The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 303

Fabian’s breath snagged in his throat. “Mr. Whitethorn!” he blurted. Shock flashed across his face as he saw his boss lift the crystal tumbler toward his lips. In a panicked rush he shot out a hand, blocking the glass before it could tilt.

Julius’ long-lashed eyes lifted, calm yet glacial. “Move your hand,” he said, the words so soft they hummed with warning.

“Mr. Whitethorn, you can’t be serious,” Fabian urged, voice tight with worry. “That drink’s been spiked with... with that kind of drug. It’ll wreck your body.”

Julius’ gaze drifted to the amber liquid. In a voice meant only for himself, he murmured, “If this body breaks, will her heart ache?”

The “her” needed no clarification; he was speaking of Quinn, the woman who had once been his entire horizon.

Fabian opened his mouth, then closed it again, words failing him at last.

“Move your hand,” Julius repeated, the command now carrying the chill weight of an order that brooked no refusal.

Fabian’s resolve cracked. “Mr. Whitethorn, if you really down that drink and Ms. Bridger still refuses to come... what then?”

“Then I’ll consider the bet lost,” Julius said. He tipped the glass. The tainted liquor slid past his lips, burning a trail of heat down his throat. When the rim left his mouth, the cup was empty. His eyes, cool as winter water, lifted to Fabian. “All right. Go tell her.”

He needed to know whether any corner of her heart still held his name. And if it cost him the integrity of his own body, so be it; he would stake flesh and bone on the answer.

Quinn and Laura were deep in negotiations with a cluster of executives from another firm when Fabian barged into the lounge, breathless and pale.

“Ms. Bridger, Mr. Whitethorn is in trouble. Please, you must come with me—at once!”

“What?” Quinn froze. Julius Whitethorn, in trouble?

“His condition is urgent, Ms. Bridger. This way, please,” Fabian pressed.

Instinct propelled her two strides after him, then something inside her braked hard, and she halted.

Fabian blinked back at her. “Ms. Bridger?”

Quinn pressed her lips together. “If Julius were truly hurt, you would call the police or an ambulance—not me.”

“But Mr. Whitethorn refuses the hospital. He insists on seeing you and only you.”

“Is he injured?” she demanded.

Did a woman who fancied Julius dose him?

But once I stand before him again—what then? Rowan still stands between us, and the wrecked bridge of trust yawns between us. How could we possibly cross that chasm?

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