The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 309

But right now, no one gave a damn about the landscaping. Every single pair of eyes was glued to the fragile, swaying figure balanced on the edge of the parapet.

Rosemary was standing on the wrong side of the safety railing.

Wearing a dark green cashmere cardigan, she had only one slipper left; the other was lost somewhere on the roof. Her bare foot pressed against the freezing concrete, her toes curling white against the bitter cold.

Her hair had completely unraveled, the graying strands whipping wildly across her face. With one hand locked onto the wrought-iron barrier behind her, she frantically waved the other in the air, batting away anyone who dared inch closer.

Beyond the railing, she was teetering on a concrete ledge barely eight inches wide. One step further, and it was a straight four-story drop.

While the estate only had four floors, its soaring, custom-built ceilings made the drop closer to sixty feet. Below her lay the flagstone courtyard, the rock-solid ground currently glazed over with a lethal layer of winter frost.

"Leave me alone! Let me die!"

Rosemary's shrieks were torn to shreds by the wind. Her voice was raspy and shrill, grating like nails on a chalkboard. "I committed an unforgivable sin! I know I can never make it right, but I will pay the price myself! Fine! I'll pay for it with my life! I'll give my life to Sloane! Will that be enough?!"

"If I'm dead, will my son finally forgive me?!"

Her husband stood mere feet away, one hand death-gripping the railing while he extended a violently trembling hand toward her.

Archie remained frozen at the terrace entrance, as far from the ledge as possible. His face was chalk-white, his lips pressed into a bloodless line, and his tiny hands were locked in a death grip on the hem of Garrison's jacket, his knuckles entirely pale.

His whole body trembled violently, though he didn't cry or scream. No ten-year-old was equipped to handle this kind of horror. Utterly traumatized, he huddled behind his father, peeking out with those eyes that mirrored Sloane's, staring in sheer terror at the unhinged woman on the ledge.

His grandmother.

Garrison glanced down at his son. Reaching behind him, he gently squeezed Archie's white-knuckled hands. Then, turning his head, he delivered a single, ruthless order to Dorothy, who had just caught up to them. His voice wasn't loud, but it sliced through the howling wind with terrifying clarity.

"Dorothy, get my son out of here."