Chapter 33 #2
I set my glass aside and head toward the stairs, desperate to disappear into the bedroom and bolt the door.
“Ma’am.” Whitaker’s voice cuts into my thoughts, his posture straight as a blade at the bottom of the steps.
I roll my eyes and jab a finger upstairs. “What is it, Jeeves? I’m going to lock myself in my room. Okay with you?” My words are sharp, acidic, the vodka finally loosening my tongue.
He inclines his head, but his jaw tightens. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go up there right now.”
My hand freezes on the banister. “Why? What am I going to find—a torture chamber waiting for me?”
Whitaker tips his chin toward the second floor, voice softening. “Please. He’s already in a bad mood. Best to return to the party.”
For the first time, I see it: the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. But what is he hiding? What does he know?
I consider his request before tossing it aside. “No. Not this time.”
I climb the stairs, half expecting a trapdoor to open and swallow me whole with every step.
And then I hear it. A man’s low laugh. A woman’s breathless giggle.
I round the corner and stop dead.
Vander. His jacket shoved open, tie skewed, pinning a woman against the wallpaper like she’s prey. Her leg hooked around his waist, his mouth devouring hers, his hand roaming up her thigh.
Of course he’s screwing some nameless woman in the hallway. He’s Vander Hale, don’t you know.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
He jerks back, eyes narrowing as he glances over his shoulder, red lipstick smeared across his jaw.
The woman smooths her hair, flushed.
Recognition slams into me. It’s the redhead from the store, the one he flirted with while I smashed dishware. “Unbelievable. How long have you been screwing her? I thought you only did one-night stands.”
The redhead falters. “I—I should just?—”
“Oh no, honey,” I snap. “Stay. By all means. But don’t fool yourself. He’ll grow tired of you soon enough. There’ll be a blonde. Or a brunette. Or maybe a blue-haired influencer if he’s feeling adventurous. But it won’t be you. Not for long.”
Vander’s smile turns lethal. He clenches and unclenches his fist once, a silent warning shot, like he’s already savoring the thought of shutting me up with it. “Control yourself, Reese. Behave.”
A fractured guffaw spews past my lips. “Behave? I’m just being a girl’s girl. Giving her insider information.”
His jaw hardens. “I mean it.”
The redhead lingers, uncertain, until he strokes her cheek—gentle, practiced, an echo of how he once touched me. “I’ll be right there. Let me deal with her.”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “Deal with me? Is that what this is now?”
He grips my arm, dragging me toward the hall. “Enough. You’ve had too much to drink. You’ll go back to your room and keep quiet.”
I wrench against his hold. “I don’t care who you’re screwing, Vander. You seem to actually like her. So fine—dump me. End it. Let’s both move on.”
His face hardens, voice dropping to a hiss. “That’s not how this works. And if you keep pissing me off, maybe I’ll pay a little visit to your precious Griffin. Or Pearl.” His smile twists, cruel. “And let’s not forget your family tree. Plenty of targets there.”
The blood freezes in my veins. “You swore. You swore if I came back out here, you’d leave them alone.”
He leans in, lips curling. “But I never actually agreed to your demand, did I?”
Something inside cracks wide open—every year of being a pleaser, every swallowed truth, every humiliation. Gone. Burned away.
I rip my arm from his grip, laughing like I’ve finally lost it. “You know what? I don’t feel much like being quiet tonight.”
I march back to the landing, plant myself at the top where the great room unfurls below, glittering with sequins and champagne flutes.
“Hey!” My voice rings through the room, sharp enough to shatter glass. Heads turn. Conversations die. “Since everyone’s been whispering anyway, let me save you the trouble. Yes, I slept with another man. But it wasn’t meaningless. I didn’t pay him. Didn’t use him. I fell in love with him.”
I swipe the tears from my cheeks, knowing full well this is my last stand. But I refuse to let these upscale freaks believe for one second that Griffin wasn’t everything to me.
