CHAPTER EIGHT #2
The grand foyer of the Lockhart manor was a cavernous space of black-and-white checkered marble and towering crystal chandeliers. As Kennedy reached the bottom step, the front doors suddenly swung open.
The family butler, an older, distinguished man named Thomas, was walking backward, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Miss Winters, please, you cannot just barge in here—"
Olivia Winters marched into the foyer, pushing past the butler with a shocking, uncharacteristic physical aggression. She was practically vibrating with fury, her face flushed red, her blue eyes wide and manic.
She stopped dead in the center of the marble floor, her gaze locking onto Kennedy at the base of the stairs.
For a fraction of a second, Kennedy froze. The sight of Olivia—the woman she had so deeply, unintentionally wronged —sent a choking wave of guilt crashing over her. Kennedy’s instincts, battered and fragile, immediately demanded that she make amends.
"Olivia," Kennedy said softly, taking a hesitant step forward, her voice trembling. "I am so sorry. I need you to know how sorry I am for what—"
She never finished the sentence.
Olivia didn't hesitate. She closed the distance between them in three rapid strides, raised her right hand, and slapped Kennedy across the face with everything she had.
The sound of the impact echoed through the cavernous foyer like a gunshot.
The force of the blow violently snapped Kennedy’s head to the side. Olivia’s ring—a family heirloom her mother had given her—caught the edge of Kennedy’s high cheekbone, slicing the delicate skin wide open.
Kennedy stumbled backward, catching the banister to keep from falling. She raised a trembling hand to her face, her fingertips coming away smeared with bright, crimson blood.
"Kennedy!"
Spencer’s roar tore through the house. He had been walking out of the formal dining room, and he crossed the foyer in a blur of motion, positioning his large frame securely between his sister and Olivia.
He grabbed Kennedy’s shoulders, his blue eyes widening at the sight of the blood running down her cheek.
Olivia didn't back down. She stood her ground, pointing a shaking finger directly at Kennedy, her voice rising to a hysterical, venomous pitch.
"You criminal!" Olivia screamed, her chest heaving, the innocent, small-town girl replaced by a woman consumed by righteous fury. "You thought you could get away with it! You thought you could drug him and ruin my life, and no one would know!"
Spencer whipped his head around, staring at Olivia in shock.
Kennedy leaned against the banister, the sting of her cheek overshadowed by the catastrophic realization slamming into her chest. She knows.
Olivia wasn't accusing her of a kiss. She was accusing her of the drug.
There was only one way Olivia could possibly have come to that conclusion so confidently.
Grayson had told her.
Whatever small, fragile piece of Kennedy’s spirit had survived the week shattered into dust. It was one thing for Grayson to think the worst of her in the privacy of his own mind.
It was a different devastating betrayal to realize he had weaponized that suspicion, handing it to Olivia without a single shred of proof.
"I should call the police!" Olivia continued to scream, stepping around Spencer to glare at Kennedy. "You are a venomous, disgusting presence! You stood beside him all these years, pretending to be his friend, while secretly trying to destroy him just because he didn't want you!"
"That is enough!"
The voice boomed from the top of the stairs, vibrating with a cold, terrifying authority that made the crystal prisms in the chandelier tremble.
Margaret and John Lockhart descended the staircase side by side. They did not run. They moved with the lethal, predatory grace of royalty stepping onto a battlefield. John’s face was an unreadable mask of stone, while Margaret’s eyes burned with a maternal fury so deep it was blinding.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and seamlessly flanked Kennedy, forming an impenetrable wall of Lockhart power.
"I understand that you are upset, Miss Winters," John said, his voice deadly quiet, devoid of any warmth or hospitality. "But you have absolutely no right to enter my home and lay a hand on my daughter."
Olivia faltered, the sheer, imposing presence of the Lockhart patriarch finally penetrating her rage. "She drugged my boyfriend! She is a criminal!"
"She is my daughter," Margaret stepped forward, her aristocratic features terrifyingly calm, her gaze slicing into Olivia like a scalpel.
"And you are a trespasser who just committed assault.
If you do not turn around and walk out of my house this exact second, I will have my security physically remove you, and I will personally see to it that you are arrested and charged before the sun goes down. Leave."
