34 The Billionaire’s Bride Pushed His Mother Off the Rooftop—Then the Maid Did the Unthinkable

Night fell over Blackwood Manor with the heavy, suffocating silence of an impending storm.

The wind from Long Island Sound battered the antique windowpanes, rattling the leaded glass like skeletal fingers. Inside the Rose Suite, the fire had burned down to a pile of glowing orange embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

Rose couldn't sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was falling again. She felt the sudden, sickening drop in her stomach, the icy rush of wind against her face, the sound of Eleanor’s emerald silk ripping beneath her fingernails. She saw Victoria’s face—not the weeping victim from the news broadcasts, but the cold, pitiless creature on the rooftop whose hands had pushed an old woman to her death.

She sat up in the massive four-poster bed, clutching the duvet to her chest.

Her hands throbbed with a dull, persistent rhythm. The heavy bandages had been replaced earlier that afternoon by Dr. Vance with flexible silicone dressings, but the cuts were deep, and the skin pulled painfully whenever she flexed her palms.

Needing water, Rose slipped out of bed. She put on a thick fleece robe that had been left in the dressing room and quietly opened the door to the corridor.

The hallway was dimly lit by wrought-iron wall sconces shaped like torches. It felt less like a modern home and more like a medieval castle asleep under an enchantment. As Rose padded silently along the runner rug toward the grand staircase, she heard voices drifting up from the lower floor.

She stopped at the mezzanine overlook, hidden behind the carved mahogany balustrade.

Below, in the cavernous library, two men stood before a roaring fireplace.

One was Nathaniel. He had changed into a dark sweater, pacing the length of the Persian rug with a glass of amber scotch in his hand. The other man was tall, sharp-featured, wearing a tailored three-piece suit despite the late hour—Julian Vance, Nathaniel’s personal attorney and chief counsel for Callaway Enterprises.

“Marcus has filed the emergency injunction, Nathaniel,” Julian was saying, his voice tight with frustration. “The court has barred us from releasing any public statements accusing Victoria of criminal conduct until the preliminary hearing on Thursday. If you speak to the press, you’re in contempt.”

“I don’t give a damn about contempt,” Nathaniel snarled, slamming his glass onto a marble side table. “My mother was nearly murdered in front of four hundred witnesses!”

“Four hundred witnesses who saw *nothing*!” Julian countered, throwing his hands in the air. “I spent the entire day reviewing the police witness statements. Half the guests were looking at the orchestra. The other half were looking at you. No one had eyes on Victoria until Eleanor was already over the railing. Marcus has three separate guests willing to testify under oath that they saw Eleanor stumble backward after drinking two martinis.”

“They’re lying. Marcus bought them.”

“Of course he bought them!” Julian hissed. “That’s what Marcus Van Doren does! He’s spent thirty years buying senators, judges, and journalists. And right now, the narrative in the public eye is that Victoria is an innocent bride whose mother-in-law had a dizzy spell, and that your star witness is a destitute catering maid looking for a settlement.”

Julian leaned forward across Nathaniel’s desk.

“Nathaniel, you have to be pragmatic. If we go to trial without hard evidence, Marcus will shred Rose Sterling on the witness stand. He will bring up her mother’s medical debts. He will bring up her eviction notices. He will make her look like an opportunistic blackmailer. The jury will see a bitter, impoverished temp trying to destroy a golden couple for a payday.”

Nathaniel went dead silent.

He turned toward Julian, and even from the mezzanine above, Rose could feel the sheer, suffocating menace radiating from the billionaire.

“She didn't ask for a penny, Julian,” Nathaniel said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper. “She dove onto broken glass. She cracked her ribs. She hung over eighty floors of empty air because she wouldn't let an old woman die. Do not ever refer to her as an opportunistic blackmailer in my presence again.”

Julian swallowed, stepping back slightly. “I’m not saying she is, Nathaniel. I’m saying that is what the jury will see. Without that flash drive—without hard proof of Victoria’s motive—you cannot win this in court. Marcus will force a settlement. Victoria will walk away with a hundred and fifty million dollars of Callaway money, and Rose Sterling will be branded a liar for the rest of her life.”

Nathaniel stared into the fire, his jaw working silently.

“The service company hasn't cleared the terrace yet,” Nathaniel said after a long pause. “The police have it sealed as a crime scene, but Marcus’s pet detectives are trying to get the scene released by tomorrow morning.”

“Then we have until sunrise,” Julian said grimly. “If that drive isn't recovered tonight, Marcus’s people will sweep that terrace clean, and the evidence disappears forever.”