“He is everything Vander will never be—kind, good, protective. He touched me and I finally knew what it meant to be wanted. To be cherished. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”
“And Vander?” My laugh rips through the silence, jagged and raw. “Don’t waste your pity. He’s been screwing other women for years. In fact,” I flick my gaze to the right, where the redhead still lingers, lipstick smeared. “he was just fucking her against the wallpaper.”
The room goes deathly still.
I grin, bitter and wild. “But that’s how you people do it here, isn’t it? Fuck in the shadows, pretend in the daylight.”
And then Vander’s hand clamps down on my arm, deceptively steady, his grip a noose tightening—reminding me that my outburst is nothing but a death sentence.
This is how I die.
Not in some hospital bed years from now. Not peacefully in my sleep. Here. Tonight. At the hands of the man who once swore he loved me.
And the worst part? They know. The laughter, the music—it’ll cover the sound of his fists and my bones breaking, but they’ll know.
Everyone knows what Vander does behind closed doors.
They’ll sip their champagne, pop another canapé, and pretend not to notice.
Because it’s easier to look away. Because I don’t matter.
No one will stop him. No one will miss me.
I cling to one thought, one image. Griffin. His face, his warmth, the way his arms felt around me. I try to hold it close, press it against the fear that claws at me.
Vander shoves me down the hallway, the laughter of the party fading behind us.
He doesn’t stop until the far wing, where the walls are thicker, the doors heavier.
He flings me into the library, and I hit the edge of a chair before collapsing onto the carpet.
My knee splits open, the hot sting of blood seeping through silk.
“Was it worth it?” His voice slices through me, sharp and merciless. “Was he worth it?”
I press Griffin’s face harder into my mind, as if memory alone could shield me.
“Answer me!” Vander’s roar rattles the shelves.
I push up, legs trembling, but he’s on me in an instant—fists in my hair, dragging me across the rug. My scalp burns, the fibers scraping raw against my skin. Then his shoe connects with my side.
The pain blooms hot and endless—my body already memorizing what it means to break for him.
I crumple against the bookcase, air punched from my lungs.
“Fucking answer me! Was he worth it?”
Blood runs warm down my lip, the copper tang sharp on my tongue. I lift my head, every breath jagged, every bone screaming, and meet his gaze.
“Every second with him,” I whisper, voice cracked but steady. “I’d do it all again. In a heartbeat.”
His eyes narrow, black with rage.
I push on, defiant. “I never loved you. But I will love Griffin until the day I die.”
His mouth twists in a cruel snarl. “That day is coming sooner than you think.”
I stutter out a laugh, wiping the blood from my lips. “Better than another day in this hell with you.”
His hand fists in my hair again, jerking my head back, and then—impact.
The world tilts. Books blur. Wood splinters. The sickening crack reverberates through my skull.
I taste blood. And then everything falls dark.
I didn’t realize there’d be so much pain in heaven.
“Reese. Wake up. Now.”
A crisp female voice slices through the haze. Fingers press against my shoulder, insistent.
My eyelids drag open, the room tilting like a ship at sea. Pain hammers my skull, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and something tacky crusts on my cheek. I touch it with trembling fingers. Blood.
“Wake up.” The voice insists.
I blink until her face sharpens into focus. Mrs. Hale. Vander’s mother. “Mrs. Hale? How are you here?”
“Whitaker called me.” She doesn’t glance back, but I see him at the door, calm and stoic, the picture-perfect steward. On her command, he stoops to haul me upright, my legs buckling, pain radiating through my ribs.
“It’s time to go. Now. We don’t have much time before he wakes,” Mrs. Hale says.
Terror seizes my chest as I stumble back a step. “No, I can’t leave. He’ll hurt people I love. He might hurt you.”
She slips her gloves on with slow, deliberate precision. “No. He won’t. My son is terrified of me.” The words are delivered without drama, without pride—just fact.
I sag against Whitaker, trembling. “He’ll keep tracking me. I’ll never be free.”
“You will if you leave. Now .” She reaches into her bag, slides out a checkbook. Her pen scratches with practiced precision, then she tears the slip free and presses it into my hand.
