Chapter 2

Chas stood rooted in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit like an iron wall. The heavy insulated carrier hung from his fingers, but his dark gray eyes were fixed on the empty space between them—the space Gracie had created the instant she yanked her hand away from his touch. His jaw tightened. Her reflexive disgust had hit him like an invisible slap, pricking his arrogant pride. Gracie kept her distance in the hallway, looking straight ahead with an indifferent gaze. "The delivery is complete. I have a cab waiting downstairs, Mr. Hamilton. I am heading back." "Heading back?" Chas scoffed, shifting his broad shoulders just enough to narrow the doorway even further. "Do you think Hamilton Manor is a roadside motel you can come and go from whenever you please?" He tilted his chin with habitual condescension. "Anabella has an upset stomach from the flight. Pour the soup before you leave." A pair of red stiletto heels clicked across the hardwood floor inside. Anabella drifted over, sliding her slender hand naturally onto Chas's forearm. Her pale blue eyes shimmered with calculated innocence. "Yes, Gracie. I just flew in from London, and my jet lag is unbearable," Anabella purred, leaning her body against Chas's tailored sleeve. "I heard your cooking is wonderful. Could you pour me a small bowl? You wouldn't mind helping Chas take care of me, would you?" Gracie looked down at Anabella's hand resting possessively on Chas's arm. Two years ago, a sight like that would have made her heart ache until she could barely breathe. But two years of cold indifference and hidden marriage had burned away every lingering drop of warmth. Now, there was only numbness. "Of course," Gracie said, her voice flat and robotic. She stepped into the VIP lounge. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive Cuban cigars and Anabella's heavy vanilla perfume. Gracie walked directly to the low black marble coffee table. Chas followed her in, slamming the heavy carrier onto the marble with a dull, echoing thud. He sank into the leather armchair opposite her, crossing his long legs. His piercing eyes never left her face, tracking her every breath like a hawk watching its prey. Gracie unlatched the steel thermos, retrieved a white porcelain bowl from the side compartment, and twisted the internal release valve. A thick cloud of boiling white steam billowed into the air-conditioned room. The herbal broth, kept at near-boiling temperature by the vacuum seal, poured into the porcelain bowl with a rich, medicinal scent. Anabella glided closer, leaning over the table with wide, curious eyes. "It smells lovely," Anabella sighed softly, deliberately tilting her head toward Chas. "You know, Chas, when you were sick back in high school, I used to make sweet herbal tea that smelled just like this." The lie hung in the air, smooth and shameless. Gracie did not even blink. She remembered that high school winter all too well—she was the one who had stayed up all night boiling that exact tea, leaving it outside Chas's door while he battled depression, only for Anabella to claim credit the next morning. Gracie filled the bowl three-quarters full. Using both hands, she picked up the small saucer underneath to hand it across the table. "Careful. It is extremely hot." As Gracie extended the dish, Anabella's manicured hand darted forward without warning. The instant Anabella's polished fingertips brushed the rim of the hot porcelain, she did not take it. Instead, her fingers shoved forward with sudden, violent force. At the very same moment, Anabella viciously pinched the tender skin on the inside of her own thigh, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. The heavy bowl of boiling liquid flipped violently through the air. More than half of the scalding herbal broth splashed directly across Gracie's exposed right wrist and forearm. The liquid, heated past eighty degrees Celsius, soaked through Gracie's black cashmere sleeve in a fraction of a second. The extreme thermal shock tore through the fabric and clung to her bare skin, sending an agonizing wave of fire straight into her deep nerve endings. "Ugh!" Gracie gasped, her body recoiling from the blinding agony. Her hip slammed hard against the sharp edge of the marble table, her entire right arm trembling violently as a sheet of cold sweat instantly broke out across her forehead. Before Gracie could even steady her footing, Anabella threw herself backward onto the carpet with an ear-piercing shriek. She clutched her slightly flushed fingertips, writhing as if she had been doused in acid. "It burns! Chas, help me! It hurts so much!" "Gracie Waller! Have you lost your damn mind!" Chas roared. He surged from the armchair