CHAPTER NINE #2
"Where is he, Ryder?" Spencer repeated, his voice echoing sharply off the marble walls, deaf to Ryder’s pleas.
"He’s in the east drawing room with my parents," Ryder admitted reluctantly, knowing there was absolutely no physical way he could stop Spencer Lockhart when he was in this kind of rage.
Spencer didn't say another word. He navigated the sprawling corridors of the Ashford estate with the familiarity of a man who had grown up inside them. He reached the gilded double doors of the east drawing room and shoved them open with enough force that they crashed against the walls.
Inside, the room was a picture of aristocratic tranquility.
Eleanor Ashford-Wale was seated on a plush silk sofa, a teacup resting in her hands, while Arthur stood by the towering windows, reading a financial newspaper.
Grayson was standing near the unlit fireplace, a glass of water in his hand, looking pale and exhausted.
All three heads snapped toward the door as Spencer stormed in, with Ryder rushing in right behind him, carrying the manila folder containing the security stills and the waiter’s written confession.
The moment Grayson saw Ryder’s face, he stepped forward, a desperate, haggard hope lighting his eyes. "Ryder. Did you find it? Did you find out who did it?"
Spencer didn't give Ryder a chance to speak. He crossed the room in long, predatory strides, snatched the manila folder from Ryder’s hand, and threw it violently onto the floor directly at Grayson’s feet.
The glossy security photos of Olivia’s family crushing the pills scattered across the antique Persian rug.
"Look at them," Spencer sneered, his voice vibrating with a hatred so strong, so intensely personal, that it made the air in the room drop by ten degrees. "There is your proof, Grayson. There is your grand conspiracy."
Grayson looked down at the photographs. He saw Linda, Beatrice, Chloe, and Brenna.
He saw the powder. He saw the money changing hands.
The breath left his lungs in a sharp, agonizing rush as the reality of the betrayal hit him.
It wasn't Kennedy. It had never been Kennedy.
It was the family of the woman he loved.
"Spencer, what is the meaning of this?" Arthur demanded, stepping forward, deeply alarmed by the sheer violence of Spencer’s entrance. Eleanor had already set her teacup down, her hand flying to her chest.
"The meaning, Arthur," Spencer said, never taking his furious eyes off Grayson, "is that your son is the most horrible kind of man to ever walk the earth."
"Spencer, enough," Ryder warned, stepping between them.
"No, it is not enough!" Spencer roared, the volume of his voice finally breaking free. He stepped around Ryder, getting inches from Grayson’s pale, stricken face.
"You grew up with her, Grayson. You knew her since she was in a crib.
She followed you around like a shadow. And when the worst happened, when you were both poisoned and stripped of your minds, your very first thought—your immediate instinct—was that Kennedy was a monster.
You looked at a woman who has loved you her entire life and you called her a rapist."
Eleanor let out a horrified gasp, covering her mouth with her hands. Arthur stood frozen, unable to comprehend the nightmare unfolding in his drawing room.
Grayson couldn't speak. He stared at Spencer, his eyes brimming with a catastrophic, suffocating guilt. He opened his mouth, but the apology died in his throat, inadequate for the magnitude of his sins.
"She was collateral damage," Spencer continued, his voice dropping back into a lethal, freezing whisper that cut deeper than any shout could have.
"She drank the glass meant for Olivia. She was innocent.
And you broke her. You took decades of history and you shattered it because you are a weak, blind, despicable coward. "
"Spencer, please," Grayson finally choked out, a tear escaping and tracking down his cheek. "I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know."
"I hope you choke on the truth, Grayson," Spencer said, stepping back, his face twisted in disgust. "I am sorry she ever knew you. And if you ever, for the rest of your miserable life, come anywhere near my sister again, I will put you in the ground. Stay the fuck away from Kennedy."
Without waiting for a response, without offering a single glance to Arthur or Eleanor, Spencer turned and walked out of the room, leaving the Ashford family standing in the deafening, shattered silence of their own ruin.
***
The silence inside the Lockhart estate was different. It was not the silence of a bomb going off; it was the clinical silence of a hospital ward.
In her expansive, dimly lit bedroom, Kennedy Lockhart lay perfectly still beneath the down comforter. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, keeping the afternoon sun at bay. She had been unconscious for twenty-four hours.
Dr. Aris stood by the side of the bed, adjusting the flow of an IV drip attached to the back of Kennedy’s pale, delicate hand.
Her breathing was shallow but steady. The right side of her face was marred by a stark white bandage, covering the jagged, ugly laceration where Olivia’s ring had split her skin open.
Margaret Lockhart sat in a velvet chair pulled directly up to the bedside.
She had not slept, nor had she changed out of the clothes she was wearing when Olivia had stormed into their foyer.
She held Kennedy’s free hand, her thumb tracing the fragile bones of her daughter’s wrist, her eyes red-rimmed and fiercely protective.
John stood behind Margaret, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders, serving as the immovable anchor for a family that felt as though it were being torn apart by the tides.
"Her vitals are stabilizing, Margaret," Dr. Aris murmured softly, packing his stethoscope back into his leather bag.
"The combination of the physical shock from the blow, the emotional trauma, and the lingering exhaustion from the chemical she ingested…
it simply overwhelmed her nervous system.
Her body forced a shutdown to protect itself.
She needs rest. When she wakes, she will be fragile. "
"She will be safe," John corrected, his voice a low, rumbling vow. "No one else is getting through those doors, Elias."
"I know, John," Dr. Aris nodded sympathetically. "I will be back to check on her in the morning. Call me the moment she opens her eyes."
As the doctor slipped quietly out of the bedroom, Margaret leaned forward, pressing a desperate, tender kiss to Kennedy’s knuckles. "Wake up, my darling," she whispered, a tear slipping free to land on the silk sheets. "Please, just wake up."
***
The following morning, the iron gates of the Lockhart estate rolled open, permitting a single black SUV to crawl up the long gravel driveway.