Chapter Twelve #2
"But what if they look at you the way they used to?
" Marcy continued, the words tumbling out in a desperate, protective rush.
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
"What if they hate you again? What if the board members, or the socialites, or Camille Monroe...
what if they look at you and call you those awful names?
Cruz and Kade promised us protection, Kins, I know they did.
But they promised to protect us before, and when it actually mattered...
when we were bleeding and begging them to listen... they didn't do a damn thing."
The words hung in the quiet, climate-controlled air of the SUV. It was the brutal, unvarnished truth. The foundation of their fear was not built on hypotheticals; it was built on historical precedent.
Kinsley felt a sharp pang in her chest, but she squeezed Marcy’s hands tighter, forcing a brave, resolute smile onto her face. She understood completely.
"Marcy, listen to me," Kinsley said, her voice steady and fierce.
"Do not worry about me. I can take care of myself now.
If anyone in this city looks at me sideways, I will verbally dismantle them, and I will enjoy doing it.
But... the rest of it? You're right." Kinsley looked back out the window at the looming Lancaster-Tate tower approaching in the distance.
"They didn't protect us when it counted. And it’s okay to be terrified that history is going to repeat itself. "
What the women did not realize, as the motorcade pulled into the subterranean, highly secure garage beneath the Lancaster-Tate tower, was that the internal communications system connecting the fleet of SUVs had been left open by the security detail.
In the vehicle directly behind them, the audio of their conversation had fed cleanly through the speakers.
Kade Lancaster and Cruz Tate sat in the backseat, completely paralyzed.
When it actually mattered, they didn't do a damn thing.
The words echoed in the quiet cabin, a devastating, fatal blow to the hearts of the two billionaires.
Kade buried his face in his hands, a physical sickness rolling through his stomach.
Cruz stared blankly at the leather seat in front of him, the truth of Marcy’s words shattering his carefully constructed confidence.
They could build all the trusts in the world, they could hire armies of security, but they could not erase the memory of the time they had stood by and watched the women they loved be destroyed.
The Lancaster-Tate executive penthouse was not merely an apartment; it was a sprawling, multi-level fortress of modern design, occupying the entire top floor of the tower. It boasted panoramic views of the city, infinity pools, and artwork that belonged in museums.
But for the next few hours, it felt like a beautifully decorated tomb.
Kinsley really did try to be brave. She tried to crack jokes about the pretentious abstract sculpture in the foyer.
She tried to tease Connor and Leon about the ridiculously excessive espresso machine in the kitchen.
But the differential, almost reverent treatment she was receiving from the penthouse staff—the quiet bows, the hushed tones, the immediate compliance to her every passing glance—was incredibly daunting. It felt unnatural.
Unable to reconcile the chaotic, barefoot girl from Pearlcove with the royalty they were treating her as, Kinsley simply retreated. The vibrant light extinguished, and she folded in on herself, sitting quietly on the edge of a velvet sofa, staring at the city skyline.
Marcy mirrored her retreat. The serene, grounding presence she usually possessed evaporated, leaving behind a quiet, highly guarded woman who jumped every time the elevator chimed.
They communicated in silent, loaded glances and hushed whispers when they thought no one was looking.
Leon Lancaster and Connor Tate stood near the expansive kitchen island, holding untouched cups of coffee, watching the women with surprise and growing concern.
"They look like ghosts," Leon murmured, his brow furrowed as he watched Marcy pull her cardigan tighter around her chest, completely ignoring the sweeping views of the city she used to love.
"This isn't them. In Pearlcove, they were vibrant.
Kinsley couldn't go five minutes without causing a scene, and Marcy...
Marcy was the anchor. They are completely shut down. "
Connor set his coffee cup down, a sigh escaping his lips. "It’s the environment, Leon. We brought them back to the scene of the crime."
Unable to watch the women retreat any further, Connor and Leon walked down the long, glass-walled hallway to the private study where Kade and Cruz had sequestered themselves.
The door was ajar. Kade was standing by the window, a glass of scotch untouched in his hand, while Cruz sat at the desk, staring blankly at the wall.
"You need to fix this," Connor said gently, stepping into the room. "They are miserable out there, Cruz. They are barely speaking above a whisper. They weren't like this on the coast."
Cruz looked up, his striking features drawn tight with helplessness. "I don't know how to fix it, Connor. The staff is treating them with the utmost respect. The security is flawless. We did exactly what we promised."
"It isn't the staff," Kade rasped, his voice raw and thick with despair. He turned away from the window, the image of Marcy’s panicked face burned into his retinas. "It’s the city. It’s us.
They don't trust the reverence, and they don't trust the protection, because they remember what happened the last time they were in this building.
We are frightening them, Leon. We are clueless as to how to make them feel safe in our world. "
Down the hall, in the sprawling master suite that had been prepared for them, Marcy and Kinsley sat side-by-side on the edge of a custom-made, silk-sheeted bed that felt too large.
The door was closed, sealing them off from the staff, the security, and the billionaires.
For a long moment, neither woman spoke. They just sat in the quiet, hyper-controlled climate of the penthouse, listening to the faint, muted hum of the city traffic far below.
Finally, Kinsley let out a short, breathy sound. It was half-laugh, half-sob.
Marcy turned her head, a matching exasperated smile touching her lips.
"We are not ready for this," Kinsley whispered, dropping her face into her hands.
"Marcy, I tried. I really tried to pretend I belonged here, but the butler just asked me if I preferred my water chilled to fifty or fifty-five degrees, and I almost had a panic attack.
This isn't us. The reverence, the royal treatment... it’s suffocating. "
Marcy let out a genuine, quiet laugh, the sound bubbling up through the anxiety. She leaned her head against Kinsley’s shoulder, the sheer absurdity of their situation washing over her.
"It was silly to hope we could just walk back into Ashford Heights and survive it," Marcy admitted, shaking her head. "We spent a year shedding the expectations of this city. Trying to put them back on... it feels like wearing armor that doesn't fit."
"We've been here exactly four hours," Kinsley pointed out, dropping her hands from her face, a chaotic, mischievous spark finally returning to her eyes. "Four hours, Marce. That has to be a new record for an existential crisis."
"Are we terrible people?" Marcy asked, though she was still smiling, a sense of relief washing over her as she realized they did not, in fact, have to stay.
"Absolutely," Kinsley grinned, standing up from the ridiculously expensive bed and walking over to their suitcases, which the staff had meticulously unpacked.
She grabbed a handful of clothes and began aggressively shoving them back into her duffel bag.
"We are the worst. We are ungrateful, terrified, flight risks. And I want to go home."
Marcy stood up, walking over to her own suitcase, the shadows completely lifting from her eyes. She felt a surge of affection for Kade, and a deep appreciation for the lengths he had gone to, but her peace of mind was sacred. Pearlcove was home.
"We should probably tell them we’re bolting," Marcy noted, highly amused as she watched Kinsley frantically pack a pair of combat boots.
"We’ll leave a very polite note," Kinsley countered, zipping her bag with a final, decisive tug.