CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
"I know," Ryder agreed, his voice thick with a fraternal sorrow. "I understand, Spence. I swear to God I do. If someone treated my brother the way Kennedy was treated, I’d feel exactly the way you do. You have every right to be furious."
Spencer exhaled a long, jagged breath, some of the aggressive tension bleeding out of his shoulders at Ryder’s quiet validation.
The bond between the two men was strained, stretched to its limit by the sins of their families, but as they sat together on the terrace, watching the ocean crash against the rocks, it held firm.
***
Fifteen miles away, the picturesque, cedar-shingled rental house in Newport had descended into terrifying chaos.
The coastal storm outside was nothing compared to the hurricane of devastation tearing through the living room. Olivia Winters stood in the center of the hardwood floor, her face streaked with tears, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings in a pitch of pure, unadulterated hysteria.
Linda, Beatrice, Brenna, and Chloe were huddled on the sectional sofa, looking like prisoners of war awaiting execution.
"You ruined my life!" Olivia screamed, her chest heaving as she paced frantically in front of them, dragging her hands through her blonde hair. "Do you understand what you did? Do you have any concept of the catastrophic damage you have caused?!"
"Livie, honey, please," Linda sobbed, reaching a trembling hand out toward her daughter. "We were just trying to help you. We wanted to make sure you had everything you deserved."
"You didn't help me!" Olivia shrieked, slapping her mother’s hand away with shocking aggression.
"You destroyed me! You wanted me to have Grayson.
You wanted his wealth, his security, the status of the Ashford name.
You wanted access to that world, and because you were too greedy, too impatient, you set it all on fire! "
"We thought he would drink it with you," Aunt Brenna interjected, her usual commanding tone trembling, broken by the sheer magnitude of their failure. "We thought you would just spend the night together, and—"
"You ruined everything!" Olivia screamed, her chest heaving as she paced frantically in front of them, dragging her hands through her blonde hair.
"Livie, honey, please," Linda sobbed, reaching a trembling hand out toward her daughter. "We saw Kennedy take the drink! Brenna and I saw her take it off the tray, but we didn't know what to do! We couldn't say anything without exposing ourselves!"
"You saw her take it?" Olivia shrieked, her blue eyes widening in a mixture of horror and revulsion. She slapped her mother’s hand away. "You stood there and watched an innocent woman drink a narcotic, and you did absolutely nothing?!"
"We thought she would just feel dizzy and go home!" Aunt Brenna cried, her usual commanding tone shattered by the sheer magnitude of their failure. "We didn't know what would happen!"
"Well, let me tell you what happened!" Olivia roared, the terrifying, devastating truth finally bursting from her lips.
"Because of your sick, twisted manipulation, Grayson and Kennedy ended up locked in a study together, out of their minds!
Everything you tried to engineer between me and Grayson happened between him and Kennedy instead!
They spent the night together. Because of you! "
Linda let out a choked, suffocating gasp, covering her mouth with both hands. Beatrice began to weep hysterically, curling into a tight ball on the couch cushions.
The reality of the tragedy slammed into the Winters women with the force of a physical blow. They hadn't just failed to secure a proposal; they had chemically forced the man Olivia loved into the arms of another woman.
They had violated Grayson, they had poisoned an innocent heiress, and they had irreversibly annihilated Olivia’s future.
"Why?!" Olivia demanded, falling to her knees in front of the coffee table, slamming her fists against the wood. "Why did you think he wouldn't propose on his own? He loved me! We were happy! Why did you believe any of this sick, twisted manipulation was necessary?"
"Because we aren't them!" Linda wailed, sliding off the couch to kneel on the floor, trying desperately to gather her weeping daughter into her arms. "We aren't billionaires, Olivia!
People like us don't get fairy tales unless we force the ending!
We were terrified he was going to wake up and realize you didn't belong in his world, and he would cast you aside!
We just wanted to make sure you were safe! "
"You wanted to make sure you had a seat at the table!" Olivia snapped, shoving her mother backward. The innocent, naive veil had been ripped from Olivia’s eyes, revealing the deep, selfish ambition lurking beneath her family’s protective guise.
