Chapter 35 The Personal Bodyguard
EMILY
The high-definition screen acts like a vacuum, sucking every bit of oxygen out of the living room. For a long, agonizing minute, nobody moves. The only sound is the frantic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and the heavy, ragged breathing of Alistair’s father, Arthur Sr. The image of Lily, usually so bright and full of life, huddled behind rusted bars like a common stray is a stain on the Wolfe family crest. It’s a dent to their collective pride.
Celia is the first to shatter the silence. She grips her jade prayer beads so hard the cord looks ready to snap. Her face, usually a map of dignified wrinkles, contorts into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. She slams her palm against the arm of her chair, the sound echoing through the quiet room.
"Alistair! What on earth is going on?" Celia’s voice is a sharp, jagged blade. She points a trembling finger at the screen. "Why was my baby girl in a dog cage? Who dared to lay a hand on a Wolfe?"
Martha rushes to the Old Madam’s side, her hands fluttering like trapped birds. She tries to rub Celia’s shoulders to soothe her, but her own face is white as a sheet. She looks like she’s about to faint after seeing her granddaughter being treated like something less than human. "Alistair, please. Explain this. How could this happen under our roof? Who could be so barbaric?"
The men are no better. Arthur Sr. and his brother, Richard, stand side by side. They look like they want to burn the world down. To them, this isn’t just about a child. It’s about a humiliation that devalues their entire bloodline. And with all their anger and rage, they are looking at me like I’m the one to blame. Like I’m the one who put Lily in that cage.
My gaze shifts to the corner of the velvet sofa. Beatrice is a statue. Her skin has taken on a grey, chalky hue that makes her foundation look like a death mask. She hasn’t touched her tea. Her hands are buried in the folds of her silk skirt, probably to hide the fact that they’re shaking. She’s staring at the screen with a look of sheer, frozen terror.
Alistair turns away from the screen. He doesn’t look at his parents or his grandmother. His dark eyes fix on one person and stay there.
"Beatrice," Alistair says. "Do you have anything to say about this?"
Beatrice flinches as if he’s physically struck her. She lets out a small, breathless sound and finally looks up. She forces a hollow laugh that sounds like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
"Me? Alistair, what a ridiculous question," she stammers, her voice pitching up an octave. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, but her fingers fumble the movement. "Why would I have anything to say? I’m just as horrified as everyone else. I had no hand in this. I love Lily like she’s my own."
I almost want to applaud. Even in the face of absolute disaster, she’s still trying to play the doting aunt. I lean back in my chair, watching the sweat bead on her upper lip. It’s a private bit of theater, and I’m the only one in the front row who knows how it ends.
"Don’t be absurd, Alistair," Arthur Sr. snaps, stepping forward to stand between Alistair and Beatrice. He’s always been quick to defend his sister and take her side. "Why are you interrogating Beatrice? She’s been here the whole time, worrying herself sick. If you want to find the culprit, look at the outsider."
Martha nods frantically, her eyes darting to me. "He’s right. Beatrice is a Wolfe. She would never dream of such a thing. But someone from a lowly background? Someone who needs to prove her worth to this family? That’s where you’ll find your answers."
The air in the room shifts again, turning cold and hostile toward me. To them, my "lowly status" is a better piece of evidence than a woman’s obvious panic. They see what they want to see. They see a social climber who would sacrifice a child to gain a foothold.
Beatrice sees the tide turning in her favor and she seizes it. She stands up, her composure returning like a second skin. She points a shaking finger directly at my face, her eyes wide with manufactured outrage.
"He’s right!" she shrieks. "Alistair, look at her! She’s sitting there so calmly while we’re in agony. She probably planned this the moment she stepped through these gates. She wanted to play the hero to secure her place. Expel her! Throw her out of this house before she does something even worse to us!"
Celia doesn’t need to hear another word. The Old Madam’s grief turns into a hot, focused rage. She grabs her heavy mahogany walking stick and pushes herself out of her chair with a strength that defies her age. She charges toward me, the heavy wood of the cane raised high.
