Chapter 39: The Nanny's Plea
Liam stormed out of the drawing room, nearly colliding with Sarah in the hallway. He was a pillar of restrained fury, his breath coming in jagged bursts. "Sarah, tell the staff not to touch her bags. I want her gone by midnight."
Sarah reached out, her aged hand catching Liam's sleeve. It was the only hand in the world that could stop him in his tracks. "Liam, look at me," she whispered, her eyes full of a weary wisdom. "I know she is not for you. I know her heart is made of glass and ice. But look at your father's room upstairs." She pointed toward the ceiling, where the faint light of the Chief's medical monitors hummed. "His heart is weak, Liam. He truly believes this union is the only thing that will keep the Sterling name alive after he's gone. If you kick her out tonight, the stress will kill him before morning."
Liam looked at the stairs, then back at the drawing room where Sandra was already making herself at home. He felt like a caged animal. Every exit was blocked by duty, by guilt, and by the suffocating weight of his own name. "I can't breathe in this house, Sarah," he choked out, the "Iceman" mask finally cracking.
"Then go, my boy," Sarah said softly, patting his arm. "Go find somewhere the air is clear. Leave this mess to me for tonight. Just... have a little patience. For his sake."
Liam didn't say another word. He turned and walked out the back entrance, where David was already waiting by the black SUV. David didn't need to ask. He saw the tension in Liam's shoulders and the way his knuckles were white against his palms.
"Where to, boss?" David asked, starting the engine.
"Anywhere but here, David," Liam growled, staring out at the iron gates of the estate. "
******
The main floor of the Night Rose was a sea of noise, sweat, and cheap perfume, but the VIP section—the "Gilded Cage," as Mimi called it—was a different universe. Up there, the air was chilled to a crisp temperature, smelling of aged sandalwood and the metallic tang of expensive champagne. The carpet was thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps, and the men who sat in the plush velvet booths didn't shout; they whispered, their power radiating in the quiet clink of ice against crystal.