Chapter 223
Chapter 223:
Elias wrapped his heavy wool coat around Aurora’s shoulders. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.
Aurora nodded. She wiped Vivian’s blood off her hands with a wet wipe Elias offered.
As they walked toward the exit, Sebastian called out.
“Aurora.”
She stopped. She didn’t turn around.
“Did you know?” he asked, his voice broken, sounding like a child’s. “About the texts?”
Aurora turned her head slightly.
“I tried to save him,” she said, her voice cold as the winter night. “She stopped me. And you helped her.”
She walked away, leaving Sebastian standing alone in the wreckage of the ballroom, surrounded by the confetti of his sister’s cruelty.
Online, the internet was already acting as judge, jury, and executioner.
In the hospital, Vivian lay in the trauma bay, drifting in and out of consciousness from blood loss, the room spinning. She expected flowers. She expected Sebastian holding her hand.
Instead, she saw a police officer sitting in the chair.
“Vivian Kensington,” the officer said, opening a notebook. “We have some questions about the death of Noah Reed.”
Vivian closed her eyes, and for the first time in her life, she realized that money couldn’t fix this.
The mask had crumbled. And the face underneath was ugly.
The next morning, the sun rose over Kensington Manor, but it brought no warmth. The grand foyer was still draped in the shadows of the previous night’s carnage, the air heavy with the scent of stale champagne and police tape.
Aurora sat in the high-backed velvet chair near the library door, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. She hadn’t left. Elias had offered to take her back to the penthouse, to safety, but she had refused. The estate was a crime scene, yes, but it was also a power vacuum. If she left now, Eleanor would spin the narrative before the blood was even dry. She had to stay. She had to hold the ground.
She took a sip of the bitter tea. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, but her mind was sharp. She watched the front door, waiting.
Bang.
The heavy double doors flew open, hitting the wall with a violence that shook the crystal chandelier.
It wasn’t the police returning. It was Preston Reed.
Noah’s father. Monica’s husband.
He didn’t look like a man anymore. He looked like a demolition crew wrapped in a wrinkled suit. His eyes were wild, rimmed with the red rawness of a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours weeping over a child-sized coffin.
“Where are they?” Preston roared. His voice cracked, echoing off the high marble ceilings.
Two security guards stepped forward, their hands raised. “Mr. Reed, you need to—”
“Don’t touch me!” Preston shoved one guard so hard the man stumbled back into a pedestal. A vase shattered. The sound was sharp, violent, and satisfying. “My wife is in a cell because of this family! My son is in the ground because of this family!”