Chapter 53

Chapter 53:

Rhys was chained to a chair.

Hands cuffed. Ankles shackled. His designer shirt wrinkled beyond salvation. The cops had rattled off a laundry list of charges: “Theft. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Assault. Disturbing the peace. Kidnapping p>

Rhys screeched, “You’ve got it all wrong! That’s my fiancée! We just had a little lovers’ spat, that’s all p>

One of the officers didn’t even look up from his notes. “You stole a passcard to Oakwood Apartments. Broke into her flat. Dragged her out against her will. That’s not a spat, Mr. Granger. That’s criminal trespass. And according to our records, she’s not your fiancée. You two broke off the engagement. You’re strangers p>

Rhys opened his mouth, closed it, then blinked. Hard.

Technically true. But still, a bit harsh.

“Look at me!” he whined. “I’m the one bleeding! Check out the bruises! I’m the real victim here. Arrest Ashton Laurent while you’re at it—he’s the one who smashed my face in p>

Another officer raised an eyebrow. “Given the circumstances, it looks a lot like self-defense p>

Rhys groaned like his soul had been kicked in the nuts.

He sagged against the chair.

“Can I at least post bail? I need a hospital. If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna die of internal bleeding or whatever p>

“You’ll live. Sit tight.” The officer shot him a flat look and left the room with the others.

Apparently, someone upstairs wanted to make an example of him.

Top-tier treatment, maximum punishment. No way he was getting out anytime soon.

Across town, Clive Granger found out what happened and went absolutely nuclear.

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“Get him out,” he barked at his assistant.

The assistant tried.

All day.

No luck.

Clive knew someone was pulling strings behind the scenes. He sighed, yanked on his coat, and decided to grovel in person.

Three days.

That’s how long it took to call in favors, bend over backwards, and kiss ass from one end of Skyline to the other. But finally, he got Rhys out.

Rhys had barely stepped into the car before Clive slapped him so hard his vision pixelated. “Useless piece of shit p>

Rhys, already looking like he’d been thrown down an escalator, clutched his face and whimpered. “Dad, seriously, it wasn’t my fault. Ashton set me up p>

“Shut your mouth! Drive to the hospital,” he told the driver, then turned back to Rhys with a snarl. “What the hell were you thinking? You picked a fight with Ashton bloody Laurent p>

Rhys flailed weakly. “I didn’t! He beat the crap out of me unprovoked p>

“You think I don’t know what you were doing at Oakwood?” Clive shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “I told you how to spin the story. Direct the heat on Mirabelle. You can’t even do that right! What do I have to do, write you a damn script p>

His tone dropped, serious now. “Leave Mirabelle alone for now. I’m booking you into a hospital. Stay there and heal up. And for the love of God, don’t cause another scandal p>

“Yeah, yeah… got it p>

Clive hired a full-time nurse to watch over Rhys and very intentionally barred Louisa and Willow from visiting.

Rhys lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling.

Catherine had been calling him nonstop, leaving increasingly frantic voice messages.

He’d replied with a curt “I’m fine,” then shut off his phone before she could ask him again if he preferred Éze or Nice.

As if he could be going anywhere anytime soon.

It hurt for him to sit up, to wince, even to spit.

The more he thought about it, the more his blood boiled.

He hadn’t even thrown a punch, and now his whole body felt like it had been run over by a garbage truck.

Meanwhile, Mirabelle got to waltz around town looking smug, probably shopping for her wedding dress.

She was the reason Rhys was bleeding, yet somehow, she came out of it squeaky clean.

Rage crawled under his skin like ants. Screw what his father said.

He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Rhys yanked out his phone and opened the group chat with his closest friends—his inner circle.

Rhys: [Mirabelle ran off with someone else. Wedding’s off. I’m done.] Message sent.

Boom. It was like setting off a grenade in a crowded room.

The group chat lit up.

Montgomery Hayes was the first to bite.

Monty Hayes: [Wait, what the hell? Mirabelle cheated on you p>

More messages flooded in:

[She used to follow you around everywhere. What’d you do to piss her off this time p>

[Didn’t we bet she’d come crawling back in, like, three days? And now she’s run off with someone else p>

[Is this a joke? @Rhys, did you get blackout drunk again p>

Rhys stabbed his thumbs at the screen.

Rhys: [I’M NOT drunk. Mirabelle screwed me over. She’s been sneaking around with some random guy. The engagement’s off. So’s the wedding. You can burn the invites p>

There was no way he was dropping Ashton’s name.

Hell no. That was suicide by group chat.

So he kept it vague.

The bait worked.

[Damn. So much for her good girl act. Mira’s got game p>

[Always thought she looked too innocent. Those are the sneakiest ones p>

[Fact: women always cheat p>

[Sorry, bro. You’ll find somebody better p>

[Yeah, like Cathy. She’s back in town, isn’t she p>

[Forget Mira, bro. Come out tonight, let’s hit the new strip club on 8th p>

Rhys watched the accusations stack up.

Every insult, every dig, every emoji-flavored roast—it was healing.

He recorded a voice note, deliberately raspy, half-sniffle, half-Oscar reel.

Rhys: [She lied to me, guys… properly wrecked me. I gave her everything, and she just… yeah. Guess I wasn’t enough. I’m not in the mood to hang out. Just leave me alone for a while, okay?] And send.