Chapter 267
Rosita told Daisy to wait for her outside the Antiquarian Society with the car running.
When she emerged, she slid into the back seat and said, “Take me straight to the airport.“.
Daisy gaped at her in shock. “Rosita, are you leaving the country?”
Rosita, already rummaging through her bag for a change of clothes, began slipping out of her current outfit. “I’ve wrapped up all my scenes with the production,” she explained, pulling on a simple, elegant dress. “I want to study abroad for a while, and the agency worked everything out. I’ll probably be gone for a year or two.”
“Two years?” Daisy’s surprise turned to dismay, and her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “But what about me…?”
“Talk to Jean,” Rosita said, fastening her dress. “I’ve already spoken to her. She’ll have you assist with some of the other clients for now. When I get back, you’ll come work with me again.”
Daisy’s face brightened with relief. She’d grown fond of working with Rosita, and the idea that they’d be reunited someday made everything easier to bear.
Rosita tossed her old clothes into a bag.
At the airport, she said her goodbyes to Daisy, then turned and strode inside without looking back.
In the private terminal, Garry’s right–hand man, Larson, was waiting for her.
“Ms. Lockwood,” Larson greeted her with a slight bow. “Mr. Ferguson arranged a private jet. We’ll be flying straight to Westenmar.”
Rosita handed him the bag with her clothes. “Find someone to donate these for me.”
Larson took the bag with a nod. “Understood.”
Rosita slipped on a pair of sunglasses. “Let’s go.”
Larson led her inside.
Ten minutes later, the jet was climbing smoothly into the clouds.
In the cabin, Rosita swirled a glass of red wine, a cold smile playing on her lips. She thought the blood pooling beneath Briony looked even more striking than the wine in her glass.
As the plane soared through the sky, Rosita drained her wine and set the glass aside. From her purse, she withdrew a psychology book, leaned back, and began to read, completely at ease.
Stewart and Carl had barely stepped off their own flight when Carl’s phone buzzed.
“Ms. Kensington and Mrs. Winslow went to the Antiquarian Society. Apparently, Ms. Lockwood hurt her hand, so the last close–up is being filmed with Ms. Kensington as her stand–in.”
“Got it,” Carl replied. “Keep an eye on things and update us right away if anything changes.”
He hung up and relayed the news to Stewart.
Stewart’s eyelid twitched–once, then again, stronger each time. Briony was with Gwendolyn and the rest; there shouldn’t be any trouble. Still, an uneasy feeling gnawed at him.
“Let’s go to the Antiquarian Society. Now,” Stewart ordered.
“On it,” Carl said, and jogged to the parking lot to fetch the car.
It was a twenty–minute drive, but Stewart’s anxiety mounted with every passing second.
“Step on it,” he urged.
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Carl didn’t know what was fueling Stewart’s urgency, but he pressed the accelerator anyway, shaving the trip down to twelve minutes.
They had barely parked when Carl’s phone rang again.
“Ms. Kensington’s been hurt!” The words came out in a panicked rush.
Carl’s expression changed. “What happened?”
In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder.
Stewart’s heart clenched, dread swelling until it drowned out everything else. He didn’t hesitate–he flung the door open and ran straight into the Antiquarian Society.
He didn’t have to search. A crowd had already gathered in the corridor outside the restrooms.
Behind him, paramedics rushed in, pushing a stretcher. “Make way! Step aside, please!”
The air was thick with chaos–shouting, confusion.
Irwin was jostled by the crowd, the large man stumbling but regaining his footing.
As the onlookers parted, Stewart saw it: blood everywhere, bright against the polished floor.
Briony lay slumped in Gwendolyn White’s arms, her face ashen, streaked with sweat and tears.
The paramedics gently moved her onto the stretcher. She bit her lip in pain, and fresh blood instantly stained
the white sheets.
The stretcher lifted, leaving a trail of red drops behind.
Stewart stood frozen, watching as they carried Briony away. Everywhere she passed, the blood she left behind
burned in his vision.
The always–composed Attorney Wentworth was utterly paralyzed, his mind blank. The sight of all that blood triggered something deep inside him: echoes of explosions, the deafening roar of gunfire.
In his memory, someone had shielded him with their own body–shots fired, hot blood spraying his face…
Sirens wailed, gunfire echoed, and Stewart was trapped in a nightmare loop–unable to distinguish reality from
memory.
Only when Briony was loaded into the ambulance did the spell break. A medic shouted urgently, “Family member! We need someone to come with her!”
Startled into action, Stewart lurched forward. “I’m the father-”
“Not him!” Briony’s scream tore through the air. “He’s not the father! Don’t let him in–please, don’t let him in!”
Her distress sent her bleeding into overdrive.
“Easy, please, you’re only making it worse!” the nurse pleaded desperately. “Is there any other family here? Quickly! The patient’s hemorrhaging–someone who can calm her down!”
“I–I’m her mother!” Gwendolyn White, supported by Carney, rushed over, tears streaming down her face. “That’s my daughter. I’ll go with her!”
“Come on, let’s go!” the medic called.
Gwendolyn climbed into the ambulance, clutching Briony’s hand. “Bryn, I’m here, darling. Don’t be afraid. We’ll get to the hospital and everything will be alright…”
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