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Chapter_70
Quinn stood at the precipice of her darkest thoughts, each image in her mind more haunting than the last. The grotesque tableau of pain she envisioned was enough to make her heart seize in agony. She thought of the baby, the innocent life that had been a casualty of her own suffering. It must have been in so much pain, she thought, her heart aching for what might have been.
Her fingers, trembling, closed around the cold, sleek handle of the knife. The idea of release—of escape—seemed so close, so tantalizing. She could already feel the weight of it in her hand. The steel against her wrist promised a way out, a final release. She pressed it gently against her skin, a crimson line blossoming in the wake of its touch.
But before she could do anything further, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her back from the brink. Her heart skipped a beat as she stared down at the knife in her hand, then at the phone, before deciding to check the message. It was from Abigail, and Quinn’s pulse quickened as she tapped open the voice note.
Abigail’s voice, thick and slurred from alcohol, floated through the speaker. “Quinn, am I just really stupid? Alexander called me an idiot, and he’s probably right…” Her words stumbled and faltered, thick with despair. “Why should someone this stupid like me even be alive? I’m just wasting air and food. I might as well be dead.”
The knife fell from Quinn’s grip with a soft clatter, her hands trembling as she scrambled to type a reply. Where are you? Her fingers flew over the screen, desperate for an answer, but no response came. Frantic, she scrolled through her contacts, searching for Spencer’s name. She needed someone to reassure her that Abigail wasn’t serious, that no one was beyond help.
After a few agonizing minutes, Spencer’s reply finally came. “Quinn, don’t worry. You know how Abigail is. She wouldn’t actually seek death. She’s just talking, that’s all. People who truly want to die don’t talk about it. Don’t stress too much. I’m on my way to find her. Take care of yourself! Abigail is always scaring you. One of these days, we’ll make her treat you to something nice, and we’ll milk it for all it’s worth!”
Quinn’s eyes lingered on the paring knife on the floor, but the heaviness of the moment had lifted, just a little. Spencer’s lighthearted message pierced the thick gloom that had surrounded her, offering a shred of hope, a glimmer that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t as dark as it seemed. She stood there, feeling something flicker within her—a quiet moment of relief, though fragile.
Meanwhile, Alexander drove through the night, the storm outside matching the turmoil within. His phone buzzed repeatedly beside him, but he ignored it, his mind clouded with other thoughts. His destination was clear, and his next stop was Getty’s house. As he arrived, the sound of muffled sobs greeted him from inside.
Inside the mansion, Getty, holding a paring knife, was locked in a struggle with the housekeeper, who was desperately trying to prevent her from hurting herself. Getty’s defiant voice echoed through the space. “Housekeeper, don’t try to stop me! No one cares about me. No one would miss me if I’m gone. I can’t see the point in living anymore!”
The housekeeper was near panic, her eyes wild with fear. “Getty, please calm down! If anything happens to you, Mr. Kennedy will punish me ruthlessly!”
Getty, however, wasn’t listening. She pulled away from the housekeeper, her eyes narrowed in defiance. “Let go! If I want to die, that’s my business, not yours!”
The sound of the struggle paused, and both women turned at the sound of the door opening. Alexander stood in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the dim light. His presence was unsettling, and even Getty, who was trying so desperately to retain control, felt a slight tremor in her resolve.
The housekeeper, noticing him, made frantic eyes gestures toward Getty. “Mr. Kennedy’s here.”
Getty paused, the knife still in her hand. She glared at Alexander, speaking bitterly, “So what if he’s here? Can he really control whether I live or die?”
The air seemed to grow colder as Alexander remained still, watching her with detached precision. Getty, sensing the shift, slowly turned the knife in her hand. The pressure against her wrist was an act, the sharp edge not touching her skin. She was only pretending. But the moment she realized Alexander was behind her, the tension shifted.
Her confidence faltered as she felt the weight of his chilling presence behind her. She turned toward the housekeeper with a glance that said everything: You wanted this. Now live with it.
Finally, Alexander spoke, his voice laced with annoyance. “Why don’t you do it?”