Rose leaned back against the shadow of a pillar, her mind racing.

*The service station.*

She remembered the exact layout of the rooftop. The terrace had been decorated with two dozen large, potted lemon trees and a false boxwood hedge designed to hide the catering prep area from the main wedding guests. When Rose had dropped her tray, she had been standing on the service side of that hedge.

Eleanor’s purse hadn't fallen onto the open marble. If it had, someone would have picked it up immediately.

It had fallen behind the hedge, beneath the heavy, pleated skirting of the ice-bin cart.

Rose stepped back from the balustrade, turned, and began making her way toward the private study where she had seen Evelyn working earlier that evening.

She didn't get five paces before a figure emerged from the shadows near the library entrance.

“Spying, Miss Sterling?”

Rose gasped, whirling around.

Nathaniel stood at the bottom of the curved staircase, looking up at her. He had shed his glass of scotch, and his eyes were dark, watchful, and startlingly intense.

“I… I wasn't spying,” Rose said, her heart hammering against her bruised ribs. “I couldn't sleep. I came down for water.”

Nathaniel climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood on the landing just a foot away from her. He was taller than she realized, his broad shoulders blocking the faint light from the sconces. He smelled of cedarwood, rain, and the faint peat of scotch.

“You heard Julian,” Nathaniel said. It wasn't a question.

Rose looked down at the hem of her robe, then forced herself to meet his gaze. “He’s right. About me. On paper, I look like someone who needs money. Because I *do* need money. If Victoria’s father puts me on a stand, he will make everyone believe I’m lying.”

Nathaniel reached out, his hand pausing for a brief second before his fingers gently touched the side of her face, his thumb brushing against the faint purple bruise near her jawline.

Rose shivered at the contact. It was warm, startlingly tender, completely at odds with the ruthless billionaire who had just threatened his own lawyer.

“You are not a liar, Rose,” Nathaniel said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “You are the only honest person who has set foot in my life in five years.”

He let his hand drop, though his gaze never left hers.

“The police have sealed the Callaway Spire,” Nathaniel continued. “Marcus has two private security details posted at the elevators, waiting for the precinct to release the floor at six in the morning. If I send my men in, Marcus will claim I’m tampering with a sealed crime scene.”

Rose’s hazel eyes widened as an idea crystallized in her mind.

“They’re watching you,” Rose said breathlessly. “And they’re watching your security team.”

“Yes.”

“They aren't watching the night laundry shift,” Rose whispered.

Nathaniel went very still. “What did you say?”

“The catering company,” Rose explained, the words tumbling out of her in an urgent, hushed rush. “Premier Event Staffing doesn't handle the linens. The building’s commercial laundry contractors do. They collect the tablecloths and service drapery at three in the morning through the service freight elevators from the basement. I worked that shift two years ago. I know the uniforms. I know the keycard codes for the basement laundry chutes.”

Nathaniel stared at her, his brows drawing together in disbelief. “You want to go back there? To that rooftop?”

“The purse is under the skirt of the ice-bin cart,” Rose said, stepping closer to him, forgetting her fear, forgetting her pain. “If your lawyers go, Marcus will block them. If you go, the press will be waiting. But if a laundry worker goes in with a hamper to clear the dirty linens before the cleaners arrive…”

“No,” Nathaniel said instantly, his voice snapping back to cold authority. “Absolutely not. Your ribs are cracked. Your hands are raw. And if Marcus’s men catch you on that terrace, they won't just offer you a payoff, Rose. They will ensure you never reach a witness stand.”

“And if we do nothing, Victoria walks away!” Rose countered, her voice rising in defiance. “She tried to murder your mother, Nathaniel! She looked at her like she was an insect and shoved her over the edge! Do you really think I’m going to sit in this gilded fortress drinking tea while they turn me into a criminal and let her get away with it?”

Nathaniel stared at her, completely stunned.

No one spoke to Nathaniel Callaway like that. Not his board of directors, not foreign dignitaries, not his own father when he had been alive.

Yet here was this girl—small, bruised, dressed in an oversized fleece robe, with bandaged hands and seventy dollars in her checking account—standing on his ancestral landing, daring him to fight.

A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of Nathaniel’s mouth. It was the first genuine smile Rose had seen on his face, and it transformed him from a cold statue into something breathtakingly alive.

“You’re insane, Rose Sterling,” Nathaniel whispered.

“I’ve been called worse by better people,” Rose replied without blinking.

Nathaniel stepped closer, closing the distance between them until Rose could feel the heat radiating from his chest.