“Manuel!”
Smoke swallowed Rosalie’s voice.
She dropped to her knees and crawled toward the place where he had disappeared.
The fallen beam had struck his shoulder and pinned his arm against the floor. Flames moved along one end of the timber, feeding on varnished wood.
Manuel tried pushing himself free.
Pain stopped him.
“Leave me.”
Rosalie stared at him.
“What?”
“Take the notebook and get out.”
For twelve years, Rosalie had been told what she could not do.
Too awkward.
Too large.
Too emotional.
Too weak-minded.
Her father had transformed every characteristic she possessed into evidence of defect.
Now the same powerful body he had encouraged her to hide beneath shapeless clothing was the only tool available.
Rosalie crouched beside the beam.
“Pull when I tell you.”
“Rosalie—”
“Be quiet.”
She planted her feet.
Wrapped both hands beneath the timber.
And lifted.
Pain tore through her arms.
The beam barely moved.
She adjusted her grip.
Again.
This time it rose.
“Now!”
Manuel dragged himself backward.
His trapped arm came free.
Rosalie dropped the beam.
The floor shook.
She pulled Manuel upright.
His left arm hung uselessly.
“The main door is bolted,” he said.
“I know another way.”
As a child, Rosalie had explored Pinecrest during visits with her mother. Lorelei once showed her a narrow servants’ corridor concealed behind wall paneling.
Rosalie found it by touch.
They entered seconds before another section of ceiling collapsed.
The passage was black.
Rosalie kept one arm around Manuel.
At its end stood an old exterior door.
It would not open.
She hit it with her shoulder.
Nothing.
Again.
The frame cracked.
On the third impact the swollen latch broke.
Cold night air struck them.
They stumbled into wet grass.
Behind them, flames burst through the archive windows.
Rosalie rolled onto her back.
She was still clutching Lorelei’s notebook.
Manuel laughed once.
It was an exhausted, disbelieving sound.
“You saved it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m surprised you saved me.”
“You were attached to the evidence.”
He looked at her.
Even covered in soot, she managed the faintest smile.
They could not risk returning to the house until they knew who remained loyal to Emmett. Rosalie remembered an abandoned stone chapel near the edge of the property.
They sheltered there.
Manuel’s shoulder was dislocated.
Rosalie helped stabilize it until emergency responders could reach them safely.
In the quiet before sirens approached, Manuel watched her.
“I need to tell you something.”
Rosalie looked over.
“I married you because I needed the money.”
“I’m aware.”
“I thought I could fulfill the arrangement, repair Nelson Enterprises, clear my father’s name, and remain emotionally separate from everything else.”
“That was also my plan.”
“It isn’t anymore.”
Rosalie became still.
“My father will offer you more.”
“I know.”
“He can restore everything.”
“I know.”
“He can pay your debts. Help your sister. Give you back your family name.”
Manuel leaned against the cold stone.
“I don’t want anything from him.”
“Everyone wants something.”
“I want you alive.”
Rosalie studied his face.
“Why?”
Manuel took his time.
“Because when you enter a room, I notice. Because you see things other people miss. Because you argue with me when I deserve it. Because you found theft in accounts professionals had reviewed for years. Because you carried evidence out of a burning building.”
He glanced toward his injured shoulder.
“And because you lifted part of that building off me.”
Rosalie looked down.
“You could still regret marrying me.”
“I regret the reason.”
That hurt.
Then he continued.
“I don’t regret you.”
The distinction mattered.
Rosalie moved closer.
Manuel did not.
He waited.
She kissed him.
Briefly.
Deliberately.
Her choice.
By morning, investigators confirmed accelerant had been used inside Pinecrest.
This was arson.
Telephone records produced another discovery.
Wesley Turner had called a security guard shortly before the fire.
The guard was now missing.
Emmett denied everything publicly.
Privately, he approached Manuel.
The meeting occurred in a lawyer’s office with witnesses present.
Emmett offered to erase every remaining Nelson debt.
He offered financing sufficient to rebuild the company.
He offered legal resources to clear Manuel’s father.
He offered full university tuition for Manuel’s sister.
Manuel listened.
Then Emmett revealed the price.
A statement.
Manuel would claim Rosalie had become unstable, started the archive fire, and posed a danger to herself and others.
Callaway would provide supporting medical documentation.
Rosalie could be committed.
The trust would return to Emmett’s control.
Manuel pushed the unsigned statement back across the table.
“No.”
Emmett smiled.
“You should consider carefully.”
“I have.”
“You married her for money.”
“Yes.”
Rosalie, listening from the adjoining hallway, closed her eyes.
Manuel continued.
“That is something I’ll have to live with. It is not something you can use to buy me twice.”
Emmett’s smile vanished.
The offer was rejected before a notary and independent attorneys.
It should have felt like victory.
Instead Rosalie understood they had reached a more dangerous stage.
Emmett could no longer control Manuel.
He could no longer safely control her.
And Lorelei’s notebook remained outside his reach.
But one question still lacked proof.
What had happened to Lorelei on the night she died?
The answer arrived through a woman Rosalie had not seen since childhood.
Evelyn Webb.
Lorelei’s cousin.
Evelyn had spent years moving between addresses after receiving threats connected to Emmett.
She brought an envelope.
Inside was a letter written by Lorelei shortly before her death.
Rosalie recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her mother described discovering withdrawals from the trust.
She described seeking help from Manuel’s father.
She described her fear of Emmett.
Then came Callaway’s name.
Lorelei believed the physician had been changing her medication.
Rosalie’s hands shook as she reached the final lines.
Her mother had known she was in danger.
The lake-house fall had not surprised her.
Lorelei had left evidence because she feared she would not survive long enough to expose the fraud herself.
Rosalie lowered the letter.
For twelve years, her father had insisted that questioning her mother’s death proved she was mentally unstable.
Now Rosalie possessed a letter proving Lorelei had shared the same fear.
Manuel sat beside her.
“What do you want to do?”
Rosalie folded the letter carefully.
She thought of Callaway.
The restraints.
Naomi collapsing.
The burning archive.
Her mother waiting for help that had come too late.
Then she looked at Manuel.
“I want him somewhere he cannot close the door.”
Manuel understood.
“You want this public.”
“Yes.”
Emmett had spent years controlling rooms.
Doctors’ offices.
Boardrooms.
Private studies.
Locked bedrooms.
Rosalie was finished meeting him where he held the keys.
She would confront him in court.