They had imagined themselves dining at the Ashford estate, attending the galas, flying on the private jets.
They had wanted the proximity to power just as badly as they had wanted her happiness.
"If Grayson asks me to cut you off," Olivia stated, her voice dropping into a cold, terrifyingly calm register as she looked at the four women sobbing in her living room, "I will do it. I will never speak to any of you again."
The threat struck terror into the hearts of the Winters family. The wealth, the status, the social circle, the daughter they loved—it was all evaporating before their eyes.
"No, Livie, please," Chloe begged, scrambling forward, grabbing Olivia’s arm. "We will fix this! We’ll talk to him. We’ll explain!"
"I will go to the police!" Aunt Beatrice cried hysterically, struggling to stand up on trembling legs. "I will turn myself in! I’ll tell them it was all my idea, I’ll take the blame for the drugs, just don't let him cut you off! I’ll make it right!"
"Stop!" Olivia commanded, her voice cracking like a whip.
She stood up, looking down at her family with an expression of exhausted disgust. "Stop making decisions.
Stop trying to fix things. You have done enough.
You will not go to the police, and you will not say a single word to the Ashfords.
You will stay in this house, and you will do absolutely nothing. "
"But Olivia—" Linda started.
"Nothing!" Olivia screamed, pointing a shaking finger at her mother. "I have to speak to Grayson. I have to figure out where we stand, and what happens next. Until then, if any of you so much as breathe in the direction of that estate, I will cut you out of my life today. Do you understand me?"
The women on the floor nodded frantically, cowed and defeated, trapped in a prison of their own making as Olivia turned her back on them and walked out of the room.
***
It was nearly a week later—roughly two weeks since the disastrous anniversary party—when the suffocating darkness finally began to lift in the Lockhart estate.
The steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in Kennedy’s bedroom was the only sound in the dim space.
Margaret was asleep in the chair beside the bed, her head resting on her arms, while John sat in the corner, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed legal documents under the light of a small brass lamp.
In the bed, Kennedy’s eyelashes fluttered.
Her mouth was agonizingly dry, her limbs feeling as though they were filled with lead. She took a slow, shallow breath, the scent of antiseptic and lavender washing over her. She tried to swallow, a small, involuntary groan escaping her throat.
Margaret’s head snapped up instantly. The exhaustion vanished from her aristocratic features, replaced by a blinding, desperate relief.
"John," Margaret breathed, standing up so quickly her chair scraped against the hardwood floor.
John dropped his papers, crossing the room in three strides. He hit the button on the wall to summon Dr. Aris, who was staying in a guest suite down the hall, before moving to stand behind his wife.
Kennedy slowly opened her eyes. The room was blurry, the edges of her vision swimming before finally locking onto the tear-streaked face of her mother.
"Mom?" Kennedy whispered, her voice a fragile, raspy thread.
"I am here, darling," Margaret wept, leaning down to press a fervent, lingering kiss to Kennedy’s forehead, her hands gently framing her daughter’s face, being careful to avoid the stark white bandage on her cheek. "We are right here. You are safe."
The recovery was slow and agonizingly disorienting.
Over the next forty-eight hours, Kennedy’s body, battered by the immense physical shock of the assault and the lingering exhaustion of the synthetic drug, slowly began to knit itself back together.
Her parents rarely left her side, and Spencer was a constant, protective fixture at the foot of her bed.
By the third day after she woke, Kennedy was sitting up against a mound of plush pillows, sipping a cup of chamomile tea. The curtains had finally been opened, allowing the soft, golden light of the late afternoon to fill the room.
Spencer sat in the chair beside her bed, his forearms resting on his knees. It was time. He had waited until Dr. Aris confirmed she was neurologically and emotionally stable enough to handle the truth.
"Kennedy," Spencer began softly, his blue eyes holding hers with unwavering support. "There are some things you need to know about what happened while you were asleep. Ryder and I pulled the security footage from the party. We found out who drugged you."