CHAPTER ELEVEN
The suffocating weight of the Ashford-Wale manor felt unbearable to Grayson.
He stood before the towering, mullioned windows of his bedroom, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers, staring out across the sweeping expanse of manicured lawn that separated his family’s estate from the Lockharts.
’ The summer sun was relentlessly bright, casting a golden, idyllic glow over the Rhode Island coastline, but Grayson felt as though he were standing in the dead of winter.
For days, he had been paralyzed by an agony so intense, it felt physical.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Kennedy sitting on the floor of his father’s study, clutching a blanket to her chest, her face shattered by his accusations.
And worse, he saw the blood running down her cheek from Olivia’s ring—a violent, physical manifestation of the weapon Grayson himself had handed to a woman who had no business wielding it.
Part of him, a desperate, frantic instinct, screamed at him to run across the grass.
He wanted to cross the property line, force his way through the Lockhart manor's doors, and fall to his knees beside her bed.
He wanted to see her breathe. He wanted to beg for a forgiveness he knew he had no right to ask for.
But his feet remained anchored to the hardwood floor.
Spencer’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and lethal: If you ever come anywhere near my sister again, I will put you in the ground.
It wasn't the threat of physical violence that stopped Grayson. In truth, Grayson almost wished Spencer would track him down and break his jaw. The physical pain would be a welcome distraction from the agonizing, acidic burn of his own conscience. What truly kept him paralyzed was the soul-crushing shame. He had caused enough damage. His presence, his voice, his mere existence in Kennedy’s orbit was toxic.
He wanted to do something—anything—to fix the wreckage he had created, but the horrifying reality was that there was absolutely nothing he could do.
The mahogany door of his bedroom clicked open.
Grayson turned slowly, the movement stiff and exhausted. His father, Arthur, stood in the doorway, dressed in a muted charcoal suit. Beside him stood Eleanor, wearing a simple navy dress, her face pale and drawn with a sorrow that mirrored Grayson’s own.
"We are going over," Arthur said quietly, his booming voice subdued, stripped of its usual commanding resonance. "We are going to the Lockhart estate to see how she is."
Grayson swallowed the thick, dry lump in his throat. He took a step forward, his eyes desperate. "Tell them... tell them I..." He trailed off, his voice cracking. There were no words in the English language enough to convey his remorse. "Just ask how she is."
Eleanor looked at her eldest son, her heart breaking for the hollowed-out shell of the man standing before her. She nodded slowly, stepping forward to gently touch his arm. "We will ask, Grayson. We will bring you word."
***
The walk across the dividing lawns felt like a funeral procession to Arthur and Eleanor. For thirty years, the path between the two estates had been worn down by running children, impromptu summer barbecues, and shared holiday celebrations. Now, it felt like crossing a heavily fortified border.
When they reached the grand portico of the Lockhart manor, they didn't simply walk in as they had done a thousand times before. Arthur rang the brass bell.
A moment later, Thomas the butler opened the door, his expression solemn. He ushered them into the grand foyer—the exact spot where Kennedy had collapsed. Arthur and Eleanor stood uncomfortably on the black-and-white checkered marble until Margaret and John Lockhart descended the grand staircase.
The Lockharts moved with an impenetrable, regal grace, but the exhaustion radiating from them was palpable. Margaret’s eyes were shadowed, her posture rigid, while John stood beside her like a stone sentinel guarding a besieged fortress.
"Arthur. Eleanor," John greeted them, his voice perfectly polite but devoid of the brotherly warmth that had defined their relationship for decades.
"John, Margaret," Arthur replied, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, offering a hand, which John took in a firm, brief shake. "We came as soon as we could bear to intrude. We are so incredibly sorry. We wanted to check on her."
Eleanor stepped forward, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Margaret, please. Can we see her? Just for a moment?"
Margaret’s expression softened slightly at the genuine devastation in Eleanor’s face, but her maternal barricade remained. She shook her head slowly, a sad, definitive motion.
"I am sorry, Eleanor, but no," Margaret said gently, her voice steady but laced with a finality that brooked no argument. "She is still sleeping. The doctor has ordered quiet. When she wakes up, I promise you, we will tell her that you came by. But right now, we are keeping her isolated."
