Chapter 3

Julian and Grace’s faces froze the instant my words hit them.

I seized the moment as new guests approached to greet them, turned on my heel, and walked away.

My husband, Ethan, was still speaking with a senior government official and hadn’t returned yet. I needed to retreat to our reserved suite at The Knightsbridge Hotel to change into something more comfortable.

But just as I neared the elevator bank, I spotted a boy—no older than five—clutching his throat, face flushed crimson, gasping for air in shallow, panicked breaths.

My stomach dropped. Something was very wrong.

I stepped forward to assess him, but before I could reach the child, a sharp force slammed into my shoulder, shoving me backward.

“Don’t you dare hurt my son!”

Grace’s shriek pierced the air like shattered glass.

I stumbled, landing hard on the thick carpet. My knees burned from the friction, pain flaring through my legs.

When I looked up, Grace stood over me, tears streaming down her cheeks, voice trembling with accusation.

“Clara, if you hate me, hit me, scream at me—do whatever you want! But why would you go after my child?”

“He’s only five! How could you do this to him?”

I stared at her, stunned. This was her son?

But I hadn’t done anything.

This banquet was hosted by the Department for Energy Security and Net Zero—and by extension, by me and Ethan. If any guest suffered harm under our roof, the responsibility would fall squarely on us.

The boy’s breathing grew more labored by the second. Panic tightened my chest.

Instinctively, I reached toward him again—but Julian’s hand shot out, grabbing the neckline of my dress and yanking me upright.

His eyes blazed with fury as he hissed through clenched teeth, “Clara Beaumont, no wonder you wouldn’t leave when I told you to. You came here to target Andy.”

“Did you think threatening my son would force me to marry you?”

Hatred radiated from him so intensely it felt like a physical blow.

Grace sobbed beside him, her voice thick with theatrical grief. “After everything I’ve done for you—after begging Julian to bring you back from that miserable little village in Belgravia—you repay me like this?”

A small crowd had already gathered. None of them knew me. Their stares were laced with suspicion, their postures tense.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw angry red hives blooming across the boy’s neck and cheeks.

I didn’t hesitate. With all the strength I had left, I swung my arm and slapped Julian hard across the face.

“I would never hurt a child—not for you, not for anyone! Right now, he needs help!”

The crack of my palm against his skin echoed in the sudden silence.

Julian staggered back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with disbelief. He looked at me as if seeing a stranger—as if the woman who once waited on him hand and foot would never dare raise a hand to him.

I ignored him completely.

Dropping to my knees beside the boy, I scanned his hands—and there it was: a half-eaten peanut brittle clutched in his tiny fingers.

Acute anaphylaxis. Immediate intervention required.

I yanked open my clutch, pulled out my emergency medical kit, and grabbed the epinephrine auto-injector.

Before I could press it to his thigh, Grace’s palm cracked against my face.

“You’re the only one near him when he collapsed!” she screamed. “What poison are you trying to inject into him now?”

Julian snapped back to attention. In one swift motion, he seized my wrist, his grip bruising.

His voice broke with false sorrow. “Clara… is marriage really the only way to stop you from hurting innocent people?”

“In just five years… how did you become so cruel?”

For a heartbeat, his words made me falter.

I remembered the winter nights of my childhood—how Julian’s stepmother, Margaret Hargrove, would lock him outside in subzero temperatures for the smallest infractions. Once, during a blizzard, I’d found him curled on our porch steps, blue-lipped and shaking. My mother, Eleanor, wrapped him in blankets, fed him hot cocoa and soup.

He’d whispered to me then, voice raw with gratitude: “Clara, your mother is kind—but you’re the one who saved me. Without you, I’d have frozen to death that night.”

Now, faced with Grace’s crocodile tears and baseless accusations, he didn’t question, didn’t investigate—he simply condemned me.

A guest who recognized Grace finally spoke up, voice urgent. “Mrs. Hargrove, this isn’t the time for blame! Your son’s turning blue—we need an ambulance now!”

I glanced at Andy. His lips were tinged violet, his breaths shallow wheezes.

There was no more time.

While Grace hesitated, sobbing into her hands, I lunged forward and jammed the injector into the outer side of Andy’s thigh.

The dose fired.

And in the next second, a brutal kick to my ribs sent me flying across the marble floor.