Chapter 115
Anna stood beside me, listening to the gossip, a flash of schadenfreude flickering across her face.
She raised a champagne flute and clinked it against mine. "Don't mind them. Just a bunch of bitter old hens."
I ignored her false sympathy, merely holding my glass while my gaze swept through the sea of designer gowns and expensive jewelry, searching for any possible escape route.
Just then, a young woman in a plain maid's uniform passed by, carrying a tray with her head lowered. The moment she brushed past me, she hesitated, then murmured in a voice barely audible: "Miss Windsor."
My heart lurched. My fingers tightened around the champagne flute.
I turned my head. She kept her eyes downcast, long bangs obscuring most of her face, making her expression unreadable. Only a pale, tense jawline was visible beneath the curtain of hair.
The guests around us continued their revelry, oblivious to this silent exchange in the corner.
Anna was busy showing off her new Patek Philippe to some socialite, completely unaware of what was happening beside her.
This was a gamble.
It could be Anna's arranged escape route. Or it could be a trap set by one of the Lowe family's enemies.
My mind raced, weighing the risks. Staying here meant slow suffocation under Lawrence's deranged possessiveness. Going with her might offer a sliver of hope.
I drained the champagne in one gulp, the cold liquid sliding down my throat, doing nothing to extinguish the desperate fire burning in my chest.
I set down the glass and gave the maid a slight nod, my voice carefully neutral. "Lead the way."
She exhaled in visible relief and melted back into the flow of circulating servers. I followed at a discreet distance, playing the part of a guest simply heading to the powder room.
We passed through the cacophonous ballroom and down a quiet corridor carpeted in thick Persian rugs.
Every nerve in my body was wound tight, each step like walking on knife edges. From the corner of my eye, I catalogued every security camera, every exit, committing the layout to memory.
The maid finally stopped before a sitting room door.
She pushed it open and gestured for me to enter, but didn't follow. Instead, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.
I took a deep breath and walked in.
The room held none of the violence I'd braced for—only opulent, oppressive silence.
A woman in a dark purple gown stood with her back to me before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gracefully sipping tea from delicate china.
She appeared to be in her early fifties, impeccably maintained, radiating the refined authority of someone long accustomed to power.
At the sound of my footsteps, she slowly turned around.
Her face bore the unmistakable marks of expensive preservation, and in the arch of her brows and the set of her features, I saw a disturbing seven-tenths resemblance to Lawrence—minus those wickedly charming eyes, replaced instead by the cold calculation that comes with age and privilege.
Lawrence's mother. Shirley Lowe.
Any lingering hope of escape evaporated the instant I recognized her.
"So you're Emily." Shirley set her teacup down with a delicate clink.
She appraised me from head to toe with the detached scrutiny one might give livestock, her eyes radiating contempt that surpassed anything I'd faced in the ballroom.
"What spell did you cast over my son?" She got straight to the point, her tone glacial. "To make him defy the entire family for a disgraced woman like you? I hear he's even considering marrying you."
Marriage?
The word detonated in my mind like a bomb.
"I didn't—" I started to protest, my lawyer's instinct demanding I refute this absurd accusation.
"Shut up!" Shirley snapped, cutting me off. She had no interest in my explanations. "I don't care what tricks you used or what scheme you're running. Now, immediately, you will disappear from my son's life."
She stepped closer, her eyes—level with mine—burning with aristocratic disdain. "I'll give you money. Enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your pathetic life. Take it, get out of New York, and never show your face again."
I stared at her, but instead of humiliation, my mind pivoted to strategy.
This was an opportunity. A far more reliable one than Anna's flimsy plan.
"Fine. I accept." I met her startled gaze and nodded.
My ready agreement clearly caught her off guard. She blinked, then sneered. "Smart girl."
"But I have one condition." I held her gaze steadily. "I need your help. Lawrence watches me like a hawk. I can't leave that villa on my own. If you truly want me gone, you'll have to personally ensure I get out."
I positioned myself as the victim—a woman held captive by her obsessed son, desperate for freedom.
Shirley's eyes narrowed as she reassessed me, calculating whether I was telling the truth.
She knew her son's nature well enough. My story fit.
"Very well." She exhaled through her nose in cold agreement.
For her, the method didn't matter—only my disappearance.
She turned toward the telephone, reaching for the receiver, presumably to summon someone who could facilitate my exit.
My heart hammered wildly. Freedom. Right there. Within reach.
But then—
The ornate wooden door exploded inward with a violent crash.
Lawrence stood silhouetted against the hallway light, radiating barely contained fury. He'd clearly just finished with the family elders and immediately discovered my absence.
His devastatingly handsome face was contorted with a storm about to break.
His gaze swept the room with predatory speed. When it landed on me standing beside his mother, something volcanic erupted in his eyes.
He charged forward, seized my wrist before I could react, and yanked me behind him with brutal possessiveness—a gesture that somehow combined protection with ownership.
"Mother," he said, his voice laced with ice as he glared at Shirley. "Who gave you permission to touch what's mine?"