Chapter 3

The police cruiser jerked to a stop in front of the precinct. Grace pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the harsh glare of the streetlights. Her ankle throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, but she forced herself to walk normally as she entered the chaotic, noisy lobby of the station.

She sat on a cold metal bench for twenty minutes before a female detective called her name. Grace detailed the events in the VIP lounge with clinical precision. She didn't cry. She didn't shake. She simply stated the facts and pulled up her pant leg to let the detective photograph the bloody cut on her ankle.

"We've dispatched officers to the hotel to pull the hallway footage," the detective said, closing her notepad.

Half an hour later, the heavy glass doors of the precinct swung open. A man in a sharp, gray suit walked in, carrying a leather briefcase. It was Dillan's personal fixer, a high-priced lawyer who looked completely out of place under the flickering fluorescent lights.

He spotted Grace and walked straight toward her. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply opened his briefcase, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and slid it across the metal table toward her.

"Ms. Albert," the lawyer said, his voice smooth and practiced. "The Hayes family is prepared to offer a very generous settlement to compensate for your... distress tonight. In exchange, we ask that you drop the charges."

Grace didn't even look at the envelope. She placed her hand flat against the paper and pushed it back across the table.

"I'm not interested in a settlement," Grace said.

The lawyer's polite smile vanished. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a low, threatening murmur.

"Ms. Albert, let's be pragmatic. Your family's company is currently heavily reliant on the capital injection from the Hayes family. If Dillan is charged, that funding disappears tomorrow morning. Your family will be ruined."

Grace let out a short, humorless laugh. She looked the lawyer dead in the eye.

"Are you trying to intimidate a witness inside a police precinct?" Grace asked, her voice loud enough for the detective at the next desk to hear. "Because I'm sure the officers here would love to add witness tampering to the list of charges."

The lawyer's jaw tightened. He snapped his briefcase shut, his face turning a dark shade of purple, and stepped back.

The female detective walked over, glaring at the lawyer before handing Grace a clipboard.

"Here is the paperwork for the temporary restraining order," the detective said.

Grace took the pen and signed her name with sharp, aggressive strokes. She handed it back, ensuring Dillan Hayes could not legally come within five hundred feet of her.

Clutching the carbon copy of the receipt, Grace walked out of the precinct. The biting chill of the late-night wind hit her face, clearing the stale air of the station from her lungs. She felt lighter. The toxic weight she had been carrying for months was finally gone.

She hailed a yellow cab on the corner.

"Long Island. The Albert Estate," she told the driver.

The cab sped through the dark city streets. Grace leaned her head against the cold window. She closed her eyes, her fingers coming up to massage her aching temples. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

An hour later, the cab pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Albert family estate. Grace paid the fare and stepped out.

The moment she looked at the house, her stomach dropped.

Every single window in the massive mansion was blazing with light. Several luxury cars belonging to her extended family members were parked haphazardly in the circular driveway, their tires crushing the manicured grass.

Grace pushed open the heavy oak front door.

The moment she stepped into the grand foyer, the frantic murmuring in the living room stopped. Dozens of eyes snapped toward her. The air in the room was thick with panic and accusation.

Her aunt Beatrice, a woman whose face was pulled tight by too many surgeries, marched toward her, her high heels clicking aggressively against the marble floor.

"Where the hell have you been?!" Beatrice shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at Grace's face. "Do you have any idea what is happening? And you decide tonight is the night to throw a tantrum and fight with Dillan?"

Grace slapped Beatrice's hand away. The physical contact made her skin crawl.

"I didn't throw a tantrum," Grace said coldly. "Dillan assaulted me. The engagement is over."

A dead silence fell over the room. Then, the living room erupted into chaos. Voices overlapped, shouting about ruined deals, bankruptcy, and Grace's selfishness.

Grace ignored them. Her eyes scanned the room. She noticed the frantic energy, the way her uncle was pacing, the way her mother was weeping in the corner. This level of panic wasn't just about her broken engagement.

Her eyes landed on the empty velvet armchair near the fireplace.

"Where is Ashly?" Grace demanded, her voice slicing through the noise.

Beatrice's face went completely white. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. She looked away, her eyes darting nervously to the floor.

Grace didn't wait for an answer. She walked past Beatrice, her eyes locking onto a crumpled piece of paper sitting on the glass coffee table. She picked it up and smoothed it out.

It was a printed flight itinerary. Private charter. Destination: Paris. Departure time: Three hours ago.

Grace turned around. She slammed the paper back onto the table.

"She ran," Grace said, the realization hitting her like a bucket of ice water. "Ashly ran away."

Her father, Conrad, sat slumped in a leather armchair. He looked ten years older than he had that morning. He rubbed his face with trembling hands.

"The Turner family is coming tomorrow to finalize the marriage," Conrad said, his voice cracking. "And we don't have a bride."

Grace stared at the pathetic group of people she called family. The puzzle pieces snapped into place. They didn't care about her fight with Dillan. They were terrified. They were terrified of the Turner family's wrath.

Beatrice suddenly stopped pacing. Her eyes locked onto Grace. A desperate, sickening light sparked in her eyes.

"Grace," Beatrice said, her voice suddenly dripping with fake sweetness. "You don't have a fiancé anymore."