SHE CRIED OUT, panic rising in her throat. "Grayson!"
Mailah scrambled across the marble floor, ignoring the sharp crystals that bit into her palms and the throbbing pain in her twisted ankle.
Grayson lay motionless where he'd fallen, his face pale as moonlight, his breathing so shallow she had to press her ear to his chest to confirm he was still alive.
His heartbeat was there, but faint—like a dying echo reverberating through an empty cathedral.
"Mrs. Baker!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. "Mrs. Baker, I need you to call 911! Now!"
The sound of running footsteps echoed through the corridors. The estate staff had gathered around the commotion.
Mrs. Baker appeared, her usually composed face crumpling with shock as she took in the scene—the destroyed chandelier, the crystal debris scattered like deadly confetti, and her employer lying unconscious amid the wreckage.
"My God," the older woman breathed, her hand flying to her throat. "What happened? Is he—"
