Chapter 2 - The Fire Beneath the Ice
Grant carried her through the echoing halls of the manor, his long strides eating the distance toward the private wing on the second floor.
Lydia’s head rested involuntarily against the lapel of his tailored jacket. She could smell him—cedarwood, faint tobacco, the cold metallic tang of the autumn wind that had drifted through the open dining-room terrace, and the unmistakable scent of clean wool. Underneath his ribs, his heart was beating with an erratic, furious speed that completely contradicted the stoic calm he had displayed in the dining room.
“I can walk,” she muttered, though her legs were limp and heavy.
“You can’t,” he answered. “Save your breath.”
He carried her into the master bedroom suite—a room she had entered only three times in six months, and only to deliver documents or retrieve wardrobe items for coordinated appearances. Her own bedroom was down the corridor, spacious and elegant, but distinctly separate.
Grant kicked open the door to the en-suite master bath. The room was marble from floor to ceiling, heated floors radiating a faint warmth beneath them. He didn’t deposit her on the chaise lounge in the bedroom; he set her gently on the edge of the deep soaking tub, keeping one arm securely behind her back so she wouldn't topple sideways.
“Don’t touch the sleeves,” he ordered gently, kneeling down on the white marble in front of her. His tuxedo trousers pressed against the hard stone without a second thought. “Arthur was right. The silk has bonded with the burned skin. If we pull it off dry, we’ll take the dermis with it.”
He reached for his phone again, dialing with one thumb while his other hand remained resting on her uninjured thigh, anchoring her.
“Dr. Vance,” Grant said into the receiver. “I need you at the house. Not the hospital—here. Bring surgical shears, sterile saline, silver sulfadiazine, and debridement trays. Bring intravenous fluids and morphine. Second- and third-degree thermal burns on both upper extremities, sustained twelve hours ago.”
A brief pause as the doctor spoke on the other end.
“Ten minutes,” Grant said. “Use the back gate; the security code is 4401.” He disconnected.
Lydia leaned her head back against the cold tile wall, her breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps. “You didn't have to throw them out. Your mother... she will never forgive you for this. Brielle’s wedding next spring—the board—”
“Brielle’s wedding is paid for by a Holloway foundation trust that requires my signature on every disbursement voucher,” Grant said, his voice deadly level. He had already shed his jacket, tossing the thousand-dollar garment onto the bathroom floor like a rag. He rolled up his white dress shirt sleeves with swift, efficient movements, exposing thick forearms crossed with faint, old scars from his own youth. “And as for the board, they answer to sixty-two percent of the voting stock. I own forty-eight. The remainder is split among men who care only about their dividend checks. Mother can scream at the lake until her lungs give out. It won’t change a single number on the ledger.”
He reached into the cabinet beneath the double vanity and brought out a pair of heavy medical shears from the first-aid kit.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.
For the first time since she had walked into his office six months ago in a rain-soaked coat to sign a marriage contract that felt like a prison sentence, Lydia saw something completely unshielded in Grant Holloway’s gaze. It wasn't the detached amusement of a billionaire buying a solution to a problem. It wasn't the patronizing pity she had expected from his family.
It was agony. Raw, helpless agony.
“I’ve had worse,” she lied, trying to smile. The corners of her mouth twitched and failed.
“No, you haven’t,” he countered softly.
He slid the blunt tip of the shears beneath the emerald fabric at her shoulder, well away from the blistered skin, and cut downward. The fabric parted with a clean, slicing hiss. He worked with terrifying precision, cutting the sleeve open like a surgeon until the emerald gown fell away in green ribbons, leaving her arms completely bare to the cool air.
Lydia hissed through her teeth, her back arching off the porcelain. The exposure to the ambient air sent waves of burning agony cascading over her raw nerve endings.
Both arms were devastated. The left was worse—scalded from the mid-forearm to three inches above the wrist, a horrifying patchwork of deep burgundy, blistered white dermis, and yellowing plasma. The right arm bore splatter burns that crept like angry vines up toward her collarbone.
Grant’s hands were remarkably steady, but Lydia saw the muscle in his jaw jumping violently. He took a bottle of sterile water from the shelf, uncapped it with his teeth, and began to trickle it slowly, drop by drop, over the spots where the silk was still welded to the flesh.
“Why didn’t you drop the platter?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the wound. “When you reached the table. You knew your arm was giving out. Why didn’t you let the goddamned turkey hit the floor?”
Lydia closed her eyes, tears finally escaping beneath her lashes, cutting clean tracks through the faint sheen of kitchen sweat on her cheeks.
“Because it was my job,” she whispered.
Grant stopped pouring. The silence in the bathroom became heavy, almost suffocating.
“Your job,” he repeated.
“The contract,” she said, her voice shaking. “Section 4, clause B. ‘The party of the second part shall maintain the decorum, domestic hospitality, and public prestige of the household at all times.’ Your mother made it very clear three weeks ago that if I failed to host this dinner properly, you would consider it a breach of material conduct. She said... she said you had already drafted the termination papers.”
Grant stared at her, his dark eyes widening in disbelief that quickly twisted into something feral and murderous.
“She told you what?”
“She showed me the letterhead, Grant. Two weeks after we moved into the Lake Forest house. She said you only married a girl from a Cicero diner because you needed an obedient face to satisfy your father’s will regarding married trustees, and that if I embarrassed the family by hiring caterers for a holiday Celeste had hosted herself for thirty years, the debts... my father’s debts...”
She choked on the rest of the sentence. The room seemed to tilt.
Grant placed the water bottle down on the vanity with a click that nearly shattered the glass. He rose to his full height, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest heaving.
“My father’s will had no marriage clause,” Grant said, his voice vibrating with an fury that made the glass shelves hum. “Not a single line. Not a single word.”
Lydia looked up at him, bewildered through the haze of pain. “What?”
“I didn't marry you to satisfy a trust, Lydia.” He knelt back down, his face inches from hers, his voice desperate and rough. “I bought your father’s paper from those loan sharks in Canaryville because if I hadn't, they would have put him in the river and come for you three days later. And I offered you this contract because you were too goddamned proud to take a check from a stranger!”
Lydia stared at him, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. “A stranger? Grant, I had never seen you before the day you walked into the diner with your lawyers.”
“You hadn't seen me,” he said, reaching out to brush a stray strand of dark hair away from her forehead with a trembling finger, his touch lighter than a feather. “But I had seen you. Every Tuesday and Thursday night for fourteen months. Sitting in the back booth by the service kitchen, doing the accounts while you prepped soups for the morning rush.”
Before she could process the words, the heavy front door chime echoed through the intercom system, followed by the rapid thud of wingtip shoes on the spiral staircase.
May you like
“Grant!” Dr. Vance’s voice called from the hall. “I’m here.”
***
