Chapter Six
The cumbersome fiberglass cast encasing Kinsley Bennet’s right arm had become a canvas of chaotic doodles, courtesy of a black Sharpie and her own restless left hand.
It had been several weeks since the violent incident in the hospital room, and the orthopedic surgeon had reported excellent calcification of the shattered bone. The wrist was healing beautifully.
But for Marcy Dane, "healing nicely" was not synonymous with "ready for an international relocation."
"I am perfectly capable of carrying a suitcase, Marce," Kinsley argued, leaning against the kitchen counter of their small home.
She punctuated her statement by waving a brightly colored spatula in the air with her good hand.
"We have the funds. We have the destination narrowed down to three coordinates.
We could be on a plane to the Mediterranean by Tuesday. "
Marcy sat at the small breakfast table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of herbal tea. The bruising on her cheek was gone now, leaving her skin pale and flawless, bathed in the soft morning sunlight. She looked up at her soul sister, a gentle, unwavering amusement dancing in her eyes.
"You can barely open a jar of preserves without threatening it with physical violence, Kins," Marcy pointed out mildly, taking a slow sip of her tea.
"And the doctor was very explicit. If you jostle the radial bone while hauling luggage across a cobblestone street in Italy, you could require surgical pinning.
We are not risking your arm just because you have cabin fever. "
"I don't have cabin fever. I have city-fever. I want out of Ashford Heights," Kinsley grumbled, though the fierce, protective edge in her voice lacked its usual bite. She sighed, tossing the spatula into the sink with a clatter. "How long?"
"Three more weeks," Marcy said firmly, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "Until the cast comes off and you are cleared for physical therapy. It’s fine that it’s postponed, Kinsley.
It gives us time to actually breathe. We don't have to run away in the middle of the night like fugitives.
We can tie up all our loose ends properly. "
Kinsley narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed by the undeniable logic of the statement, but the tension quickly drained from her shoulders. She walked over to the table and dropped into the chair opposite Marcy, letting out a long, dramatic groan.
"Fine. Three weeks," Kinsley conceded, resting her chin on her good hand. "But I reserve the right to complain about the humidity every single day until we leave."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," Marcy smiled, the warmth in her chest blossoming.
It was a simple, mundane interaction, but it felt like a miracle.
For the first time in years, they were just two young women arguing over travel plans, completely untethered from the oppressive shadows of the legacy families.
Miles away, cloaked in the sprawling, gothic opulence of the Tate estate, the shadows were very much alive.
The library of the Tate manor was a cavernous room of dark mahogany, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the scent of aged leather and expensive scotch.
The four men gathered around the antique desk did not look like the untouchable titans of industry who graced the covers of financial magazines.
They looked like ghosts haunting their own lives.
Cruz Tate sat in a high-backed leather chair, his elbows resting on the desk, his hands clasped tightly over his mouth.
Kade Lancaster stood by the unlit fireplace, staring blankly at the cold hearth.
Connor and Leon were seated on a nearby chesterfield sofa, their eyes fixed on the small, glowing blue audio receiver sitting in the center of the desk.
The silent vigil had become an agonizing, addictive torture.
Over the speaker, the soft, domestic sounds of Marcy and Kinsley’s kitchen filled the quiet library.
"I'm just saying, if we have to wait three weeks, I am ordering more of that ridiculous artisanal cheese you like," Kinsley’s voice crackled slightly over the feed.
"Order as much as you want," Marcy’s voice replied, light and musical. "We have the time."
In the library, Kade closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone mantle. She sounded so effortlessly happy. It was a happiness he had violently stolen from her for two years, a happiness she had only recovered the exact second she had walked away from him.
The conversation over the receiver shifted, the light banter fading into something slower, more reflective.
"I was thinking about the Monroe estate today," Marcy’s voice drifted through the speaker, the sudden change in topic causing every man in the library to instantly stiffen. "I was thinking about Maria, the head housekeeper. And the kitchen staff."
