Chapter 43 43

Chapter 43 43
IRIS QUINN

I went upstairs to the bedroom and immediately checked for the file.

My hands were shaking slightly as I opened the suitcase, my pulse quickening until I saw the empty space where the envelope had been. Naomi had taken it. Relief flooded through me so quickly I had to sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment.

One less thing to worry about.

The smell of alcohol clung to my clothes and skin, making my stomach turn. I needed to wash it off before the hangover got worse. I stripped out of my clothes and stepped into the bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as I could stand.

The water helped. Slightly.

By the time I finished, my vision had stopped swimming quite so much, but I could still feel the alcohol working through my system. I dried off, pulled on comfortable pajamas and walked back into the bedroom.

I yanked the blinds shut and hit the light switch, plunging the room into a deep, merciful gray. I climbed into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling I couldn’t see. Moments later, the door opened.

I heard the shift in the room with footsteps that didn’t quite find their rhythm on the hardwood. Then, the light flicked on, temporarily blinding me.

I sat up, squinting and shielding my eyes. Caesar was leaning heavily against the doorframe, one hand braced against the wall as if the house were tilting. He mumbled something that barely resembled, “Why’d you turn off the light?”

He pushed off the wall with a jerky motion, moving toward the bathroom with careful, uncoordinated steps. I watched his silhouette disappear inside, followed by the heavy, hollow hiss of the shower turning on.

I sank back into the pillows, the silence of the room replaced by the white noise of the water.

Against my will, my mind drifted back to the gym. I saw him again, sitting on that cold floor with blood drying on his cheek. I knew Victor was a monster who played with lives like they were plastic pieces on a board, but what exactly had he done to his son?

A few minutes after the shower turned off, Caesar emerged, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He walked to the couch without looking at me and turned off the light again, plunging the room into darkness once more.

I heard the fabric creak as he settled his weight onto the cushions. Then, silence. I lay there, listening to the room breathe, convinced he’d already succumbed to the whiskey and the exhaustion until he spoke.

“What’s your birthday?”

The question caught me so off guard I almost laughed. “What?”

“Your birthday. When is it?”

I shifted, the sheets rustling as I turned toward the couch I couldn’t see. “Why? Are you going to buy me a cake?”

A shuffle. I got the distinct feeling he’d turned to face me, though I couldn’t be sure in the darkness.

“The gala is in four days,” he said. “As your husband, I should at least know my wife’s birthday.”

“How thoughtful,” I drawled, dragging the words out to hide the way my heart stuttered. “A regular romantic.”

He didn’t respond.

I shifted on the bed. “October 23rd.”

“Noted.”

“What about yours?”

“August 5th.”

I filed it away in my mind and shifted again, pulling the duvet tighter against the chill. “How did we fall in love?”

Silence.

“Caesar?”

“Hm?”

“I said, how did we fall in love? We need to be on the same page in case someone asks. It would be a bit of a giveaway if we couldn’t even agree on how the ‘magic’ happened.”

All I got in response was a quiet, non-committal hum. Then came the steady, rhythmic sound of deep breathing.

He’d fallen asleep.

I stared in the direction of the couch, irritated and somehow also not surprised. With a frustrated sigh, I closed my eyes and let the heavy pull of sleep finally drag me under.

\---

“Mr. Laurent?”

I turned in my sleep, the voice distant and muffled.

“Mr. Laurent? Mrs. Laurent?”

The knocking grew louder and more insistent, dragging me toward a consciousness I wasn't ready for. My eyes cracked open. My head throbbed immediately like a weight pressing down on my skull. The knocking continued, rapid now, almost frantic.

I pushed myself up slowly, every joint stiff, and stumbled toward the door. When I pulled it open, one of the staff stood there—a young woman whose name I didn’t know. She looked uneasy, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.

“What’s the issue?” I asked, my voice rough.

Before she could answer, Naomi appeared at the top of the stairs, running. She stopped beside the staff, her eyes wide and panicked.

“Your mother,” she said, the words coming out in breathless gasps. “She’s downstairs. She’s... she’s making a scene.”

The hangover didn't just fade; it evaporated, burned away by a sudden, freezing surge of adrenaline. I looked back into the room where Caesar was still sprawled on the couch, dead to the world.

Then I ran.

Naomi followed close behind as we descended the stairs. The noise hit me before I even reached the ground floor; the jagged sound of shouting, then something heavy and ceramic meeting a hard surface.

I rounded the corner into the living room and stopped.

It looked like a battlefield. An 18th-century vase lay in a hundred jagged pieces across the floor, white porcelain shards scattered like bone fragments as water pooled in a dark stain near the fireplace.

In the center of the wreckage stood my mother.

Her chest was heaving, her breath coming in ragged, audible hitches. Her hair, usually pinned into a seamless coil, was disheveled, strands sticking to the sweat on her forehead. Her eyes were wild and red-rimmed, darting around the room as if she didn't recognize where she was.

She looked like a ghost.

This wasn’t the woman who raised me. My mother didn’t break things or make scenes. She was the woman who hosted charity galas and smiled at everyone with perfect posture and perfectly applied lipstick. She was a master of the mask.

But the mask was gone. This woman looked like she’d been hollowed out from the inside, leaving nothing but a raw, bleeding nerve.

Victor stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, his expression a mix of disappointment and barely restrained fury.

“Mom.” I rushed to her, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her eyes were sunken, dark circles carved deep beneath them. She looked through me more than at me.

“Is this truly how you plan on repaying me for the mercy I showed your family?” Victor’s gaze landed on me. “Have you lost your mind, Margaret?”

“Yes!” my mother shouted, her voice cracking. “Yes, I’ve lost my mind!”

She yanked herself out of my grip, stumbling over a shard of porcelain as she turned to face him.

“I took insult after insult from you to save my husband. To save the company he spent his life building. And even when he passed—” Her voice broke. “—I still tried to understand. Still tried to hope things would get better. But what? You try to frame me? For what?”

Victor approached slowly, hands still behind his back. “The nurse claimed to benefit from your charity foundation, Margaret. The evidence is—”

“Which nurse?” my mother screamed, her chest heaving. “Bring her to me! Let her say it to my face that I ordered such a thing!”

Victor cleared his throat and looked at me, his eyes devoid of empathy. “Iris. Take your mother out before I reconsider the kindness I’ve shown your family.”

I ground my teeth and moved toward her, reaching for her trembling arm. “Mom, come on—”

“The nurse is right, though.”

Everyone went still. The staff, Naomi, Victor—even the air in the room seemed to freeze. My mother’s eyes widened, the wildness in them replaced by a sudden, terrifying clarity.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

My mother forced my hand off her arm and stepped closer to him. “My husband did die because of foul play. And only one person benefitted from his death.”

Victor’s demeanor instantly darkened. “Do you really believe I killed my dear friend?”

“Don’t call him that!” My mother’s hand shot up, finger pointed directly at Victor’s face. “Don’t you dare call him that. You destroyed him. You humiliated him. You took everything from him. What more do you want?”

She stepped even closer, her voice dropping to something I’d never heard from her before.

“Try any more tricks, Victor, and I swear I’ll make you pay. I have nothing left to lose now.”

“Mom, that’s enough.” I grabbed her arm again, harder this time. “Naomi!”

Naomi rushed forward.

I turned to her, my voice low and urgent. “Take her home and stay with her. I’ll call you later.”

Naomi nodded and gently took my mother’s other arm. My mother didn’t fight us. She just stared at Victor with hollow, burning eyes as we led her toward the door.

And Victor stared back silently.

Waiting.