Chapter 129
Chapter 129:
The garden of the English Estate was a masterpiece of manicured nature. Roses bloomed in perfect rows, not a single petal out of place. Victoria English sat at a wrought-iron table, sipping tea from a bone china cup — a woman built of steel and hairspray in equal measure.
Charla sat opposite her, crying again.
“Hilliard hates me. He chose that trash over me,” she said, stirring her tea with agitated strokes. “He threatened to end the engagement p>
Victoria sipped her tea without offering any comfort. “Stop crying. It ruins your face. Puffy eyes are not a good look p>
“What do I do? He believes the child isn’t his,” Charla asked. “Or he pretends to p>
“If the child is not his, she is merely a nuisance,” Victoria said, her tone as measured as if she were analyzing a stock portfolio. “If she is his, she is a rival. In either case, the child is the anchor keeping Cailin here. She is a reason to keep fighting p>
“Remove the anchor, and the ship sails away.” Victoria smiled — a thin, cruel expression that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You mean… send the child away?” Charla asked, dabbing her face.
“I mean remove the problem. Permanently.” Victoria turned her gaze to the roses. “Or at minimum, remove it from the equation p>
Charla stiffened. “Murder p>
𝘑oin t𝘩𝗈𝘂𝘀𝘢n𝗱ѕ 𝗼𝘧 𝗳а𝘯ѕ 𝘰ո
“Accidents happen. Kidnappings happen. The world is a dangerous place,” Victoria said with a slight shrug. She reached into her purse and produced a small, plain white card. No name. Only a number. She slid it across the table.
“I know a man. A cleaner. He owes your father a favor.” She rose from her chair. “Do it. Secure your future. Or step aside and let Cailin win. The choice is yours — but don’t come crying to me when you lose the Holloway fortune p>
Charla stared at the card. The number seemed to pulse against the white surface. Something in her chest shifted — desperation hardening into resolve. She picked it up.
She dialed.
“I have a job,” she said when the line connected. Her voice was perfectly steady now. “A package needs to be lost p>
In the hospital emergency room, Cailin lay hooked up to an IV, the steady rhythm of the monitor the only sound inside the curtained cubicle.
“Severe exhaustion and pneumonia,” the doctor said, scribbling on a clipboard. “She needs rest — absolute bed rest for a minimum of forty-eight hours. Her immune system has crashed p>
“You are staying here,” Ashely said, planting herself with her arms crossed.
“I can’t. My kids —” Cailin tried to push herself upright, but the IV line pulled taut and her arms gave way beneath her. She was too weak to fight it.
“I have them. They are at school — I dropped them off an hour ago. It’s safer there than the apartment right now.” Ashely’s voice softened. “I’ll pick them up at three p>
“Promise me you won’t let them out of your sight,” Cailin said. Her eyes were glassy with fever, her grip on Ashely’s wrist feather-light.
“I promise. Rest.” Ashely pressed her lips briefly to Cailin’s forehead. “I’ll go get them now p>
She grabbed her keys and left the room.