"You serpent!" Celia screams, her face twisted with hate. "You brought this filth into my home!"
I don’t move. I can’t. My feet are frozen to the rug. I see the cane descending, a blur of dark wood aimed straight for my head. I instinctively pull my arms over my stomach, protecting the only thing that matters.
Then, the world goes dark. Not because I’ve been hit, but because a massive, solid wall has appeared between the Old Madam and me.
Alistair has moved so fast I didn’t even see him blur. He’s standing directly in front of me, his broad back a shield of granite. The cane strikes his shoulder with a sickening thud, but he doesn’t even grunt. He stands his ground, his presence so commanding that Celia actually stumbles back.
I stare at the back of his dark suit. My heart is thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He’s protecting me. The man who called me a liability, the man who treats our marriage like a legal transaction, just took a blow meant for me.
But I’m not a fool. I know why he’s doing it. I’m carrying the heir. He isn’t protecting Emily Vance; he’s protecting the future of the Wolfe line. The realization is a cold splash of reality that dampens the spark of gratitude in my chest.
"That’s enough," Alistair says.
Celia stares at him, her chest heaving as she tries to suppress her anger. She slowly lowers her cane and retreats to her seat. Martha rushes to her, whispering reassurances, but the Old Madam just glares at the floor.
"You want an explanation?" Alistair asks the room. "Fine. I’ll give you one."
He presses another button on the remote. The image of Lily vanishes, replaced by a series of screenshots. They’re the messages I received. The threats, the demands, the photos of the café.
Arthur Sr. scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "This proves nothing. She could have sent these to herself from a dummy account. It’s an old trick."
Alistair turns his head slightly, his profile sharp against the glow of the screen. "I didn’t just look at the messages, Father. I had someone hack into the service provider’s logs. Every phone number is registered to a person. Every message leaves a trail of digital breadcrumbs. I’ve retrieved the registration details for the phone that sent every single one of these threats."
I keep my eyes on Beatrice. The change in her is visceral. The color drains from her face until she looks like she’s made of wax. Her jaw drops, her mouth a small, silent ’O’ of horror. She’s trembling so hard now that the silk of her dress is fluttering. She looks like a woman standing on the edge of an abyss, realizing there’s no way back.
BEATRICE
My skin feels like it’s being crawled on by a thousand tiny insects. I can’t breathe. I watch the screen, the glowing white light of the text messages mocking me.
Alistair hacked the logs? How? He shouldn’t have been able to get into the encrypted servers that fast.
My mind is a frantic, screaming mess. I think of Daniel, my personal bodyguard. He’s been with me for years. He’s the one I trusted to handle the messy details. I told him to be careful. I told him to use a ghost number.
But Daniel is a brute. He’s loyal, yes, but he’s arrogant. He thinks his connection to me makes him untouchable. Did he get lazy? Did he use one of the spare company phones registered under his real name? Or worse, did he use a phone tied to my personal security detail account?
The room is spinning. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears, a dull roar that drowns out the whispers of the family. If his name comes up on that screen, I’m dead. Alistair will strip me of everything. He’ll throw me out into the street without a cent, and the Vance girl will be there to watch it happen.
I grip the velvet of the sofa until my fingernails tear through the fabric. I have to stay calm. I have to deny it. Even if it’s his name, I’ll say he acted alone. I’ll say he was obsessed with the family’s purity. I’ll sacrifice him. Yes, I’ll throw Daniel to the wolves to save myself.
EMILY
"Well?" Arthur Sr. demands, his voice tight with impatience. "Who is it, Alistair? Who is the mastermind?"
Alistair’s face doesn’t change as he speaks his next words. "The phone used to coordinate the kidnapping and send those threats," Alistair says, his eyes moving to Beatrice, "is registered to Daniel. Your personal bodyguard, Beatrice."
Beatrice looks like she’s about to vomit. Her hands are clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide and glassy.