holding on like I'm his anchor too.
Time drags. The window shows the dark Hamptons night outside. Eventually, though, Frances stirs. Her eyelids flutter, and a soft groan escapes her pale lips as she comes to. Blake's up in an instant, relief washing over him like a wave, his face lighting up, and his eyes wide.
"Mom? Hey, it's me," he says, voice breaking a little, leaning in closer.
She blinks at him, confusion in her eyes. "Blake... what... what happened? I—" she starts, her voice raspy.
He shushes her gently. "It’s okay, Mom. Don’t talk. You're okay now. You're in the hospital now, and everything is fine. Just rest. I'll go get the doctor."
He presses a kiss to her forehead, his love for her so real and genuine it tugs at my heart.
He glances at me, a small smile of happiness breaking through.
He's relieved, I can see it in the way his shoulders have relaxed.
He goes out to fetch the doctor, and the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with her.
My pulse spikes, and nervousness coils tight in my belly because now what?
Does she know? My hands fidget with the edge of my gown, and my palms feel sweaty.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Frances,” I say softly.
Frances turns her head slowly in my direction,; those sharp eyes are still a bit hazy, but they lock on mine.
She studies me for a long moment, the beeps filling the pause, tension building like a storm cloud.
And I feel my heart beating so loud she must be able to hear it.
I’m certain now that she thinks I tried to murder her.
"You’re not Carolyn. You didn’t do this to me, did you?" she asks finally.
I freeze, and shame floods hot through me. I feel my cheeks burning as I shake my head. I am unable to meet her gaze fully, so I stare at the floor instead, the linoleum scuffed from countless footsteps.
"No... God, no, Frances, I would never..." I whisper, the words tumbling out, hesitant, my voice cracking because how does she know? Has she always suspected?
She nods faintly, a small sigh escaping, and reaches out towards me. I rush to take it, her fingers are frail but gripping with surprising strength.
"Is she coming back?" she asks, her tone pitiful, almost pleading.
I nod slowly, the motion heavy, tears pricking my eyes because yeah, the real Carolyn is already circling like a shark, ready to reclaim it all.
"She is. My name is Juliet, and I’m just a barista, just someone she hired to impersonate her for three months," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of what I have done pressing down, making my chest tight. “How did you know it wasn’t me?”
Frances squeezes my hand then. “Because she hates me with a passion, and you don’t. I saw it in her eyes.” Her face softens, and a pitiful note creeps into her voice, breaking my heart. Strong, stern Frances looks vulnerable and broken. "We don’t want her back. We want you,” she whispers hoarsely.
I stare at her, shock rippling through me, warmth blooming despite the fear, because God, I want that too, this family, this life, but it's not mine, is it?
"Frances..." I start hesitantly, emotion choking me, but before I can say more, my phone buzzes, sharp and insistent.
I pull it out, the screen lighting up with an unknown number, but I know, gut-deep, it's her—the real Carolyn.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
I glance at Frances, her eyes are urging me on, and I answer, stepping toward the window, the cool glass fogging slightly from my breath.
"Hello?" I say, my voice low and tense.
"It's me," Carolyn hisses, her tone sharp and urgent. The background noise is faint—like she's in a car, with the windows open and wind is rushing by.
"We need to meet. Now. I'll pay you—double what we agreed, just give me my life back." She pauses, breathing heavily, and once again I am in shock.
“After what you did?”
“That’s not your concern, she says. “This is my family, not yours.”
I hesitate, glancing back at Frances, her face pale and sad. Blake is out there with the doctor, and it hits me—this is the perfect time to slip away. While everyone's focused here, the chaos will cover my exit, so I can think and get some answers. So I can fix this mess I’ve created.
“Fine," I say into the phone, my heart pounding. “Where?”
She rattles off an address, and I hang up, pocketing the phone, my mind racing. Frances watches me, a sad understanding in her eyes, and I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Her skin feels soft and papery.
"I'll be back," I lie softly, but we both know it's goodbye, the emotion thick between us. “Please don’t tell Blake.”
I slip out then, and the door shuts quietly behind me.
The hallway lights buzz overhead like persistent insects as I slip away from Frances's room.
My heels click too loudly on the linoleum, echoing down the quiet wing and making me cringe.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, tears smearing the mascara from the party.
The black gown hangs heavy now, clinging to my skin in the AC's chill.
I dodge the nurses' station and walk fast with my head down. Heartbroken doesn't touch it—the ache in my chest twists sharply. I am leaving the only family I've ever known. Freya's giggles, Blake's touch, Frances's acceptance—they all flash in my mind, but what choice do I have?
I push through the exit doors into the cold night air. My heels feel unsteady on the asphalt as I head toward the road. Leaving them was always on the cards, but God, it hurts like hell, far more than I could have imagined it would.