CHAPTER SIX
The paneled double doors of the Lockhart estate’s morning room were shut tight, sealing the space off from the rest of the sprawling manor.
Inside, the atmosphere was sterile, tense, and unnervingly quiet.
The morning sun streamed through the towering mullioned windows, casting long, geometric shadows across the priceless Persian rug, but the light did nothing to warm the chill that had settled into the bones of the family.
Dr. Elias Aris, a discreet, silver-haired physician who had attended to the Lockharts’ medical needs for three decades, stood beside a velvet chaise lounge.
He moved with practiced, quiet efficiency, his weathered hands snapping a pair of blue latex gloves into place.
The sharp, clinical scent of rubbing alcohol cut through the ambient fragrance of fresh lilies and polished wood.
Kennedy sat rigidly on the edge of the chaise.
She had changed into a simple, high-necked cashmere sweater and trousers, but her posture was that of a woman bracing for an execution.
Her face was devoid of color, her hazel eyes fixed blankly on a point just above the marble fireplace.
She did not flinch as Dr. Aris tightened the rubber tourniquet around her bicep.
Margaret Lockhart sat on a straight-backed chair beside her daughter, her aristocratic features set into a mask of rigid composure. She held Kennedy’s free hand, her thumb stroking her daughter’s knuckles in a rhythmic, grounding motion.
"You’ll feel a small pinch, Kennedy," Dr. Aris murmured softly.
Kennedy didn't blink. She barely seemed to register the needle piercing her vein. As the red blood began to fill the first plastic vial, the room remained silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner.
Spencer stood by the window, his broad shoulders blocking out a portion of the sunlight.
He watched the blood draw with narrowed, analytical eyes.
His jaw was locked tight. He had spent the last two hours piecing together the fractured, devastating confession his sister had given them.
If Kennedy had been drugged, and Grayson had exhibited the exact same symptoms at the exact same time, there was only one logical conclusion: they had both ingested a chemical agent at the anniversary party.
"I want a comprehensive toxicology panel, Elias," John Lockhart said from the doorway, his deep voice leaving no room for debate.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the formidable titan of industry he was.
"Test for everything. Sedatives, stimulants, hallucinogens, aphrodisiacs. I want to know exactly what was introduced into my daughter’s system. "
Dr. Aris swapped the full vial for an empty one, his expression neutral. "I will have the samples sent to the private lab in Boston immediately, John. We should have the preliminary results expedited within twenty-four hours."
"See that you do," Margaret added smoothly, her eyes never leaving Kennedy’s pale face. "And I trust this remains confidential?"
"Of course, Margaret. As always," Dr. Aris assured her, pressing a cotton ball to Kennedy’s arm and slipping a small bandage over the site. He began packing his instruments back into his leather bag.
Spencer turned away from the window, his mind already moving three steps ahead.
The Lockharts were securing their proof, but Kennedy’s blood was only half of the equation.
If they were going to understand the full scope of what had happened, they needed to know if Grayson’s toxicology matched.
But Spencer also knew that Grayson, in his current state of blind, accusatory fury, would never accept help from a Lockhart.
If Spencer called him directly, Grayson would likely hang up the phone.
He needed a proxy. He needed someone who had unlimited access to Grayson, someone who could push him in the right direction without raising suspicions.
"I need to make a phone call," Spencer announced softly, stepping away from the glass.
John nodded once. "Keep it brief. We need to discuss how we are going to handle the Ashford side of this."
Spencer slipped out of the morning room, walking down the long, portrait-lined corridor until he reached his father’s private study. He shut the door, walked over to the mahogany desk, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He stared at the contact name for a long moment before pressing call.
The line rang twice before the connection clicked open.
"Spencer," Ryder Ashford-Wale’s voice came through the speaker, carrying the faint, chaotic background noise of caterers breaking down the glass pavilion next door. "Tell me you’re calling with an explanation for why my brother looks like he’s ready to walk into the ocean and not come back."
Spencer exhaled a tight breath, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk.
He and Ryder had been thick as thieves since they were seven years old.
They had survived boarding school, college, and the suffocating weight of their respective family legacies together.