like an enraged predator, his leather soles slamming against the floorboards. He did not look at the shattered porcelain. He did not look at the boiling soup spreading across the rug. Without a second of hesitation, he lunged forward, scooping Anabella off the floor and into his arms with frantic urgency. Anabella buried her tear-streaked face against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably while pointing a trembling finger at Gracie. "I only wanted to take the bowl myself... Gracie suddenly let go and pushed it at me... Chas, is my hand going to scar? I play the piano, I need my hands! I'm so scared!" Gracie leaned heavily against the marble table, her uninjured left hand clamping down on her ruined right wrist. The agony felt like thousands of white-hot needles tearing through living flesh, but she forced herself to stand upright through the haze of pain. Her breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps, yet her amber eyes were terrifyingly clear. "Chas. She pushed the bowl herself. The security cameras in this private lounge will show every angle." "Shut your mouth!" Chas barked, his face darkened with uncontrollable fury. The veins on the back of his neck bulged as he held Anabella tighter against his chest. "Anabella just had nerve reconstruction surgery on her hand in London! You know how delicate her fingers are! How dare you throw boiling water at her out of sheer spite!" Gracie looked down at her own arm. The wet, scalded cashmere had already begun to melt and adhere to her split, blistering skin. Large, pale yellow blisters were rising rapidly beneath the shredded epidermis, and dark, serous fluid was beginning to seep through the dark wool. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw from holding back the screams, yet sharp enough to cut bone. "Chas Hamilton. Look down. Look at who is actually burned." Chas froze. His furious gray eyes instinctively flicked toward her hanging right arm for a split second. He saw the torn fabric. He saw the weeping, raw flesh beneath the boiling broth. A sharp, violent spasm clenched the pit of his stomach, his throat suddenly constricting as if choked on dust. "Chas... Chas, please..." Anabella's desperate, choked wails rose in pitch, her arms wrapping desperately around his neck, dragging his attention back. "My fingers are going numb... please don't let me lose my hand!" The sound of Anabella's tears instantly shattered Chas's brief hesitation. Driven by guilt from the past and his own stubborn pride, he forcefully averted his eyes from Gracie's bloody arm. He could not admit he was wrong. He could not let this woman challenge his authority. "You brought this on yourself with your petty jealousy!" Chas snapped, his voice cold and devoid of any humanity. He turned his broad back on her, carrying Anabella toward the doorway with long, hurried strides. "Get back to the manor and think about what you did! You are not permitted to take a single step out of your bedroom without my permission!" BANG! The heavy mahogany double doors of the VIP lounge slammed shut with a deafening crash. Inside the vast, silent room, only shattered white shards, pooling brown liquid, and the acrid stench of scalded wool remained. Gracie lost all strength in her knees and sank down onto the thick carpet. The intense throbbing along her damaged nerves threatened to drag her consciousness into darkness. Her slender body shook violently from the physiological shock of the severe burn. Yet, no tears fell from her eyes. Not a single whimper escaped her lips. Instead, the corners of her mouth slowly, chillingly curled into a lifeless smile. The last shred of warmth she had harbored for this man, the final echo of gratitude she had held for the Hamilton name, had just been burned away by that boiling broth. Clenching her teeth until her gums bled, Gracie used her uninjured left hand to reach down. With agonizing care, she began peeling the hot, wet wool fibers away from her open wounds. Every tiny movement ripped away raw tissue, exposing weeping, bloody flesh to the air. Her vision blurred with dark spots, but her jaw never unlocked. Bracing her left arm against the edge of the stone table, she forced herself to stand up. She pulled her phone from her coat pocket with trembling left fingers. The screen illuminated her pale, bloodless face, the countdown timer ticking forward: 29 Days, 23 Hours, 45 Minutes. Using her thumb, she opened a rideshare app and summoned a private car to the nearest 24-hour trauma center. Gracie stepped over the broken porcelain shards on the carpet. Without looking back at the empty, luxurious room, she pushed through the heavy doors and walked alone into the cold hotel corridor.