Chapter 93

Chapter 93:

Ashton was already moving before the maid had finished speaking.

He took the stairs four at a time, reaching the second floor in mere seconds.

Without stopping to catch his breath, he shoved open the bedroom door.

Mirabelle was buried under a pile of thick duvets, her face flushed scarlet. Her skin had been bloodless just half an hour ago—ghost-pale and ice-cold after she’d nearly drowned.

Now she looked like she was overheating from the inside out.

Her eyes were screwed tightly shut.

“She started heating up a while ago,” the maid behind him stammered. “I got a thermometer… it’s forty degrees and climbing p>

Ashton strode over and pressed the back of his hand to her cheek.

She wasn’t just burning up; her skin was scalding.

Without hesitation, he picked her up—duvet and all—cradled her to his chest, and turned on his heel.

“Hospital. Now p>

Downstairs, the room buzzed with shocked whispers, but Ashton barely registered them.

He swept through the hallway, his footsteps thudding over the marble floor, and vanished through the front doors without sparing a glance back.

The driver had already pulled up.

Ashton slid into the back seat with Mirabelle in his arms, and the car peeled off a moment later, tires screeching faintly against the cobblestones.

Inside the mansion, the stunned silence didn’t last long.

“He left? Just like that?” someone whispered.

“It’s the old Mr. Laurent’s birthday, for God’s sake. Ashton’s the head of the family. What happens to the party now p>

“The old man’s still here. The show must go on, right p>

𝓥𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭:

In the middle of the chaos, Isobel was still kneeling on the floor like some half-forgotten prop.

No one knew what to do with her.

No one wanted to be the first to ask.

Then the sound of a cane hitting the floor snapped through the chatter. Edouard Laurent appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression thunderous.

He thumped the cane once more for effect.

“Enough. All this noise. What are you, chickens in a bloody coup p>

Even now, even retired, even half out of the family business, the old man’s presence sucked the air out of the room.

He scowled, muttering under his breath. “Finally get the family together, and that ungrateful brat walks out in the middle of it. The boy clearly doesn’t give a damn what this old man thinks p>

Next to him, Declan shrugged his shoulders. “Not his fault, pop. Blame Quentin’s psycho girlfriend. She started it. Big bro’s not gonna sit through dinner while his girl’s dying of a fever or whatever p>

Edouard’s expression darkened.

He knew Ashton wasn’t the problem.

But ditching a family event for a woman chafed at his pride.

His gaze landed on the wreck still kneeling on the floor.

“You think this is a bloody street market?” he barked. “Dragging strays into the ancestral home like it’s a bloody dog shelter p>

Quentin’s mother paled.

She looked like she might throw up or faint.

“I’m sorry. Uncle Edouard. We’ll get her out of here immediately p>

She lunged forward and snatched Isobel’s arm. “Get up! You’re humiliating all of us p>

Isobel said nothing.

Her face was a raw, streaked mess of mascara and blood, smeared from where she’d slapped herself until her skin cracked.

Her designer heels had snapped.

Her dress clung, damp and crumpled.

She didn’t react to the shouting or the shoving.

Edouard slammed his cane again, loud enough to make the crystal chandelier rattle. “All of you—out p>

Quentin and his parents froze for half a second.

Then bolted.

Quentin grabbed Isobel by the elbow, dragging her limp form out the double doors like luggage with a broken handle.

Inside the back of the Rolls, Mirabelle was wrapped so tightly in a duvet she looked half-mummified, but her body still shuddered like she’d been left outside in a blizzard.

“Faster,” Ashton barked at the driver.

Mirabelle’s hand was a limp, burning thing in his.

Ashton hated how light it felt. Hated the tremble in her jaw, the way her teeth tapped faintly behind her lips.

His chest felt like someone had cinched a steel cable around it and started cranking.

He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek.

Her skin pulsed with heat.

“You afraid of water?” he asked, quiet now, the way he only ever spoke when it was her.

She wasn’t fully out.

Her eyes were closed, lashes clumped from the pool water, but her lips moved. “Scared… yeah p>

Ashton pulled her closer until her forehead nudged the hollow beneath his collarbone. “Why p>

She mumbled, slow like her brain was lagging a few seconds behind, the fever turning her words sticky.

“Drowned… once. In high school p>

Ashton stilled.

She shifted against him, instinctively curling into his body, cooler than hers.

Her cheek pressed against his chest.

Through the duvet, he felt her soft curves, the fine tremble of her ribs with every breath.

She smelled like chlorine and hot chocolate.

He touched her face again.

Still boiling.

His palm hovered for a second before settling on her cheekbone, gentle.

“Was Isobel Brooke there? Back in high school p>

Mirabelle’s brow furrowed like someone had tugged at a dream she didn’t want to look at.

“Yeah… yeah, she was p>

Ashton’s expression iced over. “She pushed you in p>

Mirabelle blinked slowly.

Her pupils barely tracked.

She was trying to remember, her face scrunched up with the effort.

Ashton stroked her arm. “It’s okay. Never mind that now. Don’t talk. Don’t think p>

“Where… we going p>

“To the hospital p>

She frowned. “Don’t like… hospitals p>

He wanted to ask why not, but Mirabelle had already drifted somewhere else.

In broken fragments—half-formed, jumbled, slurred—she started mumbling into his chest.

He had to tilt his head down, almost pressing his ear to her lips just to catch it.

Bits and pieces slipped out: Isobel. The drink. The creep waiting for her at some derelict building.

And then the worst part—almost drowning in that river, her lungs full of water, no one to help.

Ashton listened, his face carved from stone.

He regretted it now, regretted not breaking his own rule about not laying a hand on a woman, not even one like Isobel.

He should’ve done it.

Should’ve put her on the ground back at that party when he had the chance.

His thoughts spiraled, darker by the second, veering into places he usually kept chained up and buried deep.

Until the sharp wail of an ambulance siren cut through, snapping him back.