There were very few secrets between them, but this was a delicate, volatile bomb that Spencer could not fully detonate yet.
"I don't have an explanation for you, Ryder. Not a complete one, anyway," Spencer said, keeping his voice low and deliberately measured. "But I need you to do something for me, and I need you to do it right now, without asking me why."
The background noise on the other end of the line faded as Ryder evidently moved away from the outdoor crew and stepped into a quieter part of the Ashford estate.
The casual banter vanished from his tone, replaced by immediate, sharpened caution.
"What happened last night, Spence? Grayson is barely functioning. He won't tell me anything."
"I know he won't. And I can't either. Not yet," Spencer replied, running a hand through his blond hair. "But listen to me carefully. Something happened last night. There is a very strong possibility that Grayson was drugged."
A stunned silence stretched over the line.
"Drugged?" Ryder repeated, the word sounding foreign and absurd on his tongue. "Are you insane? We were at our parents' anniversary party. It was a closed guest list. Who the hell would drug Grayson?"
"I don't know," Spencer replied. "But I need you to get him tested. You need to call your family physician and have Grayson’s blood drawn immediately. The longer you wait, the faster whatever it was metabolizes out of his system."
"Spencer, if someone drugged my brother, I need to know exactly what you know," Ryder demanded, his protective instincts flaring into outright anger. "Why are you the one calling me about this? Was Kennedy involved? Did she see something?"
"Ryder, stop," Spencer cut in, his voice firm, utilizing the unshakeable bond of their decades-long friendship.
"You have to trust me. I swear to you, I will explain everything when the time is right, but right now, you have to operate blindly.
Get his blood drawn. And you cannot, under any circumstances, tell him that this request came from me.
You cannot mention my name, and you cannot mention my family. If he asks, the idea was yours."
Ryder let out a frustrated, jagged breath.
He hated operating blind, especially when it concerned his brother’s safety.
But he knew Spencer Lockhart better than he knew almost anyone else in the world.
Spencer wasn't prone to dramatics. He didn't manufacture panic.
If Spencer was asking him to do this, and asking him to keep it a secret, the situation was infinitely more dangerous than it appeared.
"Fine," Ryder finally ground out, the reluctance clear in his voice. "I won't mention you. I’ll go find him right now. But Spencer? You owe me the truth. Soon."
"You’ll have it," Spencer promised softly. "Just get it done."
Spencer ended the call, staring down at the darkened screen of his phone, praying that Ryder could navigate the minefield of his brother’s psyche.
***
On the other side of the stone wall, the Ashford-Wale estate was a hive of controlled activity. Fleets of white catering vans were parked along the sweeping gravel driveway, and crews of workers were efficiently dismantling the fairy lights and the glass conservatory.
Ryder ignored all of it. He pocketed his phone and moved purposefully through the ground floor of the limestone manor, bypassing the kitchens and the formal sitting rooms. He finally found Grayson where he had expected him to be: hiding in plain sight.
Grayson was sitting in the corner of the vast, two-story library, a room lined floor-to-ceiling with thousands of antique volumes.
He was seated in a leather wingback chair, an untouched cup of black coffee resting on the small table beside him.
He was dressed in casual slacks and a sweater, but the clothing could not hide the devastating toll the night had taken on him.
He looked shattered. His hair was slightly unkempt, his jaw unshaven. He was staring at the unlit fireplace, his eyes hollow, and consumed by a guilt so intense, it seemed to physically weigh him down.
Ryder paused in the doorway, his chest tightening.
Grayson was the pillar of the Ashford family.
He was the stoic, unshakable CEO, the man who commanded boardrooms and navigated billion-dollar acquisitions without breaking a sweat.
To see him reduced to this hollow, haunted shell was deeply unsettling.
Ryder schooled his features into a mask of casual concern and stepped into the room.
"You look like you went ten rounds with a freight train," Ryder observed quietly, walking over and taking a seat in the armchair opposite his brother.
Grayson didn't jump. He barely blinked. He slowly dragged his gaze away from the empty hearth and looked at Ryder. "I have a headache. I’m just trying to get some quiet."