Chapter 12
The image of the doctor’s lifeless body striking the ground clung to my mind like a shadow that refused to fade.
For days, it lingered, replaying in sharp, relentless detail–the sickening thud, the way his body collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, and when my body finally gave in to exhaustion, it was more from sheer collapse than true rest.
Through it all, Wesley stayed by my side. He shadowed me with quiet concern, his watchful eyes betraying a worry he didn’t even bother to mask.
“You okay?” he asked one evening, his voice soft, his hand brushing against mine in a
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touch meant to steady.
I nodded, my tone deliberately firm. “I’m fine. And there’s no way I’m missing the auction.”
His brow creased, skepticism etched into every line of his expression, but I didn’t pause long enough for him to voice an argument.
“This auction is our best chance to dig deeper into what happened to the doctor,‘ I said, leaning forward with conviction. “It has to have been Quentin. He killed him to cover his tracks–so there would be no one left to expose what he did to my mother. If we don’t prove it, he’ll walk free.”
Wesley exhaled, a long, reluctant sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “Fine,” he conceded, though his concern still colored his tone. “But promise me you’ll take care of yourself.
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And the baby.”
My hand reflexively went to my stomach, his words momentarily pulling me away from my anger. “I will,” I murmured, quieter now.
A knock at the door broke the moment. One of Wesley’s staff stepped in, his eyes darting between the two of us.
“There’s news” he said, the weight of his words palpable even before he spoke again. “Gareth and Quentin–they’re at each other’s throats. It’s public now. Their feud is ripping their companies apart.”
“Let them destroy each other,” I said, leaning back with a smirk that felt almost cathartic. “The more damage they do, the better.”
Wesley’s lips curved into a matching smile, though his was tinged with calculation.
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“We’ll let them fight, but we can’t take our eyes off Quentin. He’s the real threat.”
The staff member hesitated, shifting on his heels. “There’s more,” he added. “Delilah and
Gareth… their divorce is official.”
My smile widened, the news hitting all the right notes in my mind. “Good. She’s finally reaping what she’s sown.”
But the next bit of news didn’t land as satisfying.
“Without a witness, the judge says there’s no probable cause for charges. They’re claiming the documents are forged. With no one to verify their authenticity… there’s no case.”
The rising anger inside me was immediate, my fists clenching as I forced down a growl of frustration. “Of course. How convenient
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for them,” I bit out.
Wesley, however, seemed almost unsurprised, his features calm but
contemplative. “If the law isn’t willing to play fair,” he said slowly, “then maybe it’s time we make sure it does.”
I glanced at him, catching the edge in his voice, the subtext clear. “You’re suggesting we pay off the judge?”
“Why not?” he said, his tone chillingly casual, though his eyes burned with intent. “Quentin isn’t afraid to play dirty. Neither should we.”
The idea planted itself in my mind, silent but stubborn, like a weed taking root in fertile soil. I didn’t respond, but the thought lingered, growing more tempting by the second.
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By the time the auction rolled around that evening, my focus had shifted. The hall was a hive of activity, pulsing with the hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne. glasses. High–profile investors, media, and socialites filled the room, their polished smiles hiding sharp intentions.
But when Wesley stepped in at my side, the atmosphere shifted atop its axis. It was as if an unseen spotlight followed him, silencing the crowd with his presence. Whispers started immediately.
“That’s his wife?”
“She’s a dead ringer for Iris Keaton.”
“No way. Iris’s six feet under.”
I kept my head held high, my hand resting lightly on Wesley’s arm. The faint curve of
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my belly was hard to miss, and the moment it caught their attention, the gossip hit a
fever pitch.
“They’re… expecting?”
“Is that why he’s bee
so secretive lately?”
The press wasted no time. Cameras surrounded us, flashes igniting like fireworks as questions flew in rapid–fire succession.
“Mr. Dorne, is this your wife?”
“Mrs. Dorne, people are saying you’re Iris Keaton. Care to comment?”
“Are the rumors about your pregnancy true?”
Wesley’s grip on my hand tightened–a subtle, grounding reassurance–and his voice, smooth as polished silver, cut through
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the chaos. “I can assure you, my wife is not Iris Keaton. This is Lyra Dorne. Any resemblance is purely coincidence.”
I nodded alongside him, keeping my face impassive, a study in composure. “We’re here for the auction,” I added, my voice calm but firm. “Please respect our privacy.”
The barrage of questions started to die down, muted by Wesley’s firm responses. But then, just as the crowd began to retreat, a single voice shattered the relative calm.
“IRIS!”
The name hung in the air, sharp and electrified. My heart froze.
I turned instinctively–just in time to see Quentin shoving his way through the sea of people, his eyes locked on me.
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Before I could move, before I could even think, he reached me. His arms closed around me in a grip that felt suffocating, his embrace staged perfectly for the cameras that exploded around us in a frenzy of flashes.
My breath hitched, a storm of dread and fury swelling within me as the world around us descended into chaos. The headlines, it seemed, were already writing themselves.
