CHAPTER SIX #2
"You had a headache two hours ago," Ryder countered gently, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Grayson, look at me. You are out of sorts. What the hell actually happened last night? You vanished halfway through the reception."
Grayson swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he fought the sickening wave of memories threatening to drown him.
He couldn't tell Ryder the truth. He couldn't form the words to describe the brutal, desperate things he had done in the study.
He couldn't vocalize the betrayal he felt toward Kennedy, nor the crushing, irredeemable guilt he felt toward the woman he loved.
"Olivia," Grayson said suddenly, his voice raspy and desperate. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Did she get home? You made sure she got back to her hotel safely?"
Ryder nodded, his brow furrowing at the sheer panic in his brother’s eyes. "Yes. Her mother said they were tired, and they wanted to leave early. The driver took them back to the coastal rental they booked in Newport. Everyone is fine. Olivia is fine."
A shuddering breath escaped Grayson’s lips, and he fell back against the leather chair, closing his eyes. She is fine. She doesn't know. The relief was immediate, but it was quickly swallowed by the acidic burn of his own deceit.
"Good," Grayson whispered. "That’s good."
"Grayson," Ryder pushed, keeping his tone calm but persistent. "Stop deflecting. You didn't vanish because of a headache. You’re sitting here shaking. Talk to me."
Grayson opened his eyes. He looked at his younger brother, the exhaustion finally overriding his need to maintain control. He wouldn't tell him about Kennedy. He couldn't. But he needed someone to know the foundation of his madness.
"I think someone slipped something into my drink," Grayson admitted, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
The confession seemed to drain the last of his energy.
"A waiter handed me a scotch. About ten minutes later, I couldn't see straight.
My chest was on fire. I couldn't control my own body, Ryder.
I came inside to find somewhere to ride it out, and I…
" He cut himself off, his throat working convulsively. "It was bad. It was really bad."
Ryder felt a cold chill run down his spine. Spencer had been telling the truth.
"Are you sure?" Ryder asked, carefully masking the fact that he already suspected as much. "Grayson, that’s a bold accusation. Who would drug you?"
"I don't know," Grayson lied, the image of Kennedy’s tear-stained face flashing behind his eyes, fueling his anger and his shame. "But I felt it. I know my own body. I wasn't in my right mind."
Ryder leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, playing his part perfectly. "Well, if you truly believe that, we shouldn't just sit here guessing. You need proof."
Grayson frowned, looking at him in confusion. "Proof?"
"Yeah. Proof," Ryder said smoothly. "If someone actually managed to drug the CEO of Ashford Enterprises at his own parents' anniversary party, that’s a security breach, for one. And for another, you need to know what was in your system. We should get your blood tested. Right now."
Grayson hesitated. The thought of bringing a doctor into this nightmare, of creating a medical record of his fractured state felt dangerous.
But the analytical part of his brain—the part that demanded data and control—recognized the logic in Ryder’s suggestion.
If he had proof that a drug was in his system, it would validate his fury toward Kennedy.
It would prove that he hadn't just lost his mind.
"Fine," Grayson said, his voice hollow and defeated. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Call Dr. Vance. Tell him to be discreet."
"I’ll handle it," Ryder promised, standing up immediately, relieved that he hadn't had to push harder. "Just stay here. I’ll make the call."
As Ryder walked out of the library, Grayson turned his gaze back to the empty fireplace, drowning once more in the agonizing silence of his own mind.
***
Fifteen miles down the coast, in a picturesque, cedar-shingled rental cottage overlooking the Newport cliffs, the atmosphere was devoid of the polished, aristocratic restraint found in the estates.
Instead, it was vibrating with a chaotic, suffocating panic.
Olivia Winters stood in the small, sunlit kitchen, wearing a comfortable pair of denim shorts and a white t-shirt.
She was humming softly as she poured boiling water into a ceramic teapot.
She looked peaceful, oblivious to the radioactive tension radiating from the four women sitting around the distressed-wood dining table behind her.
Linda Winters sat with her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white.
Beside her, Aunt Beatrice was aggressively shredding a paper napkin into microscopic confetti.
Aunt Brenna was staring blankly at the wall, her jaw clenched, while Chloe nervously tapped her foot against the hardwood floor.
They had not slept. They had spent the entire night pacing the floors of the cottage, terrified of every passing car, waiting for the police to arrive, or for Grayson to call and unleash his wrath upon them. But the morning had come, the sun had risen, and the phone had remained silent.
"I still don't understand why we had to run out of there like the place was on fire," Olivia said casually, carrying the teapot and two mugs over to the table.
She set them down in the center, looking at her mother with mild, innocent confusion.
"I mean, Grayson told me to wait for him.
He just went to get some air. We didn't even say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Ashford-Wale. "
Linda jumped slightly at the sound of her daughter’s voice. She forced a stiff, agonizingly fake smile onto her face. "We didn't run, sweetie. We just… we made a tactical retreat."