Eleanor pressed her lips together, nodding quickly as the tears finally spilled over. "I understand. Of course, I understand. We just... we love her, Margaret. You know we love her."
"I know you do," Margaret replied softly.
Arthur placed a comforting hand on his wife’s waist. He looked at John, and in the lingering silence between the two patriarchs, a heartbreaking realization passed between them.
The Lockharts were closing ranks. The perimeter was secured, and the Ashfords were now firmly on the outside.
They would be civil, they would be neighbors, but the effortless, deeply woven friendship that had defined their families would never, ever be the same again.
"We will leave you to her," Arthur murmured respectfully, guiding Eleanor gently toward the door. "If there is anything you need, John. Anything at all."
"Thank you, Arthur," John replied.
The doors closed, sealing the Lockharts inside their fortress, and leaving the Ashfords to walk back across the lawn in silence.
***
While the parents navigated the painful dissolution of their lifelong friendship, Ryder Ashford-Wale had slipped through the back gardens of the Lockhart estate, bypassing the formal entrances.
He found Spencer exactly where he expected him to be: sitting on the edge of the sprawling stone terrace overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic, a cold, untouched cup of coffee resting on the balustrade beside him.
Ryder walked out onto the stone patio, taking a seat on the low wall a few feet away from his best friend. For a long, tense time, neither of them spoke. The rhythmic, violent crashing of the ocean against the cliffs below filled the silence.
"They’re resurfacing the tennis courts at the club," Ryder said eventually, his voice casual, attempting to bridge the chasm between them with the mundane. "I told the contractors to bill the holding company, but they’re dragging their feet."
"They always drag their feet," Spencer replied, not looking away from the horizon. "They bill by the hour. Tell them if it isn't done by the end of the month, you’re pulling the contract."
Ryder nodded, staring down at his own hands. They sat in another stretch of silence, the trivial conversation doing absolutely nothing to mask the bleeding wound in the center of their lives.
"We confronted them," Ryder finally said, dropping the pretense. His voice hardened, laced with a cold, aristocratic disgust. "The Winters family. Olivia called them to the estate, and Grayson made them watch the security footage."
Spencer slowly turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto Ryder. His expression was a mask of chilling indifference. "And?"
"And it was exactly what we thought," Ryder continued, dragging a hand through his hair.
"They confessed to everything. The entire plan was about securing a wedding ring. They were terrified that Grayson was going to get bored and leave Olivia, taking their ticket to high society with him. They convinced themselves that if they drugged them both and forced an intimate encounter, Grayson’s morals would compel him to propose immediately.
They thought they were being strategic."
Spencer stared at him for a long moment, his face devoid of shock, outrage, or satisfaction. He turned his gaze back to the gray, churning ocean.
"I don't care," Spencer said, his voice flat.
Ryder blinked. "What?"
"I said I don't care, Ryder," Spencer repeated, his tone deadened, carrying the sheer, exhausting weight of his vigil at his sister’s bedside.
"I don't care what their motives were. I don't care if they wanted a ring, or money, or the moon.
Whatever happens to the Winters family—whether you arrest them, banish them, or bury them—has absolutely nothing to do with us anymore.
All I care about is Kennedy opening her eyes. "
"I know," Ryder said softly, leaning forward. "We want the same thing, Spencer. My parents are sick over this. And Grayson... Grayson is broken. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten. He’s a ghost. He knows exactly what he did, and it is destroying him."
Spencer’s jaw locked. The muscles in his neck jumped as a surge of deeply buried, vicious anger flared to life. He looked back at Ryder, his eyes burning with a cold, blue fire.
"Do not sit here and ask me for pity for your brother, Ryder," Spencer warned, his voice a low, lethal whisper.
"I do not care how shattered Grayson is.
I do not care if the guilt eats him alive.
He looked at my sister, a woman whom he has known her entire life, and he called her a monster.
He fed her to a pack of wolves without a second thought.
So if he is drowning in remorse right now, good. He deserves it."
Ryder held his gaze, absorbing the venomous truth of Spencer’s words without flinching. He didn't argue. He didn't defend Grayson.