Chapter 5 - Rain and Leather
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"You won’t last three days out there," Grant hissed, storming forward and grabbing my raw, bruised wrist. "You think the real world cares about a disgraced, penniless wife? You walk out that gate, Evelyn, and you are absolutely nothing."
Brooke stepped forward, placing a gentle, manicured hand on his tense arm.
"Grant, darling, maybe just let her go," she cooed softly. "She’s just being dramatic and emotional. Once she’s shivering on the street and realizes she has nowhere to sleep tonight, she’ll come crawling back to apologize to me."
I turned my head slowly and looked at Brooke’s soft, smug mouth.
Then, I slapped her.
I put my entire body weight into it. The sharp crack echoed through the cellar like a gunshot. Brooke stumbled hard into the stone wall, a high-pitched shriek escaping her lips as her hand flew to her rapidly reddening cheek.
Grant froze, completely paralyzed by the shock of my defiance.
"That," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "was for using my child."
I adjusted my grip on Maisie. Every single movement tore open the raw, infected wounds on my back, but I kept my spine perfectly straight. I walked past Grant. I walked past Brooke, who was now crying real tears of fear. I walked up the stairs, through the silent, staring kitchen staff, and out the front doors into the freezing, gray morning.
Freezing rain poured violently over the Newport cliffs. It instantly soaked my hair, my ruined silk dress, and Maisie's bloody bandages.
Behind me, Grant stood beneath the towering stone archway of his mansion, his pride bruised.
"Let her walk!" he shouted to the estate guards, pointing at me. "No car! No umbrella! No help! I want to see exactly how far her stupid pride carries her!"
I didn't even turn around. I carried my burning daughter down the mile-long driveway, walking barefoot on the sharp, wet gravel, leaving tiny drops of my own blood behind me.
As I reached the massive iron security gates, a heavily armored black limousine with tinted windows rolled silently out of the heavy rain, blocking the road.
The rear suicide door opened.
Nathaniel Whitaker stepped out into the storm beneath a massive black umbrella.
My brother hadn't changed much in five years. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a bespoke charcoal overcoat that cost more than Grant’s entire stock portfolio. But his cold, calculating Wall Street eyes shattered when they landed on my bleeding back and Maisie's limp body.
"Evie," he whispered, his voice cracking.
May you like
That single childhood nickname destroyed the last wall holding me together. He crossed the distance in two massive strides, wrapped his warm coat around both of us, and lifted us into the car.
"Your brother is here," he said softly, kissing my wet forehead. "You’re going home."
