THE REJECTED STONE IS A BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 8

gently.

He came out to welcome her. She looked different from the day of the fire incident: calmer, brighter and super adorable. Her cotton dress hung on her body like a leech, and her beauty was goddess-like. Zeus must be eyeing her from Mount Olympus.

“Nathan Woods?” she asked gently when she saw him. Her ivory white dentition was everything.

“Sarah Wilkins!” He returned the smile with fascination in his eyes.

“I wasn’t sure I’d come,” she said. “But I owed you a thank you. And… well, my sister insisted. She said anyone who’d risk their life for her son deserved more than just a handshake on the sidewalk.”

Nathan gave a rare smile. “How is the young man doing?”

“Better,” she said. “He won’t stop talking about his ‘fireman.’ Even though you’re not a fireman.”

“I’ll take the compliment.”

She laughed hard and long. Nathan joined her, and hand in hand, he took her to the estate garden where they sat for a while. Their conversation revolved from London, to her nephew, to nightlife, to disco, and so much more.

It felt like eternity, and Sarah listened like someone who genuinely cared, laughed when the joke got funny and kept silent when Nathan's stories got too intense and action-packed.

She didn’t ask about the estate, didn’t ask about his status or his role. She only asked about him.

By the time the sun had shifted and the garden shadows grew longer, Nathan realised something strange. He hadn’t wanted her to leave.

Over the following days, Sarah returned.

Sometimes with books. Sometimes with snacks. Once with her nephew, who gave Nathan a crayon drawing of the two of them standing in front of a fire. She started walking with him around the estate’s edge. She made him laugh without trying. Something was grounding about her, unpretentious, kind, opposite to what his world had become.

And Nathan, despite everything he tried to tell himself, started looking forward to her visits.

But not everyone was pleased.

Clara saw them first.

Nathan was walking Sarah out after one of her visits when Clara, draped in dark silk and pettiness, appeared near the fountain with a raised brow and that venomous smile of hers.

“Well, well,” she said. “What’s this? A new project? Or is she just another distraction from the life you’re too afraid to live?”

Sarah paused, unsure, but Nathan stepped in front of her slightly.

“Clara, don’t,” he said.

Clara’s smile twisted. “I always knew you were predictable, Nathan. A pretty face, soft voice, and suddenly you’re playing lover boy?”

Nathan stayed calm. “Go home, Clara.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think you’re untouchable? You think I won’t make you regret this little act?”

Nathan’s voice was cold. “Try it.”

Clara stared deep, as if trying to see through his soul, but Nathan neither flinched nor swayed.

She clicked her lips and turned away, mouthing inaudibly under her breath.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, Nathan. One I’ll enjoy watching you pay for.”

Sarah looked at him, hesitantly. “Should I… go?”

Nathan exhaled. “She thrives on chaos. But no, don’t let her shake you.”

Sarah nodded, but Nathan could feel the shift in the air. Clara wasn’t just angry. She was threatened. And a threatened Clara was always dangerous.

Sarah, for the first time in ages, wasn't bothered. She had felt a type of connection with Nathan, and that was the best she had ever felt in years. Whatever happened, she'll cling to that.

And she wasn’t going to run from it.

Later in the evening, Lord Graymon hosted dinner, but no one knew why.

Nathan sat across from Graymon. He had been religiously taking his medication, but the illness grew worse, gnawing at his ribs, making the world blur sometimes in the corners. But tonight he’d made the effort. If only to maintain appearances.

Clara hadn’t spoken to him since her outburst in the garden days ago, but Nathan had caught her watching him, the way a predator watches its prey.  

Jessica, of course, was draped over Silas’s arm like jewellery. Her smile looked comical and forced, like a circus puppet compelled to smile. The drama at the London square had not entirely left her. She was still shaken; it was only a matter of time before Silas found out.

At the far end of the table, Maurice raised a glass.

“To enduring legacies,” he said, “and the people who understand how to protect them.”

There was a scattered murmur of agreement. Glasses clinked. Plates were uncovered and servants moved like ghosts between guests.

Sitting on the left flank was Lord Graymon, who barely touched the wine and food placed before him. He didn’t trust anything served here too easily, not without Nathan testing and confirming its poison-free status.

“Nathan!” He called. “Your service is needed here.”

Nathan calmly approached him and, with practised precision, he probed the edge of the dish in front of Lord Graymon, a roast seasoned with an exotic rub, garnished more for appearance than for flavour.

He took a generous bite; little did he know that he had just taken his last supper.

He chewed, then paused; something tasted off.

A sharp bitterness hit his tongue halfway through. It was not just bad seasoning; something tasted off. Something chemical, like ammonia and salt.

Poison. His throat tightened.

The lights seemed to flicker, or maybe that was his vision. His palms were already getting wet, and he could hear the intense thumping of his heart against the walls of his aching ribs.

His grip tightened around the table as he could feel his breathing slowing down every second.

He staggered; the room was spinning like a merry-go-round.

THUD. He collapsed, his body shutting down like a failed robotic system, and the last thing he could hear was:

“Damn!... he's dead!”