Chapter 5 Bring Her Back Yourself

At that age, a boy's pride was everything.

Rachel never handed Charles money directly. Back then, she was still the York family's celebrated daughter, living a life of glittering privilege. Perhaps it had been a spark of pity, or perhaps simple admiration for his quiet fortitude, but she told no one. Through a trusted teacher, she anonymously covered his entire high school tuition and living expenses.

She never thought about repayment. After graduation, the memory faded into the background of her gilded life.

Until tonight, when everything had reversed.

Life, she thought, was a strange, twisting thing. The black sedan glided through the rain-drenched night, its warm, hushed cabin a sanctuary apart from the cold, sodden darkness beyond.

Rachel curled deeper into the wide leather seat, enveloped in Charles’s coat, which still carried the crisp, masculine scent of him. Her body gradually thawed, yet the icy knot lodged deep in her chest refused to melt. Eyes closed, lashes still heavy with the last of her tears, she resembled a storm-battered butterfly—fragile enough to shatter beneath the lightest touch. Yet the faint, resolute line of her lips revealed a quiet, unyielding strength.

Charles sat beside her, his gaze steady on the pale, drawn lines of her face, beauty still lingering beneath exhaustion. He said nothing, only leaned forward to give the driver a low, precise address.

A private apartment in the heart of the city's most coveted district.

The only sounds in the car were the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic sweep of the wipers. Rachel’s consciousness began to blur with exhaustion, but the scenes she most longed to forget churned relentlessly through her mind—Sebastian’s cold, impenetrable stare, Laura’s venomous smile, the frail, terrified silhouette of a child, Anna’s cutting words.

And finally, her father's kind face, frozen forever in memory.

The sudden buzz of Charles's phone cut through the quiet. He glanced at the screen, his brow tightening almost imperceptibly before he answered in a low voice.

"Speak."

The caller spoke rapidly. Charles’s eyes returned to Rachel, his expression deepening into something inscrutable.

"Understood," he said, ending the call.

News from Laurel Creek Manor. Trouble there, too.

Inside the study at Laurel Creek Manor, the heavy ebony desk shook under the force of Harold Lancaster's hand. A priceless porcelain tea set rattled against the wood.

"You reckless fool!" Harold's face was crimson, his chest heaving as he jabbed a trembling finger at the man standing before him.

“What idiotic stunt did you pull tonight? Rachel was released from prison today. You didn’t bother to pick her up—fine. But when she finally came home, you cast her out in front of everyone! Sebastian, where is your decency? Where is your sense?”

Sebastian's frown deepened. He had not expected this so-called small matter to reach his grandfather so quickly. Unbidden, Rachel's furious face flashed in his mind, stirring a faint, unrecognized irritation and a constriction in his chest.

He forced it down. "Grandfather, there's no need to get so worked up. A woman like her isn't worth your concern."

"What kind of woman?" Harold's voice rose, his anger sharpening. "She is the daughter of the York family! The wife you married with great fanfare! The York family once saved the Lancasters. Without Frederick York's help, there would be no Lancaster Group as it stands today. And this is how you repay that debt? By letting the world call us ungrateful, cold-blooded?"

"A debt is a debt. What she's done wipes it clean." Sebastian's tone turned cold. "She disgraced the family, made Laura suffer, nearly cost the company dearly. Three years in prison was merciful."

"Evidence?" Harold's voice cracked like a whip. "Are you so certain there was no doubt in that case? Did it never occur to you she might have been framed? You believed a few pieces of so-called evidence and some words, and you forced her to confess—using her father's life as leverage! Sebastian, when did you become so blind?"

At the mention of Rachel’s father, Harold’s voice softened with regret. “And Frederick is gone now. All the more reason to treat his daughter with kindness. Rachel is his only blood.”

Sebastian's jaw tightened, his expression dark. He didn't agree. In his mind, Rachel's guilt was beyond question, the paternity test the final proof.

"I don't care what you think," Harold pressed on, voice like steel. "You will find Rachel. You will bring her back to the Lancaster family. Publicly, you will say it was a misunderstanding—that she was away recovering, and now she's home. You will restore our name."

Sebastian's eyes grew colder.

"Did you hear me?" Harold slammed the desk again. "Must I go myself? Can you not tell the difference between the family's honor and your petty grudges?"

In the Lancaster family, Harold's word was law. Even Sebastian dared not openly defy him.

"Yes, Grandfather," Sebastian said at last, his voice low. "I'll send someone to bring her back."

"Not someone. You," Harold snapped. "And you will make certain she is treated well. If I hear she's been wronged again, you will answer to me."

"Yes," Sebastian ground out. 

Go himself? Bow to a woman who had betrayed him?

"And the child," Harold added heavily. "No matter what, he carries York blood. He once called you father. I will not hear another word against him. You will see he's cared for."

Sebastian's face darkened further, but he gave no argument. "I'll handle it."

"Go," Harold said, waving him off, too disgusted to look at him.

Sebastian left the study, the door clicking shut behind him. His face remained a mask of cold disdain, shadowed by an emotion he could not—or would not—name. He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant.

“Find out where Rachel is. When you do, do not bring her back. Place her in a discreet hotel and keep her there. No wandering, no trouble. And ensure my grandfather never learns her location.”

She had left him first, all those years ago.

She had brought this on herself.

Meanwhile, the black sedan eased into the underground garage of a high-security luxury apartment building. Charles turned to the woman beside him, who seemed to have drifted into sleep from sheer exhaustion.

"We're here," he said softly.

Rachel startled awake, eyes flashing sharp and guarded like a cornered animal. But when she saw Charles and registered her surroundings, the wariness softened into weariness and faint disorientation.

Something in Charles's chest tightened.

He stepped out, came around, and opened her door, offering his hand. "You're safe here. Go up, take a hot shower, get some rest."

Rachel studied his hand, then the elegant yet unfamiliar space beyond him. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. The gesture was no longer entirely passive—it carried the quiet weight of a deliberate choice made in the ruins of her old life.

She had no better options. Trusting him was the first step she chose for herself.

Charles's apartment occupied the top floor, with sweeping views and a sleek, understated elegance that matched the man himself. He led her inside, instructing the waiting house staff to prepare fresh clothes and a meal.

"Rest," he told her, voice steady but reassuring. "If you need anything, tell my assistant. No one will disturb you without your say."

Standing on the polished floor, Rachel's gaze swept the space quickly, sharply. Then she nodded once. Her voice was still dry, but steadier now.

"Thank you. I'll remember this favor."