Chapter 42: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

Words : 1149 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 42: THIS IS NOT A REAL Chapter DONT UNLOCK Heather’s throat burned from screaming. The cuffs cut deeper into her wrist as she strained, dragging the edge of the heavy table in a vain attempt to follow them. The door slammed shut. She was alone. Her breath hitched, chest heaving from the panic setting in like cold water filling her lungs. The stench of sweat, cheap perfume, and something acrid, vomit, maybe, choked the air. The boy’s body lay sprawled just feet from her, eyes still open, glassy with death. His hand was outstretched toward her, fingers curled like he’d been reaching for help. Heather shut her eyes tight. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t afford it. *They’re going to pin this on me.* Every second felt like a nail being hammered into her coffin. She tried pulling her hand again. "God, please," she whispered through clenched teeth. Her wrist bled now, the metal bite of the cuff having sliced through skin. She turned toward the floor, biting down a scream. The silence was loud—no music, no laughter, just the distant muffled bass from the other rooms of the mansion. As if nothing had happened. As if a kid hadn’t just died beside her. As if she wasn’t left to rot with him. Heather lifted her head when she heard it: footsteps. Quick. Heavy. Her heart raced. "Hello? Please! I need help!" she shouted. The footsteps paused outside the door. A shadow passed the tinted glass. Then the handle turned. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped in, tall, imposing. Caius. His eyes scanned the room like a blade, taking in the body, the blood on her wrist, the drugs, the broken glass. "Heather?" His voice cracked, not from emotion, but fury. She exhaled a sharp sob. "Caius... They left me." He moved fast, pulling something from his pocket, something slim and shiny. A small crowbar. With two hard hits, the wood around the cuff bent enough to give. He dropped to his knees beside her, prying the metal open with his hands. "Hold still." "You found me," she breathed. "I traced your call," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "What the hell happened here?" "I don’t know," she said, voice trembling. "They tried to clean up. The drugs. The boy—he died. They made him—Trish forced—he didn’t want to—he was so young." Caius helped her up, cradling her bloody wrist in his hand. His face had gone still. Not blank. Just contained. Rage simmered behind his eyes. "They’re going to frame me," Heather whispered. "They left me to take the fall." "They won’t," he said coldly. "I won’t let them." "But there are drugs everywhere. And that boy is—he’s—" Caius took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "We’re getting out of here. Now." He turned to the body, jaw clenched. "Someone’s going to pay for this." Heather followed him on shaking legs, her fingers curled tightly around the coat. She didn’t know where they’d go or what came next. But for the first time tonight, she wasn’t alone. Caius led her down the hall like a man on a mission. His grip on her hand was strong but not forceful, protective in a way that sent a thousand conflicting memories passing through her head. They passed through a staff exit and into the night air. The chill hit her face like a slap. Flashbacks of earlier that evening—lipstick, smiles, the flash of silent paparazzi cameras—felt like a different lifetime. Now she was bloodied, cuff-marked, and breathing hard under Caius’s coat. A black Range Rover screeched to a stop at the curb. One of his men jumped out from the driver’s side. "Get her in," Caius ordered. Heather hesitated. "Do you trust me?" he asked, turning to her. She stared at him. "No. But I trust you hate seeing me locked behind bars more than you hate me." He didn’t blink. "You’re right." He opened the door for her. As they pulled away, Heather kept her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror. Heather sat pressed against the door of the car, her wrist wrapped in a makeshift bandage Caius wrapped around her hand, his handkerchief, blood still seeping through the fabric. The lights of the city streaked past the windows, but all she could feel was the weight of what just happened. The boy’s body. The screams. The disbelief. Her own trembling hands. Somewhere inside, a body lay cold. And people were already scrubbing away her fingerprints. Caius sat beside her, his jaw clenched, staring out of the opposite window like the night itself had answers. She hadn’t said a word since they left. Neither had he. She leaned back in the seat, exhaling. "They’ll find the footage. If there are cameras..." "I’ll take care of it," Caius interrupted. She turned to him, brow furrowed. "You’re not a god, Caius. You can’t fix this by snapping your fingers." "No," he said slowly, "but I am a Falcrest." And that meant something. She knew it did. "Why were you even there?" he asked finally. She hesitated. "To play nice. To make connections. I didn’t want to look like the bitter d-list actress tagging along for my fame’s sake." His jaw flexed. "You’re not bitter." Heather laughed bitterly. "Aren’t I?" He turned to her. "You wear the ring?" Heather looked down at the diamond band on her finger. "I didn’t want to explain to Alex why I don’t have one." "That’s not why," he said, voice low. She stared ahead. "Don’t start." The Range Rover slowed as it entered in front of the estate, an angular, modern fortress hidden behind gates. "What are you going to do?" "Make sure every trace of that room is wiped before morning," he said flatly. "Miguel. Trish. Lauren. They’re all going to regret ever dragging you into this." "You make it sound like I’m a teenager who followed the wrong crowd. I willingly accepted to go. I was curious." He didn’t say anything. "You can’t prove they did anything illegal." she said. "They’ll say I lured the kid. That I took the drugs. That I panicked." "I don’t need proof to break them," he said simply. His voice was calm. Chilling. She looked at him fully now. Not the boy she once loved, or the man who broke her—but the weapon the Falcrest name had forged in power, manipulation, and cold justice. A beat passed between them. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You hate me, remember?" He took a step closer. "I don’t hate you. I hate myself... for what I did." She scoffed, but it wasn’t strong. He leaned in, voice brushing against her ear. "And I’ll never forgive myself until you do." Heather flinched. His breath was warm against her neck, familiar in a way that made her ache and recoil at once.

Chapter 42: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

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