The certainty in Margaret’s voice finally broke the spell of Olivia’s fury. She blinked, her breathing erratic, and looked past Margaret to where Kennedy stood.
For the first time, Olivia seemed to register the physical reality of what she had done. Kennedy wasn't fighting back. She wasn't sneering. She was perfectly silent, staring at the marble floor, a line of bright red blood dripping from her cheek down to the collar of her white silk blouse.
A sudden flash of genuine horror crossed Olivia’s face. She took a step backward, suddenly looking very small and out of her depth in the grand foyer. Without another word, she turned and practically fled through the open doors.
Thomas the butler immediately slammed the doors shut, locking the deadbolt with a resounding click.
The adrenaline that had kept Kennedy standing suddenly vanished.
The foyer tilted violently. The black-and-white marble tiles blurred into a chaotic smear of gray, and a high-pitched ringing filled her ears.
The emotional strain of the betrayal, combined with the physical shock of the blow, finally overwhelmed her fragile system.
"Spencer," Kennedy whispered, her knees buckling beneath her.
Spencer caught her before she hit the floor. He scooped her effortlessly into his arms as she lost consciousness, her head lolling limply against his chest.
"Call Dr. Aris," John ordered Thomas, his voice sharp with fear as he looked at his pale, bleeding daughter. "Tell him it’s an emergency."
***
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Aris was upstairs tending to Kennedy, and Spencer was marching across the sprawling, sunlit lawns toward the Ashford estate.
Spencer was furious. The anger was a hot, blinding white fire burning in his chest. He was furious at Olivia for striking his sister, but his rage was primarily reserved for Grayson.
Grayson had spoken Kennedy’s name. Grayson had lit the match that caused this explosion, acting recklessly and cowardly without a single shred of proof.
But as Spencer reached the stone boundary wall, his analytical mind brutally wrestled his emotions into submission.
He could not act on anger alone. Punching Grayson in the jaw might feel incredibly satisfying, but it wouldn't solve the core issue.
There was a predator in their circle, and until they found out who had actually brought that drug onto the property, Kennedy would never be safe from the accusations.
Spencer bypassed the front doors of the Ashford manor, walking around the side of the house and letting himself in through the staff entrance. He navigated the back corridors until he reached the estate’s security hub—a windowless, climate-controlled room lined with glowing monitors.
Ryder was sitting in a rolling chair, surrounded by empty coffee cups, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at a grid of black-and-white surveillance footage.
"Did you find anything?" Spencer demanded, slamming the door shut behind him.
Ryder jumped, spinning around in his chair. "Jesus, Spencer. Knock. And no, I haven't found anything yet. There were four hundred people here, and the caterers were moving like a swarm of bees."
Spencer walked over to the desk, planting his hands firmly on the edge, leaning over Ryder. "I am helping you."
Ryder scowled, his own frustration and exhaustion boiling over.
He stood up, squaring off with his best friend.
"No, you’re not. Spencer, what the hell is going on?
Why do you care this much? What aren't you telling me?
Everyone seems to know pieces of this story except me, and I am sick of operating in the dark, while my brother falls apart! "
Spencer looked at Ryder, the burden of the secrets pressing down on him. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to scream the truth at him. But he knew that if he told Ryder about Kennedy and Grayson in the study, it would derail the investigation.
"I can't tell you, Ryder," Spencer said, his voice hard, his blue eyes unyielding.
"I need proof before I accuse anyone of anything.
We are not making assumptions. Once we know exactly who handed him that glass, and exactly what happened on that floor, I will tell you everything.
I swear it on my life. But right now, you need my help. "
Ryder stared at him for a long, tense moment, searching Spencer’s face for any sign of deception. He found nothing but desperate determination.
Ryder let out a harsh breath, dragging a hand over his face. He stepped back, gesturing to the second rolling chair. "Fine. Sit down. We’ll start with the pavilion’s north corner camera. The timestamp is right around the time Grayson disappeared."
Spencer pulled the chair up, his eyes locking onto the glowing monitors, fiercely determined to drag the truth out of the shadows, no matter what it took.