The world was a maelstrom of noise, dust, and agony. Sandra choked, tasting grit and blood. Her vision swam, darkness threatening to swallow her whole. Every breath sent shards of glass through her ribs. Above, the thunderous roar subsided into ominous groans and the patter of falling debris. She lay half-buried in rubble on the second-floor landing, the collapsed remains of the floor above forming a jagged tomb around her. Weak light filtered through the choking cloud, illuminating the massive beam that had plunged like a spear, embedded in the debris mere feet from where she'd landed.
*Reginald.* The name was a cold spike of terror piercing the haze of pain. He'd tried to kill her. Frame Paul. Again.
A raw, animalistic roar shattered the settling dust. Not the groan of stone, but a sound of pure, unadulterated rage and terror. *"SANDRA!"*
Footsteps pounded on the stairs below, frantic, stumbling. Paul burst through the swirling dust cloud, his face a mask of primal horror. His eyes, wide and wild, scanned the devastation, locking onto her crumpled form amidst the wreckage.
"Sandra!" He scrambled over fallen stones, ignoring the danger of further collapse, his movements frantic. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering, trembling, afraid to touch. "Sandra, look at me! Where are you hurt?"
"Ribs... leg..." she gasped, each word a knife twist. "Paul... it wasn't... accident..." She coughed, tasting copper.
His gaze swept the scene – the severed beam, the suspiciously clean break at the wall socket, the strategically placed "Access Permitted" sign lying discarded nearby. Fury, colder and more dangerous than any rage Sandra had witnessed before, hardened his features. It wasn't the volatile outburst she'd once feared; it was a glacial, focused wrath.
"He did this," Paul stated, the words flat, final. He carefully brushed dust from her face, his touch infinitely gentle despite the fury radiating from him. "Can you move? Can you stand?"
Sandra gritted her teeth, pushing against the pain. "Help me." With his support, biting back cries, she managed to get to her feet, leaning heavily against him. Her left leg screamed protest, but held. Her side was a furnace of pain. But she was alive. And she was *furious*.
"We end this," Paul growled, his arm a steel band around her waist, supporting her weight. "Now. Before he can spin his lies." He guided her, step by agonizing step, away from the wreckage, his eyes scanning the dust-choked corridor like a hunter. He didn't head for safety; he steered them towards the heart of the castle – the main hall, where Reginald Barton, assured of his victory, would undoubtedly be waiting.
***
They found him in the grand drawing-room, standing before the fire, a crystal glass of brandy in hand. He turned as they entered, his expression carefully composed into one of paternal concern. It faltered only for a fraction of a second at the sight of Sandra, battered but very much alive, leaning on Paul, whose face was carved from stone.
"Paul! Sandra! Good heavens!" Reginald exclaimed, setting down his glass with deliberate calm. "I heard the most dreadful noise! Are you hurt, my dear? A terrible accident with the tower repairs, I fear. I warned the foreman about rushing—"
"Save it, Father," Paul's voice cut through the false solicitude like a whip. He helped Sandra onto a settee, positioning himself protectively between her and Reginald. "The only 'accident' was your miscalculation. She survived."
Reginald's eyes narrowed, the mask slipping to reveal cold calculation. "Miscalculation? Paul, your grief is speaking. The structural failure—"
"Was engineered," Sandra rasped, her voice weak but clear, her eyes blazing defiance. "Just like the demolition order you forged in Paul's name. Just like the ruin you orchestrated for my family." She fumbled in the pocket of her dusty skirt, pulling out the folded, decoded journal page. "Isabella Laurent documented your *pattern*, Reginald. Middleton – vulnerable. Riverfront key. Reginald eyes it. Pattern repeats."
Reginald's face tightened. "The ravings of a hysterical woman sent away for her own good—"
"And Eleanor Vance?" Paul interjected, his voice dangerously low. He pulled the silver locket from his own pocket, snapping it open to reveal the hidden list. "You exiled her too, didn't you? When she discovered your dealings? When she threatened to expose how you ruined her family to seize their mills? Just like you tried to ruin the Middletons."