"Oh, they are undoubtedly living in terror right now," Kinsley snorted, a dark, cynical edge entering her tone. "Without you there to play the human shield, Gabriela is probably throwing fine china at their heads. I bet she’s already fired three maids this week."
At the desk, Cruz lowered his hands. His brow furrowed in deep confusion. He looked at Kade, who mirrored the exact same bewildered expression.
"It wasn't always like that," Marcy said softly, her voice laden with retrospective sadness. "She used to be sweet when we were kids. But the older we got... the more she demanded. The cruelty just became second nature to her."
"She was a nightmare, Marce," Kinsley corrected flatly. "She was always a nightmare. You were just too kind to see it most of the time. She couldn't stand it when you got a higher grade than her, or when Kade paid attention to you instead of her. She was a viper wrapped in designer silk."
"I know," Marcy breathed, the sound of her shifting in her chair transmitting through the wire.
"But what haunts me, Kins... what I can't forgive myself for...
is that I subject you to it. I always tried to protect you, but I brought you around her.
I let her whisper those awful things to you.
I let her belittle you when the boys weren't looking.
I should have pulled you away from her years ago.
I exposed you to her venom because I was too blind, too desperate to hold onto the illusion of our little family. "
"Marcy, stop it," Kinsley said fiercely, the scrape of her chair echoing as she presumably reached across the table.
"You protected me from everything. Gabriela’s insults meant absolutely nothing to me because she meant nothing to me.
She was just an annoying mosquito. You were my shield. You have nothing to apologize for."
In the dim light of the Tate library, the silence was deafening.
The audio feed continued, the women moving on to mundane topics of packing supplies, but the words they had just spoken hung in the air like a thick, choking smoke.
Cruz Tate felt a physical sickness roll through his stomach, a nausea so intense he had to grip the edge of the mahogany desk to keep the room from spinning.
Gabriela hadn't just been cruel in the car that night.
The venom, the viciousness, the sheer, manipulative malice—it hadn't been a momentary lapse in judgment. It was who she had always been. And Marcy had spent her entire adolescence acting as a human shield, absorbing Gabriela’s toxic temper to protect the staff, to protect Kinsley, and to preserve the flawless illusion for Kade and Cruz.
They had worshipped a monster. And they had crucified a saint.
"We were completely blind," Leon whispered from the sofa, his voice breaking the silence. He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers digging into his hair. "All those years. They grew up right in front of us, and we didn't see a single damn thing."
"We saw what Gabriela wanted us to see," Connor said, his voice hollow and steeped in disgust. "And we were arrogant enough to believe we knew everything."
Kade Lancaster pushed himself off the stone mantle. He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire world burn to the ground by his own hand.
"We can't just sit here," Kade said. His voice was rough, fractured by a desperation that clawed at his throat.
He looked at Cruz, his eyes burning with a fierce, agonizing need.
"We can't just sit in the dark and listen to them live.
I don't care if she throws the apology back in my face.
I don't care if she screams at me. I have to look her in the eyes and tell her I know. "
Cruz slowly stood up from the leather chair. The cold, calculating billionaire who had ruled Ashford Heights with an iron fist was completely gone. In his place was a man stripped bare, drowning in a remorse so intense, it felt fatal.
"Tomorrow," Cruz said, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. He looked down at his right hand, his jaw tightening until the muscles feathered. "We go tomorrow. Before the three weeks are up. Before they disappear."
***
The morning air in Ashford Heights was crisp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of impending autumn. The leaves on the trees lining the sidewalks were just beginning to turn to shades of burnt orange and gold.
Kinsley Bennet walked down the quiet, tree-lined street toward the small corner café that had become her daily sanctuary.
She was dressed comfortably in an oversized knit sweater that swallowed her left hand, her right arm secured safely in its dark blue sling.
She hummed a quiet tune under her breath, her chaotic curls bouncing slightly with her uneven, energetic stride.
She reached the corner, her eyes on the small, wrought-iron tables set up outside the café.
And then, she stopped.
Standing beneath the green awning of the café, looking out of place amidst the quaint, neighborhood charm, was Cruz Tate.