Chapter 4 - Broken Wood, Spilled Blood
The cold air of the terrace was a welcome shock after the suffocating perfume and tension of the ballroom.
Jolene leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out over the dark expanse of Lake Michigan. Her hands were trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was beginning to ebb.
"You used me to blow up the merger," she said quietly. "You never intended to marry her."
Reed stood beside her, taking off his jacket and draping it around her bare shoulders without asking. The warmth of his body heat clung to the fabric.
"I was never going to marry Paige," Reed said. "She represents everything my father died trying to disentangle us from. She is a parasite wrapped in silk."
"And what am I?" Jolene turned to look at him, her green eyes piercing through the dark. "A prop? A shield to deflect their pride?"
Reed was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his own right hand—at the faint, pale scar across his knuckle from a chisel slip years ago.
"You are the only person in seven years who spoke to me without calculating what my death would be worth to your portfolio," he said simply.
Before Jolene could answer, the door to the terrace burst open.
It wasn't a waiter. It was Frank, breathing hard, his tie askew.
"Mr. Ashford. We have a problem at the estate. Neil’s men didn't wait for Monday. They bypassed the terminals. They went for the carriage house."
Reed’s face went dead white—a reaction Jolene had never seen on him. He hadn't flinched at threats of financial ruin, nor at the sight of thugs in an alley. But the mention of the carriage house made his jaw tighten so hard she heard the grind of his teeth.
"Mother?" Reed demanded sharply.
"She is safe in the main residence," Frank replied quickly. "The inner perimeter held. But they set fire to the old garage workshop. They’re trying to draw you out of the city."
Reed didn't say another word. He grabbed Jolene’s hand—not with polite ceremony, but with a bruising, desperate grip—and moved.
***
Forty minutes later, the Maybach roared through the iron gates of the Ashford estate in Lake Forest.
The air smelled of acrid smoke and burning cedar. Fire engines were already on the scene, their flashing red lights painting the neoclassical limestone mansion in bloody hues.
Reed leaped from the car before it had fully stopped, ripping off his bowtie as he ran toward the detached stone garage at the rear of the property.
Jolene ran after him, ignoring the shouting security guards who tried to hold the perimeter.
The garage roof was partially caved in, blackened water pouring down the stone walls from the fire hoses. Firefighters were raking out smoldering embers, but the blaze was mostly extinguished.
Inside, standing in ankle-deep water and blackened ash, Reed was on his knees.
He wasn't looking at the burned luxury cars. He was kneeling in the farthest corner, his bare hands digging through charred beams and smoking debris.
"Reed! Stop! It’s still hot!" Jolene cried out, rushing into the ruined space, uncaring of the soot staining her emerald velvet dress.
Reed didn't listen. He tore a burning piece of timber away, blistering his palms, until he uncovered what lay beneath: the heavy oak carpenter's bench.
It was scorched, the edges blackened and ruined, but the core—the thick, ancient heartwood of the bench Douglas Ashford had built with his own hands—remained solid. Lying beside it was the hand plane Reed had used just days ago, its steel blade blackened by soot.
Reed knelt there, his hands blistered, soot smearing his white dress shirt, his breathing ragged. For the first time, the untouchable titan of Chicago looked entirely broken.
Jolene stepped into the blackened water. She knelt down beside him, heedless of the ash, and gently placed her hands over his burned, blistered fingers, stopping him from digging any further.
"It’s still here," she whispered, her voice trembling with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. "Reed. Look at it. The wood is thick. It didn't burn through. It’s still here."
Reed looked up at her. The darkness in his eyes was terrifying—a vortex of grief, fury, and an ancient, lonely pain that no board meeting could ever explain.
"This was all he left me," Reed choked out, his voice cracked and raw. "Everything else was blood and contracts. This was the only thing that wasn't covered in someone else's misery."
Jolene didn't pull away. She tightened her grip on his scarred, blackened hands, leaning in until her forehead rested gently against his shoulder.
"Then we clean it," Jolene said softly into the smoke-filled silence. "You build things, Reed. You told me you know how to build. So build."
May you like
In the distance, standing on the second-story balcony of the main house wrapped in a heavy shawl, Margaret Ashford watched the two figures kneeling together in the ashes. A faint, knowing smile touched the dying woman’s lips before she turned and retreated into the warmth of the house.
***