Reginald waved a dismissive hand. "Business is business, Paul. Sometimes unpleasant decisions—"
"Unpleasant decisions?" Sandra's laugh was harsh, painful. "You destroyed lives! You *exiled* your own daughters-in-law! Isabella, Eleanor, Clara... you erased them because they were inconvenient! Because they threatened your control or couldn't produce the heir you demanded fast enough!"
The drawing-room door creaked open. Mrs. Thorne stood there, her face pale, her usual composure fractured. "Sir... the constable... he's asking about the collapse..."
Reginald's gaze snapped to her, then back to Paul and Sandra, a flicker of panic finally surfacing. "Thorne, handle it. Explain the tragic accident—"
"It wasn't an accident!" Paul roared, the sound vibrating through the room. He took a step towards his father, his controlled fury a palpable force. "We have the proof, Father! The journal! The locket! The forged demolition papers! Testimony from Eleanor Vance, once we find her! And," he added, his gaze locking onto Mrs. Thorne, who flinched, "the testimony of your accomplice. Who ensured Sandra was lured to the tower? Who removed the safety rope? Who pressured the foreman to use substandard materials?"
Mrs. Thorne's hand flew to her mouth. "I... I only followed orders, Master Paul! He said... he said she was a threat! To the family! To you!"
"To *his* power, you mean!" Sandra shot back, pushing herself upright despite the pain, fueled by adrenaline and outrage.
Reginald's composure shattered. His face contorted with rage and desperation. "You ungrateful whelp!" he spat at Paul, spittle flying. "I built this empire! I secured the Barton legacy! And you side with this... this *nobody* against me? After everything I sacrificed?"
"You sacrificed nothing but the lives and happiness of others!" Paul thundered, closing the distance. He didn't raise a fist, but his presence was a physical threat, towering over his father. "You sacrificed Mother's spirit! You sacrificed Isabella's life and our child! You sacrificed Eleanor and Clara's freedom! You tried to sacrifice Sandra! For what? More money? More control? A legacy built on blood and lies?"
Reginald's eyes darted wildly. Seeing Mrs. Thorne crumbling, seeing the implacable fury in his son's eyes, seeing the damning evidence in Sandra's grasp, he snapped. With a snarl of pure venom, he lunged not at Paul, but towards Sandra on the settee, his hand clawing, perhaps for the journal pages, perhaps for her throat. "You meddling bitch! You've poisoned him—!"
He never reached her.
Paul moved with terrifying speed. Not the blind rage of rumor, but the precision of a protector pushed beyond endurance. He intercepted Reginald's lunge, grabbing his father's wrist in a vise-like grip. With a powerful, controlled twist, he wrenched Reginald's arm behind his back, spinning him around. Reginald cried out, more in shock than pain, as Paul slammed him face-first against the ornate mantelpiece, pinning him there.
"Touch her," Paul hissed, his voice a deadly whisper inches from his father's ear, his breath hot with righteous fury, "and I will break every bone in your hand. Then the other one."
Reginald struggled, sputtering curses, but Paul's hold was immovable. The brute strength was there, undeniable, but it was harnessed, directed solely at the source of the evil that had haunted Blackwood for decades. He held his father trapped, not with uncontrolled violence, but with the terrifying, focused strength of a man defending everything he now held dear.
Sandra watched, her heart pounding, pain momentarily forgotten. This was the protector. This was the man beneath the monster's reputation. This was the righteous fury she'd glimpsed in flashes, now fully unleashed against the true architect of their suffering.
The drawing-room door flew open wider. The constable, accompanied by two wide-eyed officers and Paul's lead solicitor, Mr. Davies, stood frozen on the threshold, taking in the scene: the battered bride, the housekeeper trembling in the corner, the mighty Reginald Barton pinned against the mantel by his enraged son, the dust of the 'accident' still settling on their clothes.
Paul didn't flinch. He kept his father pinned, his gaze locking onto the constable. His voice, when he spoke, was clear, cold, and carried the weight of undeniable authority.
"Constable," Paul stated, the righteous fury banked into steely command. "Arrest this man. For attempted murder, fraud, conspiracy, coercion, and the unlawful imprisonment of Eleanor Vance, Clara Barton, and Isabella Laurent. The evidence," he nodded towards Sandra and the papers clutched in her hand, "is right here. The real monster of Blackwood stands before you." He tightened his grip slightly, making Reginald gasp. "And he will answer for *all* his crimes."