Chapter 4Her Broken Pet Bites Back

The grand ballroom of the Townsend country club was bathed in gold light.

Thirty minutes had passed since the official reception began, but the seat to Camille Townsend’s left remained glaringly vacant.

Edward Townsend, draped in an impeccably tailored navy three-piece suit, slowly turned a string of polished sandalwood prayer beads between his age-spotted fingers, his brow drawn into a thunderous scowl.

"Where is he, Camille? It is my seventy-fifth birthday, and that ungrateful wretch can’t even be bothered to show his face?"

Before Camille could answer, a collective murmur rippled through the hundreds of guests lining the banquet tables. Phones began buzzing in sequence across the room.

"Look at the trending feed!" someone whispered.

"#TownsendScandal"

"#DeanCooperUnmasked"

Two videos were tearing through local social media feeds like wildfire.

The first was heavily edited security footage from the lounge two nights ago—it cut straight to me breaking Keegan’s wrist, omitting the King's Cup game entirely, accompanied by audio of Keegan sobbing about domestic abuse.

The second was even more salacious: security footage from the hallway of a boutique downtown hotel, showing a man with my exact build and haircut stumbling drunkenly into a suite, followed by five women in skimpy evening dresses filing in one after another.

The room erupted into frantic, gleeful whispering.

"Good God, what kind of animal did the Townsends let into their house?"

"Five at once? He’s completely out of his mind."

Keegan stood near the head table, his arm encased in a clean white medical sling, waving his good hand with an expression of pained, noble martyrdom. "Please, everyone, don't judge Dean too harshly. He’s... under a lot of stress lately. My wrist will heal. It’s fine, really!"

Edward Townsend’s knuckles turned bone-white. With a violent jerk of his wrist, his prayer beads slammed against the linen tablecloth, scattering polished wooden spheres across the floor.

"Disgraceful!" the old man hissed, his voice shaking with fury. "Camille! Find him! Bring him here right now! No man drags the Townsend name through the gutter and walks away!"

Camille stared at the screen of her phone, her fingers gripping the metal casing so tightly the edges bit into her skin. Her jaw was rigid, her eyes wide with shock and humiliation.

Keegan leaned down, whispering into her ear with venomous concern. "Camille... what if he’s actually in trouble? Maybe we should send security to look for him before the press catches him..."

Camille raised her phone to dial—

"BAM."

The heavy double doors of the ballroom were kicked open so hard they bounced off the paneled walls.

The room went dead.

I stood in the arched entryway. My tuxedo shirt was shredded, dark purple contusions blooming across my collarbone, dried blood caked at the corner of my lips. Circling both of my wrists were deep, raw ligature burns where the nylon straps had bitten into the flesh.

Three seconds passed in absolute silence before the ballroom detonated.

"Look at his clothes... the bruises..."

"The hotel video was real! He actually came straight here from the orgy!"

"Shameless... absolutely disgusting!"

Edward Townsend gripped the edge of the head table, trembling with rage, pointing a frail, spotted finger at me. "Get him out! Security, throw this degenerate out on the street!"

Keegan looked at me like he’d seen a ghost rising from an open grave, the blood instantly draining from his face. But within a fraction of a second, he smoothed his features into an expression of frantic, loving concern and rushed toward me.

"Dean! Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you all night!"

I caught his eye, my voice quiet, carrying effortlessly through the quiet hall.

"Did you enjoy playing kidnapper, Keegan?"

The room went instantly cold.

Keegan’s hand froze inches from my chest. His eyes welled with tears, his voice breaking with theatrical devastation.

"Dean... what are you talking about? What did I do?" He turned toward the crowd, appealing to them. "I know I can be loud sometimes, but... accusing me of a felony?"

Camille marched across the parquet floor, stepping squarely between us and shoving Keegan behind her back.

"Dean, stop this," she said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "You humiliated yourself, and now you want to drag Keegan into your filth? He was with me all day yesterday. How could he possibly kidnap you?"

I looked at her, and for the first time, I felt genuine pity for the man who died in this skin.

He had given three years of his life to a woman who was blind, deaf, and profoundly stupid.

I took a half-step forward, the temperature in my voice dropping below freezing.

"Are you certain, Camille? You’re testifying that he didn't leave your sight for a single second?"

Camille flinched, an uncomfortable flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But she doubled down, her chin jutting out in stubborn defense. "Even if he played some stupid prank on you, it was between friends! Did you have to bring your childish drama to my father's birthday?!"

Keegan tugged gently on her sleeve, his voice dripping with sinister faux-concern. "Camille... he looks unstable. His eyes... I think he’s having a violent manic episode. For everyone's safety, shouldn't we have him restrained?"

I checked the brass grandfather clock against the ballroom wall.

Right on time.

I looked down at Keegan’s triumphant, smirking face, and a slow, dry laugh escaped my chest.

"You’re right," I said softly. "Someone in this room definitely needs to be locked away."

I leaned in, meeting his gaze.

"Too bad for you, it’s not going to be me."