Chapter 32 She Saved Me
EMILY
"But let’s not get carried away with the heroics, shall we? After all, Emily was the one who lost the child at the café in the first place. Bringing her back wasn’t a favor—it was an obligation. It’s the very least she could do to fix the mess she created."
Beatrice’s voice cuts through the room like a jagged piece of rusted metal, turning the warm foyer into a refrigerator. Immediately she makes the statement, the whole place becomes very quiet, and there’s a sudden shift in the air. I can feel the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes turning toward me. The maids, who were just moments ago rushing to bring me towels, now hesitate, their hands hovering over the linens as they trade uncertain glances.
A soft murmur ripples through the back of the room, and I already anticipate what they are going to start saying. It’s the same thing that happened when I saved the Old Madam.
"She’s right," someone whispers, though I can’t see who. "The child was under her watch."
Beatrice steps further down the stairs, and I can see that the murmurs are giving her more confidence than she had a few seconds ago. She scowls at me as she moves. She stops just a few feet from Alistair, her face a mask of faux concern.
"Alistair, you have to open your eyes," she says. "Think about the facts. Julian Thorne just happened to be at that café? The man Emily was once engaged to? This wasn’t a kidnapping. It was a performance. She orchestrated this entire incident with her ex-boyfriend to look like a hero. It’s a plot, Alistair."
The air in my lungs feels like it’s turned to lead. My stomach twists, a sharp, cold knot forming where my baby rests. To use a child like Lily for a power play? The sheer cruelty of the accusation makes my head spin. I look at Celia, the Old Madam. Her eyes have that clouded look again. Martha pulls her hand back from where she was about to touch my arm, her expression hardening into a wall of stone.
I turn my head slowly toward Alistair. He stands there like a monolith, his face unreadable.
I need him to speak. I need a single word, a gesture, something to show that he doesn’t believe I’m capable of such a monstrous thing. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow the bitter taste of betrayal rising in my mouth.
Alistair doesn’t move. He looks at me calmly, his dark eyes searching mine with an unreadable expression. I can never tell what’s going through his head. I won’t know if he’s for or against me till he actually speaks.
Right now, I think he’s just calculating. I want to scream that I have a clear conscience, that I almost drowned for that little girl, but the words are stuck behind the wall in my throat.
Just as the weight of the silence becomes unbearable, a sharp, choked sob breaks the tension.
"No!" Lily wails.
The sound is so raw it makes everyone flinch. Lily pulls away from her grandmother, her small chest heaving under the oversized sweater. She’s shaking, her face flushed a deep, angry red.
"Miss Emily is not a bad person!" she screams, her voice cracking as the tears pour down her cheeks. "She’s not! I was so scared. I thought the bad men were going to hurt me. Uncle Alistair came to get me, but Emily was the hero! She got in the water! She saved me!"
She stumbles toward me, her small hands grabbing the edge of my wet blanket. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
"Don’t say bad things about her!" Lily cries, looking up at the adults with a fierce, protective glare that looks hauntingly like Alistair’s.
The change in the room is instantaneous. The ice in Celia’s eyes melts into a puddle of familial distress. Martha gasps, her face softening as she rushes to scoop the crying child back into her arms.
"There, there, my darling," Martha croons, her voice shaking as she strokes Lily’s hair. "Don’t cry. We’re here. We’re here."
They turn their backs on me, their focus entirely consumed by Lily’s distress. It’s as if the fire Beatrice tried to start was extinguished by a bucket of cold water.
The heavy thud of the front door knocker echoes through the foyer. Greyson opens it to reveal a Dr. Aris carrying this leather bag.
"Dr. Aris is here," Greyson announces.
Alistair steps forward, his presence immediately re-establishing order. He doesn’t look at Beatrice. He doesn’t look at me. He simply places a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and gestures toward the stairs.
"Take her to the nursery," Alistair says. "I want a full report."
The group begins to move as a single unit, a frantic procession of worried relatives and staff trailing behind the doctor and the sobbing child. I’m left standing at the base of the stairs with my heart pounding in my chest.
Beatrice lingers as the others ascend. She smooths her silk robe, her composure returning like a mask being snapped back into place. As she passes me, she lets out a deliberate, cold snort that vibrates in the quiet air.
"You think you’re clever, don’t you?" I say.
Beatrice stops. She turns back to me, her lips curling into a thin, triumphant line.
"Are you not afraid that the truth will eventually be uncovered, Beatrice?" I ask. I step closer, the wet wool of my blanket dragging on the floor. "The men you hired... they won’t stay silent forever."
For a split second, the mask slips. Her eyes dart toward the front door, and her breath hitches in her throat. Her face pales, the skin pulling tight over her cheekbones. She’s terrified. I can see the pulse jumping in her neck.
But then, the fear vanishes. She leans in close, the cloying scent of her jasmine perfume filling my senses, making me feel nauseous.
"You’re a fool, Emily," she sneers, her voice a poisonous whisper against my ear. "You could search for a hundred years, and you’d never trace a single thing back to me. You’re a guest here on a temporary pass. I am a Wolfe."
She pulls back, giving me a look of pure, unadulterated disdain before she turns and walks away.
I stand there, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dig into my palms. The anger is a hot, roaring fire in my gut. I watch her retreating figure, her head held high, and I feel a surge of fury that makes my vision blur at the edges.
I turn and march up the stairs. I don’t look back. I don’t look at the library or the nursery. I go straight to my room and slam the door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
I don’t even stop to undress. I walk directly into the bathroom and step under the showerhead. I twist the handle to the hottest setting, but I don’t feel the heat. I stand there fully clothed, the water drumming against my head, soaking through my sweater and leggings until I’m twice as heavy.
The image of Beatrice’s smirking face is burned into the back of my eyelids. The way she used Lily. The way she tried to turn Alistair against me.
I reach out and grab a heavy bottle of expensive shampoo from the marble shelf. My fingers are trembling with a rage I can’t contain. I hurl the bottle against the tiled wall with every ounce of strength I have. It shatters with a satisfying crack, the thick, white liquid sliding down the wall like a slow-motion scream.
"I will not let you off the hook," I whisper into the steam, my voice shaking. "I will prove it. I will strip that arrogance right off your face."
I stay under the water until my skin is red and the steam is so thick I can barely see the mirror. I strip off the ruined, heavy clothes and leave them in a sodden heap on the floor. I wrap a large, white bath towel around myself, tucking the corner firmly over my chest.
I step out into the bedroom, my feet leaving damp prints on the soft carpet. My hair is plastered to my back, and I’m rubbing a smaller towel against my head when I stop dead.
Alistair is there.
He’s standing by the bedside table, his back to me. He’s changed into a dark charcoal robe that makes him look even broader, even more formidable. He’s leaning over, his large hand moving with a steady, quiet precision.
I watch as he places something into the drawer. It’s the matte black finish of the pistol I took from there earlier. The cold metal glints under the bedside lamp before he slides the drawer shut with a soft thud.
He freezes as he hears the wet slap of my feet on the floor. He turns slowly, his eyes locking onto mine.
I stand there, dripping, wrapped in nothing but a towel, my hair a mess and my face flushed from the hot water and the fury. He stands by the bed, his hand still resting on the drawer that holds a weapon I used to save his family.
The silence between us is absolute, a stunned, vibrating vacuum that neither of us seems to know how to break. I can hear the rain starting to lash against the windowpane.
Alistair looks at me, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to the damp towel before returning to my eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the air in the room has suddenly become very, very thin.