Chapter 192
“Look at her,” she spat, her eyes burning down at Aspen, who lay sobbing on the floor. “Look at what she is!”
Robert grabbed his phone, hands trembling. “I’m calling the police. This is assault.”
“Go ahead,” Jocelyn panted.
Kieran released her. She straightened her jacket and smoothed her hair, regaining her composure with a speed that was almost more frightening than the rage itself.
She looked at Robert steadily. “Call them. And I will tell the press exactly what your daughter whispered to a dying woman. I have a nurse prepared to testify to what she witnessed. I will describe how your family sat here, dining, while the woman whose name gave you this house lay in a coma — because of your daughter’s poison.” She let that settle. “The headlines won’t be about assault, Robert. They’ll be about murder.”
𝖭ove𝗹s 𝗶𝘯 𝗍𝗋𝗲𝘯𝖽 𝗈n g𝖺lո𝗼vеls.𝘤оm
Robert’s thumb hovered over the screen.
He thought of the scandal. The tabloids. Socialite Kills Grandmother with Gossip.
He lowered the phone.
Jocelyn placed the riding crop on the table. It landed with a heavy, final thud among the broken glass and spilled wine.
She looked down at Aspen, crumpled on the floor, clutching her arm and weeping.
“If she dies,” Jocelyn said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than a shout, “you had better pray the police find you before I do.”
She turned and walked out.
Kieran stood in the ruin of the dining room. He looked at Aspen sobbing on the floor. He looked at the red wine soaking into the white tablecloth like a spreading wound.
He said nothing.
A mile down the road from the Schneider estate, the black SUV pulled over to the shoulder. The engine hummed quietly in the darkness.
Jocelyn threw the door open. She stumbled out into the freezing night air and leaned against the cold metal of the car, her body convulsing. She vomited into the frost-covered grass, the rage and adrenaline of the last hour curdling into a wave of physical sickness. She dry-heaved until her ribs ached, gasping at air that tasted of bile and winter.
Vance remained in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed forward, giving her the dignity of his silence. He had seen men break after battle. He knew this was the same kind of war.
Inside the Schneider house, the silence Jocelyn left behind was heavier than the mahogany table that anchored the dining room. It pressed against eardrums and made the air feel too thin.
Aspen was on the floor, curled into herself, clutching her calf through the ruined silk of her stockings. A vivid red welt was already rising — an ugly stripe of violence against pale skin. She was sobbing, but the sound had a rehearsed, hiccupping quality, calibrated for maximum pity from the men still in the room.
.