Chapter 7 - The Rescue Mission
My heart dropped straight into my stomach.
“Charles, listen to me very carefully,” I said, my voice dropping into a firm, command register I hadn't used in years. “You are going to step away from the gun cabinet right now.”
Silence answered me over the line.
“Charles!” I shouted. “Do not do this. Do not let Julian Mercer destroy your life completely. If you end your life tonight, Julian and Phoebe win. They turn your shame into their final victory. Is that what you want?”
I heard the heavy sound of a breath being drawn over the receiver.
“I destroyed you, Hannah,” Charles whispered hoarsely. “I humiliated you in front of the whole city.”
“You hurt me, Charles,” I corrected him, tears spilling down my own cheeks. “But I am sitting in California, alive and free. You survived your father’s death, you survived the board battles, and you will survive this. But you need to put the rifle down and open the front door.”
“I’m so tired…”
“Stay on the line with me,” I commanded. I pulled my laptop onto my knees with my free hand and rapidly typed a message to Marcus Vance and Cordelia Stanhope’s private numbers. Charles is suicidal at the Berkshire estate. Send emergency security and medical personnel immediately.
For forty-five minutes, I stayed on the phone with my ex-husband in the dark of his Berkshire library. I didn't talk about our marriage, the divorce, or the $50 million. I talked about the simple things—the quiet summer morning when we bought our first dog, the stupid road trip we took through Maine when our car broke down in the rain, the way the ocean looked from the cliffs in Italy before our lives became consumed by lineage and expectations.
I kept him talking until I heard the distant crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside his library window.
Flashlights swept across the glass, followed by the heavy sound of footsteps on the porch.
“Charles,” I said gently. “The doors are opening. That’s Marcus and your mother’s security team. I want you to walk to the front hall and let them in.”
I heard the click of a phone dropping onto a leather sofa, followed by the creak of the library door opening. Minutes later, Marcus Vance’s calm baritone came over the line.
“Hannah? It’s Marcus. We have him. He’s safe.”
I let out a long, shuddering breath and collapsed against my pillows, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. “Is Cordelia there?”
“She’s on her way in a helicopter from Boston,” Marcus informed me softly. “When she realized what Charles was facing, she dropped the legal filings and ordered our private medical transport. She’s bringing him to a private facility in Vermont for rest and observation.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” I whispered.
“Hannah,” Marcus paused, his tone shifting from professional to deeply respectful. “You saved his life tonight. After everything he did to you, you stayed on the phone.”
May you like
I looked out my window at the Pacific Ocean under the California stars.
“I didn't do it for the Stanhope name, Marcus,” I said softly. “I did it for the young boy who was forced to carry that name before he was old enough to know who he really was.”
