Chapter 47
Chapter
Forty-Seven
LAUREN
T he sterile scent of antiseptic is what I’m sure pulled me from my sleep. I mumble something incomprehensible. My vision is blurred when it sharpens again, I see white walls, fluorescent lights, and a window framing a pale gray sky.
My heart stutters as fragments of memory flicker back: the dream of Hugh’s yellow car crashing, his lifeless eyes, the fire and flames devouring my cottage, Hugh’s arms dragging me out.
Anxiety spikes, and I try to sit up, my hands fumbling against the IV line taped to my arm, the needle’s pinch foreign and unfriendly.
His hands envelop mine, strong and warm, anchoring me, and I see the worry in his eyes, the same fear I feel, because I dreamed he was hurt, burned, gone.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my gaze darting over him, searching for wounds, my fingers tightening in his.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, his thumb brushing my knuckles, soothing, but his eyes are searching too, checking me. “What about you? How’re you feeling?” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge, a fear he’s holding back, and I swallow, my throat dry, my mind scrambling.
“I’m… okay,” I say, but I’m not, not really, because I’m confused, lost in the haze of what happened. “Why am I here?” My voice trembles, and I glance at the IV, the monitor beeping softly, its green lines steady but foreign.
Hugh’s hand squeezes mine, his eyes softening. “You passed out, probably from shock and stress. You were so exhausted, Lauren. The doctor gave you a sedative to help you sleep and recover your energy. You’ve been out for a few hours.”
I turn to the window, the harsh daylight, confirming his words. The memories of the fire come roaring back—the flames, the heat, the quilt smoldering. “What happened?” I ask, my voice small, afraid of the answer. “The cottage… how’s everything?”
He hesitates, his fingers stilling on mine, and says, “They’re taking care of it now.
Inspectors are at the house, figuring out what caused the fire.
They’ll let us know what caused it soon.
Everything will be resolved, don’t worry.
” There’s a crack, a vulnerability that I’ve never seen before, and I believe him.
I want to believe him, but the loss of the cottage is a knife in my heart.
And my loss is his gain. That’s something that can’t be ignored, but I won’t face it now. Not yet.
I look at him, really look. My eyes catch a small burn on his forearm, red and blistered, peeking from his rolled-up sleeve, and worry surges as my hand reaches for it, but he catches my fingers and holds them gently, stopping me from straining the IV.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “Just a small burn. The doctor says it’ll heal perfectly, no issue.” He smiles, trying to reassure me, but I see the fatigue in his eyes, the soot still clinging to his hair, and I know it could’ve been worse, so much worse.
“It could’ve been worse,” I echo, my voice breaking, and gratitude overwhelms me because he saved me, pulled me from the flames, risked his life for me.
“Thank you, Hugh,” I say, my eyes stinging, tears welling as I try to hold them back, try to stay strong, but the weight of my crushed dream presses down on me.
“Thank you so much for saving me.” My voice cracks, and I can’t stop the tears spilling, hot and silent, down my cheeks.
He leans in, his strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me close against his chest, his shirt rough with dried sweat and ash, his scent familiar, grounding. “No problem, no problem,” he mutters, his voice thick, his hands stroking my back, comforting and steady.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, Lauren.” His words are a vow.
I cling to him, sobbing softly, my tears soaking his shirt, my gratitude and fear tangling together, because he’s here, we’re alive, but everything else is gone.
The doctor enters, her white coat crisp. “Hi. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I reply, and her smile widens.
“That’s good.” She smiles. “I’m happy to announce that you’re stable and clear to leave whenever you’re ready.
You didn’t have any significant smoke inhalation, and right now what you need is rest and hydration.
” Her voice is calm, professional, but I barely hear her, because leaving means facing the cottage, the blackened ruins, the life I’d started to build, now ash.
My heart races, nervous, heartbroken, and I grip Hugh’s hand tighter, my eyes fixed on the window, avoiding the truth waiting outside.
We leave the hospital.
Hugh’s arm around me, his warmth a shield as we step into the chopper, the blades humming, lifting us back to the estate.
He sees my distress, the way my shoulders tense, and murmurs, “Don’t worry, Lauren, it’ll be fine.”
But his words feel hollow because nothing feels fine, not when my home is gone.
From the helicopter, I can’t help it—I look down.
And there it is, the cottage, its stone walls charred, huge swaths blackened, the roof collapsed, the windows gaping like wounds.
My heart breaks, a physical ache, and I cry silently, my hand pressed to the glass, tears streaming as Hugh’s hand rests on my shoulder, strong but helpless.
We land, and I walk to the cottage, my steps slow, the air still smelling of smoke, acrid and bitter.
Work vans are parked nearby, inspectors in hard hats poking through the debris, their voices low, their tools clinking against scorched wood.
Hugh walks over to Joseph, his estate manager, and Dustin, an electrician, their faces grim as they discuss wiring, construction errors, a spark that might’ve started it all.
I overhear “faulty circuit” and “rushed job,” and my stomach twists, wondering if the renovations, the ones Hugh pushed for, caused this, if someone made a mistake, if this was preventable.
I need someone to blame. I’m so upset my hands are trembling as I stare at the charred ruins.
The pink sofa that I fell in love with is a melted hunk of burnt husk and twisted metal.
