Page 36 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

He heard her footsteps, the light, rhythmic click of her shoes as she moved closer to the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. The doctor said the surgery went as well as could be expected. Emery, I’m so⁠—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, finally turning his head. His eyes were dark, devoid of the warmth they had shared in the gazebo. “Don’t say you’re sorry. And don’t call me that.”

Margaret flinched as if he had slapped her. She was holding a small bouquet of wildflowers, wildflowers from where he didn’t know. Her face was pale with red-rimmed eyes from lack of sleep. “I don’t understand. I just wanted to be here when⁠—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dog cut her off, his words like jagged glass. “You should be at the Farm, behind three layers of steel and a dozen armed men. Your presence here is a tactical nightmare. Do you have any idea what it took to secure this floor? The resources I’m wasting just by lying here?”

“I know you’re in pain,” she said, her voice trembling but trying to remain steady. She reached out a hand toward his arm. “But we’re safe now. Charles is⁠—”

“Safe?” He let out a sharp, ugly laugh that held no mirth. He pulled his arm away before she could touch him. “Just look at me, Margaret!”

The rest of the words burned inside him, unspoken but no less real. He was a medic who couldn’t stand. A protector who walked blindly into danger, too distracted by empty promises to see the trap. He had failed the mission. The one thing he swore to do was keep her alive and the perimeter secure, and he had gotten soft.

He turned his gaze back to the bandaged stump, the sight of it fueling the fire of his self-loathing. “This is the price of getting distracted by you. It was a mistake. All of it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. He could hear her ragged breathing, the small catch in her throat as she struggled to maintain the composure she’d worked so hard to build.

“A mistake?” she whispered.

“A lapse in judgment,” he corrected coldly, refusing to look at her. He needed her gone. He needed her to see him as the monster he felt like, not the hero she wanted him to be. “I’m an operator, Margaret. I don’t do picnics. I don’t do Emery. I patch people up and I stay alert. I can’t do either of those things with you hovering over me like a reminder of how badly I screwed up.”

He finally looked at her, his face a mask of iron. “Go away, Margaret. Go back to the Farm. Go find a real protector who isn’t half a man. I’m done.”

Margaret stood there for a long moment, the wildflowers trembling in her hand. The hope that had been blossoming in her eyes for the last three days didn’t just fade: it shattered. She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She simply straightened her spine, her “society armor” snapping back into place with a chilling efficiency.

“I see,” she said, her voice sounding as cold and distant as his. “I’ll tell Warden I’m ready to leave.”

She turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the sterile room.

Dog waited until the sound of her footsteps died away before he let out a jagged breath, his head falling back against the pillow. His leg throbbed with a rhythmic, white-hot agony, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest. He had done what he had to do. He had pushed her away. He was a SEAL again. He was “Dog” again.

He was alone. And for the first time in his life, he was absolutely terrified.

24 - MARGARET

The heavy hospital door clicked shut behind her, a small, clinical sound that felt like the slamming of a tomb.

Margaret stood in the hallway for exactly three seconds with her eyes closed. In that brief window of time, she performed a feat of internal engineering she had perfected over fifteen years of marriage to Charles Winslow. She took the raw, bleeding ache in her chest, the part of her that wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, and shoved it into a dark, reinforced corner of her mind. She turned the key, threw it away, and smoothed her expression into a mask of cool, aristocratic indifference.

When she opened her eyes, the Emery who had held her as she wept in a Maine gazebo was gone. The woman who had discovered how to pump gas and organize a dream was buried. In her place stood Margaret Fletcher, the Richmond socialite who could stare down a hostile board of directors without blinking.

She pulled the collar of her tailored wool blazer into place, straightening the crisp lines.

A few feet away, the men waited not casually but spread like a tactical perimeter, their eyes sharp and alert as they scanned the hallway. The intensity was almost out of place in a setting meant for healing.

Warden was the first to take a step forward, his face etched with worry and guilt. “Margaret?” He cut himself off, reading her expression and the tension hanging in the air.

Dog’s harsh words had not been hushed. They had cut through the room, ringing clear enough to reach them all.

Enzo’s jaw clenched, his hand moving instinctively toward the concealed sidearm at his hip. “I’m going in. He can’t speak to you like that. Not after everything.”

“No,” Margaret replied with measured calm. “To Doctor Berkshire, my presence constitutes a distraction. At this critical time, he requires professional distance and unwavering concentration. It is my intention to honor those needs, both out of respect for him and the situation.”

“He’s being an ass, Margaret,” Thorn muttered, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “He’s lost his mind.”

“He’s lost more than that,” a quiet voice interrupted.

Jake stepped forward, his weight shifting slightly on his prosthetic leg. He was the only one who wasn’t looking at the door with anger. He was looking at it with a profound, weary understanding. He looked at Margaret, and for a second, his eyes softened with pity, a look she usually loathed, but from him, it felt like a shared scar.