Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Took Credit for Another Woman's Pain“What?” Brielle repeated, forcing a laugh. “Why are you looking at me?”
Grant didn't answer immediately.
He turned toward the house manager, Margaret, who had been standing near the service entrance.
“Call Dr. Bennett. Tell him I want him here immediately. And get the first-aid kit.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Actually, forget the first-aid kit. She needs a hospital.”
Lydia shook her head. “Grant, please. It's Thanksgiving. Everyone is here.”
He stared at her.
“Do you honestly believe I care about dinner right now?”
His voice wasn't loud, but the question silenced the room.
“I can explain,” Lydia whispered.
“Then explain while we get you medical attention.”
He removed his suit jacket and draped it carefully over her shoulders, avoiding her injured arms.
Brielle gave a dramatic sigh.
“This is ridiculous. She burned herself cooking. It happens. Why are you treating it like somebody committed a crime?”
Grant finally looked at his sister.
“Did I ask you?”
Brielle's smile disappeared.
Celeste placed her champagne flute on the table.
“Grant, your sister has a point. Lydia is an adult. Nobody forced her to prepare an elaborate meal.”
Lydia looked down.
That was precisely what made it so difficult to defend herself.
Nobody had physically forced her.
Celeste had simply given her a list of dishes, reminded her that twenty-one important guests were coming, and informed her that the Holloway family's Thanksgiving tradition had never been entrusted to outsiders.
Lydia had wanted to prove she could do something right.
She had wanted, perhaps foolishly, to earn a place at the table.
Grant turned to her.
“Did someone tell you to keep cooking after you were injured?”
Lydia hesitated.
Brielle answered before she could.
“Mother merely asked her to finish the food. The kitchen was already a disaster, and the guests were arriving.”
Grant's eyes moved toward his sister.
“What happened?”
Brielle folded her arms.
“She dropped a pot. That's all.”
“Which pot?”
“The stockpot.”
“What was in it?”
“Hot oil. Or gravy. I don't know.”
“Where were you?”
“In the kitchen.”
“And what did you do?”
Brielle looked offended.
“I helped clean up.”
Lydia's stomach tightened.
That wasn't what had happened.
At approximately 1:36 p.m., she had lifted a heavy pot from the stove. The handle had loosened without warning. Boiling turkey fat spilled across both forearms.
She had screamed.
Brielle had been standing near the kitchen island.
For a moment, she had simply stared.
Then she had said, “Oh, my God. You're making such a scene.”
Lydia had run to the sink and held her arms under cold water.
When Margaret rushed in, Brielle told her the accident was minor.
Celeste arrived moments later.
She looked at the mess, then at Lydia.
“Clean yourself up. We have guests coming.”
Lydia had tried to explain that she needed medical attention.
Celeste's response had been immediate.
“Don't be dramatic. We cannot have an ambulance arriving in front of the entire neighborhood.”
Lydia had eventually agreed to continue cooking.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she had been afraid that refusing would cost her the only protection she had.
Now Grant was waiting for an answer.
“She didn't help clean it up,” Lydia said quietly.
Brielle's face hardened.
“Excuse me?”
“You left.”
“I went upstairs to change.”
“You went upstairs.”
“Lydia,” Celeste interrupted, “this is neither the time nor the place for accusations.”
Grant turned toward his mother.
“Who told her not to seek medical attention?”
Nobody answered.
He looked at Margaret.
The older woman had tears gathering in her eyes.
“Sir,” she whispered, “I told Mrs. Holloway that Miss Lydia needed a doctor. I was told not to call anyone.”
Celeste's expression changed.
“Margaret, be careful.”
“I am being careful, ma'am.”
Grant removed his phone.
“Send the footage from the kitchen cameras to my office. Every camera. Starting at noon.”
Brielle went pale.
“There are cameras in the kitchen?”
“There are cameras everywhere.”
For the first time that evening, Celeste looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Grant gently guided Lydia toward the dining room doors.
“Come with me.”
She tried to follow, but her knees weakened.
He caught her before she fell.
“Easy.”
“I can walk.”
“I know. You don't have to prove it.”
Those words nearly broke her.
A few minutes later, Grant was helping her into the back seat of his black SUV.
He sat beside her rather than allowing his driver to take the front passenger seat.
As they pulled away, Lydia stared at the estate disappearing behind them.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Grant looked at her.
“For what?”
“The dinner.”
He didn't respond immediately.
Then he said something she would remember for the rest of her life.
“Lydia, you could burn down every kitchen I own, and I would still consider you more important than the building.”
She turned toward the window, fighting tears.
At the hospital, doctors confirmed second-degree burns across both forearms, with several deeper areas requiring specialized treatment.
They cleaned the wounds, applied dressings, administered medication, and warned that she would need follow-up care.
Grant remained beside her throughout the examination.
When the physician finally stepped out, Lydia noticed that he was staring at his phone.
“What is it?”
He turned the screen toward her.
A still image showed Brielle standing beside the kitchen counter at 1:37 p.m.
She was holding her phone.
Behind her, Lydia was screaming at the sink.
Brielle wasn't helping.
She was filming.
Grant enlarged the image.
Then another notification appeared.
A message from an unknown number.
You should ask your wife why she was so eager to marry you. Your mother isn't the only person keeping secrets.
Grant read it twice.
For the first time that evening, his anger gave way to something more dangerous.
Fear.
Because whoever had sent the message knew something about Lydia's past.
May you like
And Grant had spent six months believing he knew exactly why she had agreed to marry him.
He was beginning to suspect he had been wrong.
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