Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Then I tell her everything. I spill it all in a frantic whisper, keeping my voice low so no one overhears. What Dora saw in the west wing, the syringe by Frances's bed, finding her unconscious, and how I want to tell Blake everything, the whole messed-up truth.
She cuts in sharply, her tone snapping like a whip. "Don't you dare— don’t you dare say a word to him or you’ll be in jail by morning, Juliet Redgrave! You have no proof. It's your word against her. No one will even believe you. And with everything happening at once, the police will look at you, the imposter, as the prime suspect. Please just wait, collect some evidence first. Find something solid that exonerates you."
Her words hit me hard, the logic slicing through the panic like a cold blade. I nod in agreement even though she can't see, tears slipping hot down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, smearing my makeup. Just then, Blake calls my name from the waiting room doorway. His voice is worried, laced with that edge of exhaustion, and it pulls me back like a lifeline I don't deserve.
“Coming,” I say and end the call.
Chapter Fifty-Two
JULIET
"Hey," I murmur as I return to him. I reach out, and when my hand finds his arm, my fingers curl around the sleeve of his jacket. I feel the warmth of him through the wool, and he lets out a shaky breath, pulling me close without a word, his arms wrapping around me like I'm the only thing holding him together.
"She's going to be okay," I whisper against his chest, my voice soft, trying to believe it myself, but the guilt's there, gnawing at the edges, making my stomach knot. If Frances doesn't pull through, it's on me.
He nods, but I feel the tension in him, his heart thudding hard against my ear, and he doesn't let go, just holds me tighter, his chin resting on my head, the stubble rough against my hair.
We wait like that, minutes stretching into what feels like hours, the clock on the wall ticking too loudly, the occasional nurse passing by with quiet footsteps, until a doctor finally comes back. He is tall, with wire-rimmed glasses and a white coat that's a little rumpled. I stop breathing when he starts to speak, and only after he tells us that she is going to be fine, do I resume, my hand going to my chest.
He tells us that they've got her stabilized in a room on the second floor. Relief floods Blake's face. Immediately, we hurry to her. That furrow between his brows remains as we head up in the elevator, and I want more than anything to smoothen it out, to assure him, but I don't dare. I have completely lost my confidence, especially now that I know it is only a matter of time before he finds out the truth and looks at me with disgust.
It is quiet in Frances's room. There is an adjustable bed with crisp white sheets, an IV stand dripping clear fluid, and monitors glowing with green lines tracking her heart, the faint beep-beep filling the air like a lifeline. She looks pale and waxy against the pillows, silver hair tucked back, but her chest rises and falls steadily now. Thank God, the oxygen mask is gone, just a nasal cannula whispering air into her nostrils.
Blake hurries to her and pulls up a chair right next to the bed, his hand covering hers gently, fingers tracing the veins on her knuckles like he's afraid she'll slip away if he looks elsewhere.
"Come on, Mom," he murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning forward, and I see the emotion cracking through him. The strong guy I know, but vulnerable now because of love. His eyes glisten as he watches her.
I hover by the door for a moment, hesitation gripping me because what if she wakes and sees me and thinks it was me who injected her, but then I decide to be brave and accept whatever consequences my actions have brought. I move closer and place my hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly, feeling the muscle tense then relax under my touch.
"She's a Bessant. And Bessants are fighters. She’ll make it," I say quietly, bending to kiss his temple, my lips lingering, the salt of his skin on them.
He nods, covering my hand with his free one, holding on like I'm his anchor too.
Time drags. The window shows the dark Hamptons night outside. Eventually, though, Frances stirs. Her eyelids flutter, and a soft groan escapes her pale lips as she comes to. Blake's up in an instant, relief washing over him like a wave, his face lighting up, and his eyes wide.
"Mom? Hey, it's me," he says, voice breaking a little, leaning in closer.