Chapter 138 Blood and Water
Victoria's POV
Dr. Whitmore's hand clamped around my wrist, but not to stop me—to pull me closer.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Ms. Astor," he murmured, his breath hot against my neck.
I let my fingers trail higher on his thigh with my left hand—my right was useless, the broken fingers throbbing. I felt him harden beneath the fabric of his trousers.
"Maybe I like danger," I whispered, pressing my palm against his erection.
His grip loosened. The car swerved slightly as his attention wavered between the road and my hand sliding toward his belt buckle.
"We shouldn't—" he started, but I cut him off by stroking him through the fabric.
"No one has to know," I breathed against his ear. "Just pull over. I need you inside me."
He groaned, and I knew I had him.
The car veered onto a dirt road, hidden by overgrown trees. Perfect. Isolated. No cameras, no witnesses.
Dr. Whitmore killed the engine and turned to me, his professional mask completely shattered. "Christ, you're beautiful," he breathed, reaching for me.
I let him kiss me, his hands fumbling with the buttons of my blouse. When he pushed my bra up and cupped my bare breast, I gasped—the touch sent a jolt through me, but my focus remained razor-sharp.
My left hand slid behind me, fingers closing around the heavy Maglite flashlight wedged in the door pocket.
"Touch me lower," I whispered against his mouth, guiding his hand to the zipper of my skirt.
He was too far gone to notice my other hand lifting the flashlight. Too distracted by pushing my skirt up to my waist.
I brought the flashlight down hard against his temple.
The crack was sickeningly loud. Dr. Whitmore's body jerked, his hands falling away from me. Blood bloomed across his silver hair, dark and wet.
But he wasn't unconscious. His eyes found mine, wide with shock and betrayal, and he lunged.
His fingernails raked across my left cheek as I twisted away. The pain was white-hot, immediate. I felt skin tear, felt warm blood trickling down my jaw.
"You fucking—" he choked out, grabbing for my throat.
I swung again with my left hand, my broken right clutched uselessly against my chest. This time I aimed for the back of his skull, putting all my weight behind it despite the screaming pain in my ribs.
The impact reverberated up my arm. He slumped forward against the steering wheel.
The horn blared.
I shoved him back with my good hand, my heart hammering. His chest still rose and fell—shallow, labored breaths. Not dead yet.
I couldn't stop now.
I raised the flashlight a third time, a fourth. Each blow sent fresh spatters of blood across the dashboard. His breathing turned to wet, gurgling sounds.
Then—silence.
I sat frozen, the flashlight slipping from my trembling fingers. Dr. Whitmore's head lolled at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring at nothing. Blood pooled in his lap, soaking into his cardigan.
Oh God. What had I done?
But there was no going back now.
I forced myself to breathe. To think.
The car was hidden from the road. Dr. Whitmore had told Adrian we'd be two hours—I still had time.
I knew these roads from weekends at the Sterling estate. There was a lake about fifteen minutes north—deep, isolated, surrounded by state forest.
His phone lay on the center console. I grabbed it and pulled up the last message—Adrian Stone.
With trembling fingers, I typed: Patient having severe episode. Extending evaluation. Will update in 3 hours.
I hit send, then powered the phone off.
Now. Move the body.
I grabbed Dr. Whitmore under the arms and tried to drag him across the console into the driver's seat. The first attempt failed—my broken hand screamed in agony, and my ribs sent white-hot spikes of pain through my chest.
I repositioned myself, bracing my good shoulder against the passenger door. This time I hooked my left arm under his armpit and used my legs to push against the floor while pulling. The movement sent fire through my ribs, but slowly—agonizingly—his body shifted across the console.
Halfway through, I had to stop. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. Blood from my cheek dripped onto his shirt.
By the time I finally got him positioned behind the wheel, I was shaking uncontrollably. I fastened the seatbelt around him with trembling fingers.
The drive to the lake felt endless. Every car that passed sent my pulse spiking, convinced they'd see the blood. But the tinted windows hid everything.
When I finally reached the turnoff to the lake, I nearly sobbed with relief.
The access road was overgrown, barely visible. I navigated carefully, avoiding the security camera at the main entrance by taking the old service road instead.
The lake appeared through the trees—black and still, like a sheet of glass. I could see the boat ramp sloping steeply into the water. Perfect.
I parked at the top of the ramp and killed the engine. Silence pressed in around me, broken only by the soft lap of water against the shore.
I climbed out, my heels sinking into the muddy ground. My whole body was shaking now—adrenaline crash, shock, pain.
I circled to the driver's side and opened the door. Dr. Whitmore's body slumped toward me, held in place only by the seatbelt.
I grabbed the hem of my ruined blouse and used it to wipe down the passenger side door handle, the console, anywhere I might have left prints.
Dr. Whitmore's phone. I pulled it from my purse and smashed it against the concrete edge of the boat ramp until the screen shattered completely. The pieces went into the lake with small splashes.
My own phone followed—powered off, SIM card snapped in half, thrown as far as I could manage with my good arm.
Now the car.
I put it in neutral and positioned myself at the open driver's door. I reached across Dr. Whitmore's body—trying not to look at his ruined skull—and released the parking brake.
I placed my left hand on the doorframe and pushed. The car shifted slightly.
I braced my feet against the concrete and shoved with everything I had. Pain exploded through my ribs, but the BMW started to roll.
Slowly at first, then faster as gravity took over. I gave one final push and stumbled backward.
The BMW hit the water with a tremendous splash. For a moment it floated, the headlights glowing beneath the surface like twin eyes. Dr. Whitmore's body visible through the windshield, still strapped in the driver's seat.
Then it sank.
I watched until the roof disappeared, until there was nothing left but ripples spreading across the lake.
Gone. All of it—the car, the body, the evidence.
But I was free.
The walk back to the main road took over an hour. My heels were ruined within the first ten minutes, so I kicked them off and went barefoot. Branches tore at my clothes, at my skin.
By the time I reached the edge of the forest, I was covered in mud and blood. My feet were bleeding. My broken hand had swollen to twice its normal size.
But I was alive.
A strange calm settled over me as I stood there in the darkness.
"Don't blame me," I said aloud to the empty woods. "Blame yourself for being unlucky."
I touched the cut on my cheek, felt the warm blood still trickling down my jaw. It would scar. A permanent reminder of tonight.
Good.
Let it remind me that I was still here. Still standing. Still capable of doing whatever it took to survive.
I started walking along the shoulder of the main road, keeping to the shadows. A gas station glowed in the distance—maybe two miles. I could make it. I'd clean up in the bathroom, call an Uber with cash, get somewhere safe.
And then I'd plan.
Because Julian thought he'd won. Thought he'd locked me away where I couldn't hurt anyone.
He had no idea what was coming.
A slow smile spread across my face despite the pain.
"Julian," I whispered to the darkness. "Since you've shown me no mercy, don't expect me to show any to the woman you love."
Elena thought she was safe. Thought she'd won.
But I wasn't finished with her yet.
Not even close.