Chapter Three #2
Kinsley turned her burning gaze back to Cruz. With a sharp, agonizing jerk that made Marcy sick to her stomach, Kinsley snatched her broken, rapidly swelling wrist out of his grip.
She didn't look back. She grabbed Marcy’s hand with her good one, her grip tight and unyielding.
"We're leaving," Kinsley said softly.
And they did. They walked out of the opulent hospital suite, leaving the roaring titans, the weeping heiress, and the shattered remnants of their past behind them. They didn't look back as the door swung shut.
In the far corner of the suite, half-hidden by the shadows and the towering floral arrangements, two men had remained silent throughout the entire violent ordeal.
Leon Lancaster, Kade’s younger brother, stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Beside him, Connor Tate, Cruz’s younger brother, leaned against the wall, a deep frown carving lines into his usually smooth forehead.
While the rest of the room rushed to comfort Gabriela, soothing her tears and cursing the orphans, Leon and Connor exchanged a long heavy look.
Leon had always been the quiet observer of the Lancaster family.
He remembered Marcy and Kinsley as children.
He remembered Marcy’s gentle, protective nature, the way she used to bandage his scraped knees when they played in the gardens.
He remembered Kinsley’s fierce, unwavering loyalty, the way she would throw her tiny body in front of anyone she loved to shield them from harm.
"That didn't make sense," Leon murmured, his voice so low only Connor could hear it.
Connor’s eyes were fixed on the door where the two women had vanished. "No. It didn't. They were terrified. But they were absolutely convinced."
"Gabriela said Marcy grabbed the wheel because she was jealous of her family," Leon noted, his sharp analytical mind chewing on the phrasing. "But Marcy never cared about the money. And she worshiped my mother. She wouldn't have risked killing the people she loved just out of spite."
Connor crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze shifting to Gabriela. The golden girl was currently sobbing delicately into a silk handkerchief, her eyes darting around the room to ensure everyone was properly focused on her trauma.
"Kinsley knew Cruz would hurt her if she touched Gabriela," Connor said quietly.
"She knew my brother’s temper. But she did it anyway.
She slapped the golden girl in a room full of wolves.
You don't do that if you're trying to cover up a lie.
You only do that if you are absolutely furiously outraged by an injustice. "
Leon’s jaw tightened. "We need to look into this, Connor. Quietly. If there is even a fraction of a percent chance that we’ve spent the last two years destroying the wrong person..."
"Then we are the biggest fools on the planet," Connor finished, a cold dread settling in his stomach. "Agreed. I'll pull the old police files. You get into the Monroe vehicle telemetry."
***
The emergency room of Ashford General was a chaotic blur of fluorescent lights, groaning patients, and the sharp scent of antiseptic.
Marcy paced the length of the small triage cubicle, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Her cheek was swollen, a vivid, angry purple bruise blossoming across her pale skin from Camille’s strike.
But she barely felt it. All her focus, all her terror, was directed at the petite woman sitting on the examination table.
"Oh God, Kins," Marcy breathed, her voice trembling as she looked at Kinsley’s arm. The wrist was a grotesque, swollen mass of dark purple and black, currently being secured into a temporary splint by a grim-faced ER doctor. "He broke it. He actually broke it. I am so sorry. I’m so, so sorry."
"Ms. Bennet," the doctor said, securing the final strap. "You have a hairline fracture of the radius, severe contusions, and torn ligaments. You are looking at a minimum of twelve weeks of immobility. You need to follow up with an orthopedic surgeon by Friday. Do you understand?"
"Twelve weeks. Got it. Thanks, Doc," Kinsley said cheerfully, not wincing once as the man manipulated her arm.
The doctor gave her a strange look, handed her a prescription for painkillers, and slipped out of the cubicle.
The moment the curtain swished shut, Marcy dropped her face into her hands, a sob finally tearing its way out of her chest. "We have to leave. We have to leave this city today. They are going to kill us, Kins. Kade looked like he wanted me dead, and Cruz..."
"Did you see her face, Marce?"
Marcy looked up, blinking through her tears. Kinsley was sitting on the examination table, her broken arm resting carefully on her lap, and she was... laughing.
It wasn't a hysterical laugh. It was a bright, genuine, deeply satisfied chuckle that brought a sparkle back to her large, chaotic eyes.
"What?" Marcy asked, bewildered.
"Gabriela's face," Kinsley grinned, a slightly feral edge to her smile. "When my hand connected with her cheek. Oh my god, she looked like a goldfish gasping for air. It was beautiful."
"Kinsley, your wrist is shattered!" Marcy cried, gesturing wildly at the bandage.
"Yeah, well," Kinsley shrugged with her good shoulder, looking down at the splint. "It hurts like a bitch; I'm not going to lie. But honestly? It was completely worth it. I would let him break the other one if it meant I got to slap her again."
A stunned silence fell over Marcy. She looked at her soul sister—this beautiful, messy, relentlessly brave woman who had literally taken the wrath of a billionaire titan to defend her honor. Slowly, impossibly, a smile broke through Marcy’s tears.
She walked forward and wrapped her arms around Kinsley’s waist, burying her face in the crook of her friend's neck. "You are a lunatic."
"I am fiercely protective of my assets," Kinsley corrected gently, resting her chin on Marcy’s head. "And you are my best asset, Marce. We're done here. They made their choice. Now, we make ours."
***
The following weeks were a bizarre, surreal juxtaposition of two different worlds existing within the same city.
In the opulent towers and sprawling estates of Ashford Heights, the Lancasters and the Monroes were in a state of euphoric celebration.
Gabriela’s recovery was nothing short of miraculous.
The media covered her physical therapy, her triumphant return to health, and the lavish preparations being made for her official homecoming gala.
But miles away, in a cozy three-bedroom house, a different kind of preparation was underway.
The dining room table was buried beneath a mountain of glossy travel brochures, printed maps, and Kinsley’s sleek silver laptop. The aroma of freshly brewed chamomile tea filled the warm air, mingling with the scent of the rain lashing against the windows.
Marcy sat at the table, a highlighter in hand, circling a small, coastal town in southern Italy. For the first time in over two years, the crushing, suffocating weight on her chest was gone. The tether had snapped, and in its place, a terrifying but exhilarating freedom had bloomed.
"What about Florence?" Marcy asked, tapping the end of the highlighter against the map. "You can work remotely from anywhere, and I could probably find a data consulting gig for an international firm."
Kinsley walked into the room, expertly balancing two mugs of tea with her one good hand. Her right arm was secured in a state-of-the-art fiberglass cast, slung carefully across her chest.
"Florence is too crowded," Kinsley said, setting the mugs down and nudging a brochure for the Scottish Highlands with her hip. "I’m thinking remote. Like, sheep-for-neighbors remote. A place where men in bespoke suits don't exist."