Defeating Ridge's Schemes

"Get out of my house. Both of you, just get out." My voice echoed through the living room, vibrating with a fury I'd never felt before.

Ridge's face hardened, his lawyer mask slipping to reveal something cold and unfamiliar beneath. "This is my house too, Blaire. You can't just order me out because you're having an emotional moment."

"Emotional moment?" I took a step toward him, my hands trembling. "You gave away my dead grandmother's cross—the one she wore every day of her life, the one she gave me on her deathbed—to your... what is she exactly, Ridge? Your paralegal? Your houseguest? Or should we stop pretending?"

Kamryn's fingers still clutched the necklace at her throat, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine shock. "Ridge, you told me this was just a family heirloom you wanted me to have. You never said—"

"Don't," I cut her off, unable to bear hearing any more. "Just take it off. Now."

She fumbled with the clasp, hands shaking. Ridge moved toward her, placing himself between us like a shield.

"Stop it, Blaire. You're being irrational. It's just a necklace."

Something inside me snapped. "Just a necklace? That cross is all I have left of the only person who ever truly loved me unconditionally. And you gave it to her like it was nothing."

I lunged forward, reaching past Ridge toward Kamryn, desperate to reclaim my grandmother's cross. Ridge grabbed my wrists, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force.

"I said stop it," he growled, his face inches from mine. "You need to calm down."

I twisted in his grip, the pain in my wrists fueling my rage. "Let go of me!"

We struggled at the base of the marble staircase, a grotesque parody of the embrace I'd imagined during my long flight home. I pushed against his chest, trying to break free. Ridge stepped backward, still gripping my wrists, his foot catching on the bottom stair.

Time slowed. His eyes widened in surprise as he lost his balance. His grip on my wrists loosened, then released entirely as he fell backward. The sickening thud of his head against the marble steps echoed through the foyer, followed by the dull sounds of his body tumbling down.

When he finally came to rest at the bottom, he wasn't moving.

"Ridge!" Kamryn's scream pierced the silence as she rushed past me to kneel beside him.

I stood frozen, watching blood seep from a gash on his forehead, staining the pristine white marble. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything else. Not like this.

"Call 911!" Kamryn shouted, her fingers pressed against Ridge's neck. "Now!"

The next few hours passed in a blur of flashing lights, paramedics, and police questions. For the second time that day, I found myself in the back of a police car, this time with handcuffs biting into my wrists. Detective Martinez's expression was grimmer now, her earlier sympathy replaced by professional detachment as she read me my rights.

At the station, they put me in an interrogation room—not the open desk area from earlier, but a small, windowless box with a metal table bolted to the floor and a camera watching from the corner. The charge: domestic assault. Ridge was in the hospital with a concussion and a broken collarbone, and Kamryn had given a statement claiming I'd pushed him down the stairs in a jealous rage.

Hours passed before the door finally opened. A man in his thirties with kind eyes and rumpled business casual attire stepped in, carrying a leather briefcase that had seen better days.

"Blaire Murphy?" he asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical. His eyes held recognition, and something else—concern, maybe even affection. "I'm Chris Bell. Do you remember me? We went to Lakeside High together."

The name hit me like a wave of relief. Chris Bell—the quiet, brilliant boy who'd helped me through calculus, who'd taken me to senior prom when my boyfriend dumped me the week before. We'd lost touch after college, but I remembered his steady presence, his unwavering decency.

"Chris," I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying. "How did you—"

"Your firm called me. I'm handling some cases for them, and when they heard you'd been arrested..." He set his briefcase on the table and sat across from me. "I'm a defense attorney now. I'm here to help."

For the first time since stepping off the plane, I felt something other than rage or despair—a small flicker of hope. "They're saying I pushed him, Chris. But I didn't. We were struggling, and he fell."

Chris reached across the table, his hand stopping just short of touching mine. "I believe you, Blaire. And I'm going to get you out of here. But first, I need to know everything—about Ridge, about this Kamryn woman, about what's really been happening while you were away."

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "It's a long story."

"I've got time," he said softly, his eyes never leaving mine. "And Blaire? For what it's worth, I've always had time for you. Even when you chose him."

The words hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to process. But as Chris arranged my bail and prepared to take me home—not to the townhouse, but to a hotel where I could regroup—I couldn't help noticing how different it felt to have someone truly on my side.