CHAPTER ELEVEN #3
Kennedy’s grip tightened on the delicate porcelain saucer. She didn't speak, but she gave him a small, terrified nod to continue.
"It was the Winters family," Spencer said, his voice devoid of judgment, delivering the facts with clinical precision. "Linda, her sister, her sister-in-law. They bribed a waiter. They crushed a synthetic aphrodisiac into two glasses of champagne meant for Grayson and Olivia."
Kennedy’s eyes widened, the sheer, calculating malice of the act stunning her into silence. She stared at the floral pattern on her teacup, her mind struggling to process the information. "Olivia’s family?" she whispered. "But why?"
"They wanted to force an intimate encounter," Spencer explained, his tone with disgust. "They thought if Grayson slept with Olivia, his morals would force him to propose immediately. They were trying to secure the wedding ring."
Kennedy closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the pillows.
The catastrophic absurdity of it all was almost too simple to comprehend.
She had been collateral damage in a desperate, small-town scheme to trap a billionaire.
She had lost her dignity, her peace of mind, and the man she loved, all because of a crushed pill meant for someone else.
"Ryder showed Grayson the footage," Spencer continued quietly, watching his sister carefully for any sign of a breaking point. "Grayson knows the truth, Ken. He knows you had absolutely nothing to do with it. He knows you were an innocent victim in all of this."
Kennedy remained perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"And Grayson..." Spencer hesitated, the hatred he harbored for the man warring with his duty to give his sister the full picture. "Grayson is shattered. Ryder says he’s drowning in guilt. He hasn't left his house. The remorse is eating him alive for what he accused you of."
Spencer braced himself, expecting a reaction. He expected her to cry. He expected her to ask to see him, or to ask what Grayson had said, or to show even a flicker of the lifelong love she had harbored for the man next door.
But Kennedy did nothing of the sort.
She slowly lowered her teacup to the bedside table. Her hazel eyes were clear, devoid of tears, devoid of anger, and devoid of warmth. The deep, aching sadness that had consumed her before she lost consciousness had calcified into something remarkably hard and impenetrable.
"Okay," Kennedy said, her voice flat, carrying the dismissive tone of someone acknowledging the weather forecast.
Spencer blinked, taken aback by her complete lack of emotional response. "Okay? Kennedy, did you hear me? He knows he was wrong. He is falling apart."
"I heard you, Spencer," Kennedy replied, turning her head to look out the window at the distant, rolling waves of the Atlantic. Her profile was striking in the afternoon light, the white bandage on her cheek a stark reminder of the cost of Grayson’s words.
"But I don't care. I am no longer interested in hearing about Grayson, or how he feels, or how much remorse he has. "
"Ken..."
"No, Spencer, I mean it," she said, looking back at him, her gaze so fiercely detached it made his chest ache. "His guilt is his own problem. Whatever he is going through right now, whatever pain he is in—it belongs to him. It has absolutely nothing to do with me."
Spencer let out a slow, breathy exhale, a mixture of sorrow and immense pride swelling in his chest. The girl who had spent fifteen years pining in the shadows was gone, burned away by the fires of Grayson’s betrayal.
"I told him never to come near you again," Spencer told her, leaning back in his chair.
"I told him he is no longer welcome on this estate.
But Kennedy... we live next door to them.
Our families share property lines, we share social circles, we share business interests.
I can keep him out of this house, but realistically, you cannot avoid him forever.
Eventually, you are going to run into him. "
"That is fine," Kennedy said smoothly, her posture straightening against the pillows, the innate, unshakeable confidence of the Lockhart bloodline finally returning to her spine.
"If an accidental encounter happens," Spencer pushed gently, "you need to be prepared."
"I am prepared," Kennedy stated, her voice ringing with chilling finality. "I do not want to see him, and I will not seek him out. But if I cross paths with him, I will handle it. I can be polite."
She looked back out the window, her gaze resting on the towering limestone roof of the Ashford-Wale estate visible above the tree line.
There was no longing left in her heart. There was no residual affection.
The man she had loved for more nearly fifteen years had died the moment he called her a monster.
"A neighbor. That is all Grayson is to me now, Spencer," Kennedy whispered, the truth of the statement settling peacefully over her fractured soul. "He is just a neighbor. And I am perfectly capable of treating him like one."