Hugh steps closer, his hand brushing my arm. “Why don’t you go back to the manor. You need rest. I’ll handle things here.”
I’m reluctant to leave, but I nod.
His voice is gentle, his eyes earnest, but before I can respond, a voice calls my name, instantly familiar and unwelcome, and my heart sinks.
I turn and see Cecilia, her horse-faced features pinched with concern, her coat flapping as she strides over.
Hugh moves away then and gets back to conversing with the workers, not wanting to deal with her either.
My mood plummets even more. She is honestly the last person in the world that I want to see right now.
“Lauren, oh my God,” she wails dramatically, “we heard about the fire. I’m so, so sorry for what’s happened.” Her eyes dart to the cottage, then back to me, and I force a smile, my voice tight.
“It’s okay,” I say, lying to myself as much as her, trying to find strength. “I fixed it once, and I’ll do it again. It’s fine.” The words feel hollow, a lie to keep me from breaking.
Cecilia’s expression shifts, her lips pursing, her tone sharpening. “I warned you,” she says, her tone low.
I flinch, offended, my anger flaring. “What are you talking about?” I snap, my voice low, dangerous.
She steps closer, undeterred, her eyes glinting with something like triumph. “I told you about Hugh, about your land. It means a lot to him, Lauren, even if he has to destroy your house to get what he wants. I warned you he’d pull something like this.”
Her words hit like a slap, and my breath catches, because she’s expressing aloud the fear I’ve buried, the suspicion I didn’t want to face.
“Don’t you think it’s convenient?” she presses, her voice lowering, conspiratorial.
“This fire, after you refused to sell? I’m sure he must have tried to seduce and charm you into giving it up, but when that didn’t work…
maybe he resorted to this out of desperation.
” She gestures at the charred cottage, her words venomous, sinking into me, stirring doubt, anger, betrayal.
I’m reeling, my heart pounding, my eyes flicking to Hugh, who’s still talking to Joseph, unaware, his posture tense and focused. And then they turn and walk away, heading towards the manor. They are completely unaware of my dazed eyes watching them.
Cecilia leans in, her voice softer, “It’s best you keep your distance from him, Lauren. In the meantime, if you need a place to stay while you sort this out, I have a spare bedroom, and you’re welcome to it. Anytime.”
Her offer is kind and unexpected, but somehow it grates. Her presence, as ever, is an intrusion, and her accusations have poisoned the very air I breathe.
I want to scream, to tell her to shut up and fuck off, but I force myself to be calm.
My voice is unconsciously icy. “Thank you, Cecilia, but I’m not ready to talk about my affairs to anyone right now.
I need to be alone, to assess the damage.
Please.” My words are a clear dismissal, but she still hesitates, her eyes narrowing.
“Please,” I say again.
She nods. “I understand. You’re a dear girl, and it must be horrible for you to lose everything like this. My offer still stands.” Then she turns and leaves, leaving me with her cruel words lodged in my brain.
My feet are rooted to the spot as my eyes survey the scorched wreckage that was my beautiful home.
The damage is extensive, and I hear one of the men say that the repairs could cost as much as a new house, and my heart sinks, because I can’t afford this, not now, not ever.
I poured almost everything I had into buying new furniture.
The thought that I spent all my money on furniture now strikes me as asinine.
God, I must have been living in a dream.
The thought creeps in—if I can’t rebuild, I’ll have to sell the land, to Hugh, to anyone, and go back to Chicago, defeated.
Cecilia’s words gnaw at me. Her suspicions and accusations are taking root in the fertile soil of my disappointment.
The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
Did Hugh really do this to me? Did he push for the renovations, knowing they’d fail, knowing a fire could force my hand?
Did he seduce me, charm me, only to burn it all down when I wouldn’t yield? Is he really that devious?
The memory of his arms, his kisses, his promises, twists into something manipulative, calculated, and I’m furious by the way I have allowed myself to be hoodwinked.
I want to push the painful thoughts away, but I can’t.
Then it makes me wonder if once again I'm being a right bitch because of how caring he has been, how generous.
But what if it was all a ploy?
After all, I have to be honest with myself and acknowledge that my charms, whatever they are, surely can’t compare to his dream of acquiring land by hook or crook.
We fell asleep downstairs, why did he find me upstairs?
Did he take me upstairs so it would take longer for the fire to be discovered?
How come he was so wide awake when he woke me up?
And another thing. I remember his skin was not warm with sleep but cold and clammy, as if he had been outside.
Bit by bit, I begin to see the sense in Cecilia's shocking words, and it leaves me heartbroken, betrayed by the man I let in, the man I trusted.
I need some time to think. I need to be away from him and away from here so that I can consider my situation properly.
It is clear to me now that my proximity to him and intimacy with him has rendered me completely susceptible to him.
It has made me dull, unable to think or even see clearly because even now, when the evidence seems clear to me and makes sense, every fiber of my being is still at odds, trying to defend him and to deny the truth.
My hands clench, and my drying tears are replaced by a burning anger. I turn, my steps quick and purposeful, heading toward the manor. I’m going to confront him, to demand answers, to give him a piece of my mind, because if he did this, if he played me, I won’t let him win, not without a fight.