Chapter 88 88
Blair opened her mouth—ready to say something, anything—to Patricia’s venomous words, but before a single syllable could escape, a deep, tired voice cut through the hallway from the top of the stairs.
“Mother.”
They both turned.
Lucas stood at the landing, one hand on the banister, still in the same shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled from dozing in the study.
Patricia straightened instantly, shoulders squaring like she was about to deliver another sermon.
Lucas descended two steps, voice low.
“That’s enough.”
Patricia’s lips thinned. She glanced back at Blair—gave her one last slow, contemptuous once-over from head to toe: the oversized hoodie that clearly wasn’t hers, the faded jeans, the bare feet, the way she still clutched the tray like a shield.
“Cheap,” Patricia said quietly, almost to herself, but loud enough for both of them to hear. “So very cheap.”
She turned on her heel—coat swirling dramatically—and walked toward the west wing guest suite that had already been prepared for her arrival. Her heels snapped down the corridor like a countdown, fading only when a door closed softly.
Silence rushed back in.
Blair exhaled shakily, fingers tightening on the tray until her knuckles whitened.
Lucas didn’t move from the stairs.
He watched Patricia disappear, then slowly turned his gaze to Blair.
She hadn’t moved either—just stood frozen halfway down the steps, eyes on the floor, breathing shallow.
He descended the rest of the way—slowly—until he reached her level.
Before she could step back or speak, he closed the distance in one stride.
His hand shot out—not hard, but fast—grabbing her wrist and spinning her gently but firmly until her back met the wall beside the staircase.
He pinned her there with his body—not crushing, but close enough that she couldn’t slip away without brushing against him. One forearm braced above her head on the wall, the other still loosely holding her wrist between them.
Blair’s breath stopped.
She looked up—eyes wide, startled.
Lucas leaned in—close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him.
“I know you heard me sleep-talking,” he said, voice low and rough. “In the study. I know you came in. I know you covered me with the blanket. I know you touched my face.”
Blair’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Don’t get your hopes high, Blair,” he continued. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was dreaming about someone else—someone who didn’t lie to me for five years. Someone who didn’t hide my son. Someone who didn’t walk out and then waltz back in like nothing happened.”
His grip on her wrist tightened—just a fraction—not painful, but enough to keep her attention.
“Remember why you’re here in the first place,” he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You’re here for Mave. That’s it. That’s the only reason those doors are still open to you. Don’t read anything else into it. Don’t think one blanket or one bowl of soup changes what happened between us. It doesn’t.”
Blair stared up at him—eyes glassy now, but she didn’t look away.
She just… nodded once barely there.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Lucas searched her face—waiting for the fight, the tears, the accusation.
None came.
She just looked… resigned.
He released her wrist slowly, like letting go hurt more than holding on.
Then he stepped back—putting space between them again.
“Go to bed,” he said quietly. “Mave will want you in the morning.”
Blair swallowed once.
She nodded again—silent—and turned toward the east wing corridor.
Lucas watched her walk away—back straight, steps even—until she disappeared around the corner.
Only then did he lean against the wall himself, head thumping back against the plaster, eyes closing.
He could still feel the ghost of her wrist under his fingers.
Could still hear his own sleep-slurred voice in his head.
Stay… don’t go again…
And hated how much he’d meant it—even in sleep.
Blair had finally fallen asleep sometime after 3 a.m.—exhaustion winning over the ache in her chest and the echo of Lucas’s cold words in the hallway. It was Saturday morning now; no school run, no early breakfast rush for Mave.
She’d allowed herself the rare luxury of sleeping in, curled on the narrow guest bed in the east wing, still wearing Lucas’s hoodie like armor.
She didn’t hear the door open.
Didn’t hear the soft footsteps.
Only felt the sudden, icy shock of water splashing across her face and chest.
She jolted upright with a sharp gasp, soaked, sputtering, eyes wide in confusion and instant panic.
“How dare you still sleep when the house is still a mess?” a stern voice snapped.
Blair blinked through dripping eyelashes.
The head maid—Mrs. Hargrove, a tall, iron-gray woman who’d run the Brooks household staff for twenty years—stood at the foot of the bed, empty pitcher in hand, face pinched with disapproval.
Blair wiped water from her eyes, heart hammering.
“I—I thought the mansion had workers for—”
Mrs. Hargrove cut her off with a sharp exhale.
“Don’t let the head of the mansion mad, Blair. Mrs. Patricia Brooks is awake, and she’s already in a mood. The foyer still has Mave’s backpack straps tangled, the breakfast room table hasn’t been cleared properly, and the east wing hallway looks like a child’s toy explosion. Get up. Wash your face. Go downstairs. Now.”
Blair’s stomach dropped.
She hadn’t realized Patricia expected her to handle housekeeping duties on top of everything else.
She scrambled out of bed—hoodie clinging wetly to her skin—rushed to the small attached bathroom, and splashed cold water on her already-soaked face. Her reflection stared back: pale, wide-eyed, hair plastered to her cheeks.
She changed quickly into dry jeans and a plain t-shirt from her small suitcase, pulled her wet hair into a messy bun, and hurried downstairs—barefoot, still shivering.
The formal breakfast room was already in use.
Patricia sat at the head of the long coffee cup raised to her lips. Olivia sat to her right—freshly made up, robe matching Patricia’s, posture mirroring the older woman’s. Both looked up as Blair entered.
Patricia set her cup down slowly.
“ The help is finally awake.”
Blair stopped just inside the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, eyes down.
Patricia turned to one of the younger maids standing silently near the sideboard.
“Tell me, Clara,” Patricia said pleasantly, “what is the usual punishment when one of the staff disobeys a direct order in this house?”