I stare at it, my fingers shaking. “What is this? Hush money?”
Her lips twitch with a ghost of disdain. “Call it what you want. It makes no difference to me.”
I crumple the check in my fist. “How many of these checks have you had to write?”
Her gaze hardens, but she doesn’t answer me.
“Why do you allow it?”
She steps closer, eyes like flint. “If he dares continue this little revenge tour, he’ll be cut from the will and left with nothing. I hold the keys to the kingdom, Reese. Trust me, he cares far more about his money than he does about you. You’re safe.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, throat burning.
Her gaze doesn’t soften. “I never approved of you. Not as a choice for Vander’s wife. But I cannot condone this. Besides, the Hale family is renowned for many things, but never cruelty.”
There it is—the real reason behind her assistance. Appearances.
She steps closer, her voice as cold as steel. “Now go. Stay far away. I’ll take care of all of this. I will handle my son.”
“But what if he tries to—” My voice splinters.
“He won’t do anything,” she hisses. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The certainty in her tone should reassure me. It doesn’t. Because men like Vander don’t stay handled forever.
Whitaker presses my bag into my arms. “The driver is waiting, ma’am.”
And all I can do is nod, let them steer me toward the door, and pray she’s right.
Whitaker’s grip is steady as he guides me down the hallway. My knee throbs, each step a fresh lance of fire.
Through the haze, I spot the security guards from last night posted by the doors. Their eyes track me, blank, unreadable. Not one moves to intervene. Not one lifts a hand to stop Whitaker.
That tells me everything I need to know.
Mrs. Hale stands above them.
Above Vander.
Whitaker shoulders open the side door and steers me toward a sleek black SUV idling at the curb. The night air bites my skin, but I’m too numb to shiver.
The driver steps forward and opens the back door. Whitaker helps me into the leather interior, his touch careful, as if sensing my pain.
My fingers tighten around his forearm, the fabric of his sleeve crisp beneath my hand. “You saved me,” I stutter.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, “I saved the Hale name. I protect the Hale legacy. That is my job.”
I study him through blurred vision, and the words he doesn’t say land heavier than the ones he does.
“You’re okay in my book, Jeeves,” I murmur.
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Thank you, ma’am. You as well. Take care of yourself.”
Then he shuts the door, the finality like a seal closing over the night.
The chauffeur slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirror, catching my gaze. “Ma’am, I’ve been instructed to take you home.”
I swallow against the copper taste in my mouth. “I think I need a hospital.”
He shakes his head once, as if that is not a possibility. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Strict orders. Home only.”
So much for medical assistance. “You know where it is.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I press my forehead to the cool glass, the city sliding past in a blur of lights. A whisper cuts through the fog of exhaustion: What if they’re not taking me home? What if this is the last ride I’ll ever take?
The thought dies almost as quickly as it forms. My body is too wrecked to hold on to fear. Darkness pulls me under before we leave the Hamptons.
When the SUV finally stops, a hand touches my shoulder. “Ma’am. We’re here.”
I blink awake to find my apartment building looming, quiet, ordinary, absurdly unchanged. Whitaker—or Mrs. Hale, I’ll never know—has made sure everything’s returned: my bag, my wallet, my keys. Everything but my phone.
Shit.
I’ll figure it out later.
Now, I just need to get inside.
It’s ironic. I kept this apartment when I left for Tangled Vines, certain I’d be back in a month or two. Turns out it’s my saving grace.
The driver steadies me to the front door, waits while I fumble beneath the mat for the spare key. My fingers shake so badly I drop it twice before I manage to shove it into the lock. The click sounds too loud, too final.
“Goodnight, ma’am,” the driver says. His voice is flat, impersonal.
The door shuts behind me, silence pressing in. I take two staggering steps inside my apartment before my knees buckle. My purse slips from my hand, the contents scattering across the floor.
I don’t bother to pick it up.
I collapse beside it, the cool hardwood against my cheek, and let the quiet swallow me whole.