“You!” Mom screams at Mary-Belle.

“Mom!” I yell. “Stop it! Can’t you see she’s scared?”

“Scared? Scared?” Mom’s voice raises. “She killed him!”

“I was trying to fix it,” Mary-Belle whispers again and again. “Fix it to make Ambrose and his dad happy. When I walked in, he was already on the ground, so I tried to fix it, to save him.”

“You.” Mom shoves Mary-Belle back against the cold grass. “You didn’t fix it. You killed him!”

Chapter Nine

Mary-Belle

“Sir?” I yell and run toward him. “Sir?” He’s on the floor, his salt and pepper hair—normally slicked back—off to the side. His mouth is open, his eyes too. I rush over to him, put him on his back, and start CPR right away.

I can barely remember how to do compressions but know it’s important. He looks up at me, and his mouth moves.

I’m haunted by it.

I stare as I continue compressions, then scramble for the new phone he gave me that I’ve somehow dropped next to him.

When did I drop it?

I shakily dial nine one one, put it on speaker, and continue compressions as he stares up at the ceiling like he knows.

He knows.

“Stay with me!” I scream.

Another scream sounds—it’s Ambrose’s mom.

“You whore!” she yells. “So this was the big secret, huh? She’s sleeping with you?”

I’m so confused and disoriented that all I can do is keep pushing down on his chest and hope that it does something like keep his heart beating while she’s continuing to break it over and over again with her words.

Tears stream down my face as she yells, my arms burn, my palms, my fingers—while I don’t know Ambrose super well, I know this will devastate him.

It’s his father.

And as much as he didn’t want the dynasty—he wants the father.

She starts shouting, then grabs a glass sniffer of whiskey and throws it onto the ground. I think she’s drunk, but I have no time to even ask as I continue pressing into his chest.

He sucks in a breath, his eyes roll back, and I pray this isn’t the end as Ambrose’s mom continues throwing things around the room like he isn’t just dying in front of us.

“Stay with me,” I whisper.

“Oh, you’d like that, bitch!” she yells.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks, falling onto his limp body as he stares up at me; his blue eyes don’t look away, almost like he needs to tell me something. It’s a pensive yet holy moment. His wife stomps away in her expensive sweats and equally expensive tennis shoes.

“…Yes! Hurry the hell up! He’s not responsive!” she yells into the phone. I didn’t even realize she still had it in her hand. Finally, she falls into a chair. “They’re on their way!”

Good. Good.

I continue to press into his chest like my life depends on it while she sits and watches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flinch when he moans, and I wonder if she actually wants him to die, to punch him.