CHAPTER TWENTY #2
"I am the woman who is about to have you forcibly removed and humiliated," Aurora replied, her eyes flashing with a terrifying, savage light.
She looked them up and down, taking in their off-the-rack coats and desperate anger.
"You must be the infamous Ohio contingency.
Let me explain something to you, since clearly, basic understanding eludes your gene pool.
You do not have the right to breathe the same air as her, let alone corner or intimidate her. "
"She stole—" Linda started.
"She stole nothing!" Aurora snapped, her voice cracking like a whip, drawing the horrified attention of the boutique staff.
"You poisoned a billionaire in an attempt to extort a wedding ring, and you failed spectacularly because you are remarkably, pathetically stupid.
The only thing Kennedy is guilty of is surviving your incompetence. "
Beatrice’s face flushed a violent, ugly purple. Unable to tolerate the searing, accurate humiliation of Aurora’s words, her fragile grip on reality snapped. She lunged forward, raising her leather handbag with the clear, malicious intent to strike Kennedy in the face.
Kennedy gasped, instinctively throwing her arms up to cover her stomach.
But the blow never reached her. Aurora didn't flinch, and she didn't step back. She stepped directly into the path of the swinging bag. The brass buckle of the purse caught Aurora squarely across the side of her forehead with a sickening crack.
Aurora’s head jerked to the side, but she didn't fall. She stood perfectly planted.
"Aurora!" Kennedy cried out in horror, dropping her hands from her stomach to grab her friend’s arm.
A thin, bright red trickle of blood immediately welled from the split skin near Aurora’s hairline, sliding slowly down her temple. Kennedy was shaking, terrified by the sudden explosion of physical violence.
Aurora slowly raised her hand, pressing two manicured fingers to her forehead. She pulled them away, looking at the blood on her fingertips. Then, she looked back at Beatrice.
Aurora barely seemed fazed. In fact, she looked at the Winters women as though they were the most fascinating, spectacularly foolish creatures she had ever encountered in her life. A slow, chilling smile touched the corners of her lips.
"Call security," Aurora instructed the stunned boutique manager without taking her eyes off Beatrice. "And lock the front doors. No one leaves."
As the glass doors of the boutique were bolted and the security guards rushed forward to physically restrain the panicked, suddenly terrified Winters women, Aurora pulled a silk handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her forehead.
She stepped closer to Beatrice, her voice a low, lethal whisper.
"You truly are a spectacular kind of idiot," Aurora hissed, her contempt overwhelming.
"I am a Kensington, and a Lockhart. The woman standing behind me is a Lockhart carrying the Ashford-Wale heir.
Did you genuinely believe you could physically attack either of us in the middle of a public boutique and simply walk away from it? "
Beatrice was trembling now, struggling against the grip of the security guard, the reality of her assault finally piercing her delusional rage.
"You wanted to play in our world," Aurora sneered, turning away from them in utter disgust. "Welcome to the consequences."
The boutique manager had barely dialed the police when the front doors were violently rattled from the outside.
Spencer, Grayson, and Ryder—who had been having a late lunch at a private club three blocks away, waiting to escort the women home—had received a frantic text from Kennedy’s security detail.
The manager unlocked the door, and the three men practically tore into the shop.
Spencer was the first one through the door. His blue eyes swept the room, instantly locking onto his wife. When he saw the silk handkerchief pressed to her head, and the thin line of blood staining her porcelain skin, the civilized, polished exterior of Spencer Lockhart vanished.
"Aurora," Spencer breathed, crossing the boutique in a blur of motion. He gripped her face in both hands, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a terrifying, primal panic. "Who did this? How did you get hurt?"
"I am fine, Spencer," Aurora soothed, placing her hands over his wrists, though her husband was visibly vibrating with a rage so intense, he was barely holding himself together.
He turned his head, his lethal gaze locking onto the three women detained in the corner, looking as though he were ready to tear them apart with his bare hands.
Grayson didn't even look at the Winters women. He bypassed the chaos, walking straight to Kennedy.
"Kennedy," Grayson said, his voice dropping into a frantic, breathless register.
He stopped inches away from her, his large hands hovering over her shoulders, desperate to touch her but terrified of crossing the line.
His eyes scanned every inch of her face, then dropped to her stomach, checking for any sign of injury.
"Are you hurt? Did they touch you? Did they touch the baby? "
"No, Grayson, I am okay," Kennedy reassured him quickly, her voice shaking slightly from the adrenaline. "Aurora stepped in front of me. She took the hit. I am perfectly fine."
Grayson closed his eyes, letting out a ragged, shuddering exhale.
The sheer, overwhelming relief that washed over him was staggering.
He didn't care about the scandal. He didn't care about his ex-girlfriend’s family.
In that moment, the only thing that mattered in the entire universe was the safety of the woman standing in front of him.
While Spencer obsessively checked his wife’s injury and Grayson stood guard over Kennedy, Ryder stepped forward. He looked at the three Winters women, his expression devoid of mercy or amusement.
"I am calling the police," Ryder announced smoothly, pulling his phone from his pocket. He looked at the boutique manager. "We are pressing full assault and battery charges. I want the security tapes pulled, and I want them arrested."
Linda began to weep hysterically, begging for leniency, but none of the men even glanced in her direction.
***
Two hours later, the chaotic aftermath had settled into the warm, secure sanctuary of the Lockhart estate’s private family parlor.
A concierge doctor had already come and gone, thoroughly checking Kennedy and placing a small, neat butterfly bandage over the cut on Aurora’s forehead. The tension that had gripped the family during the ride home slowly began to give way to an exhausted relief.
Kennedy sat on the velvet sofa, a cup of warm tea in her hands. She looked across the room at Aurora, who was reclining elegantly in an armchair, a glass of champagne resting untouched on the table beside her.
"You humiliated them," Kennedy pointed out, a small, incredulous smile breaking through her lingering shock. "I have never seen anyone dismantle three people with words so quickly in my entire life."
Aurora took a delicate sip of her water, unfazed. "Of course I did. If they insist on portraying wealthy families as the terrible, powerful villains of the world, then the least I can do is demonstrate exactly how unpleasant I can be when provoked."
The sheer, unapologetic arrogance of the statement caught the men off guard.
Ryder let out a sudden, booming laugh from his place by the fireplace, shaking his head.
Grayson, sitting in a chair near Kennedy, couldn't help the quiet chuckle that escaped him.
Despite the terror of the afternoon, the family began laughing, the familiar warmth and camaraderie washing the last of the shadows from the room.
But Spencer wasn't laughing.
He was sitting on the arm of Aurora’s chair, glued to her side.
He had refused to leave her radius since the moment he walked into the boutique.
One of his hands rested protectively on the back of her neck, his thumb constantly, obsessively stroking her skin, checking that she was still there, still whole, still safe.
He leaned down, pressing a fervent kiss to her uninjured temple. He was visibly relieved that the injury was minor because everyone in the room—Grayson, Ryder, Kennedy, and Aurora herself—knew the truth.
If Beatrice Winters’s bag had struck Kennedy, or if anything truly serious had happened to Aurora, Spencer Lockhart wouldn't have bothered calling the police. He would have simply burned the entire world to the ground.