Obsession His Runaway Bride (Noelle and Adrian) novel Chapter 117

Chapter 117: Last Shot

Chapter 117: Last Shot

Bartholomew’s face contorted into desperation as Grace began to advance with knives in both hands. His blood–slicked arm clutched the armrest while the other remained limp, useless after the first gunshot. His authority which was once so absolute, had fractured and was no longer the terrifying figure looming above all, he now looked small, weak. Mortal.

“Marco-” he barked hoarsely. “Marco, do something!”

His voice cracked, laced with panic, rising above the hush that had settled over the room like smoke. Grace didn’t stop. Her boots thudded softly against the polished floor with each step. Her eyes locked onto her prey, and this time there was no hesitation, no softness left in her. She was no longer the girl begging to be seen.

“Marco!” Bartholomew shouted again. “She’s going to kill me! Stop her!”

But Marco stood still while his grip on his own weapon slackened. His mind refused to keep up with what his eyes were witnessing. The woman standing in front of him wasn’t the Grace he once knew. But at the same time… she was. Maybe she always had been. The trembling truth she had just poured into the room hadn’t fully sunk in yet, but it struck something deep in him. Something that had been blind and buried for too long.

He couldn’t look away from her.

Yet, she didn’t even glance in his direction.

“You always called me dramatic, didn’t you?” Grace murmured as she reached the side of the desk where Bartholomew still clung to control like a dying man clings to breath. “Too emotional. Too weak. Too much. That’s what you told me.”

She leaned forward just slightly, her voice lowering to a chilling whisper. “But I’m exactly as you made me.”

“Stay away from me!” Bartholomew snapped, panic bleeding into his tone. “You’re unwell, Grace. You’re not thinking straight!”

Grace didn’t respond. Instead, with terrifying composure, she raised the blade in her hand. Her fingers were wrapped around the hilt. This wasn’t the first time she’d held a knife. And for Bartholomew she was in no rush.

She reached for his forearm.

“No–don’t-” Bartholomew’s voice cracked as he tried to shift backward in the chair, his wounded body betraying him. He trembled where he sat, blood pooling beneath his arms, his chest heaving with the frantic breath of a man backed into a corner. “Grace! Do not hurt me! I am your father!” His voice pitched higher, desperation seeping into every word. “You are my dear daughter! My daughter!”

The words, meant to tether her to him, only severed whatever frayed thread of restraint remained

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Chapter 117: Last Shot

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in Grace.

Her hand clenched the hilt of the knife tighter. Her expression didn’t flicker. Without a word, without so much as a warning, she drove the blade down hard and unrelenting–into his thigh.

Bartholomew’s scream ripped through the air like tearing metal. He convulsed in the chair, spine arching from the pain, his limbs thrashing weakly as blood soaked through the fabric of his trousers. His hands clawed at the air, his voice raw and ragged. “God-! Grace-! Please!”

But Grace didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She stood over him like a statue carved of wrath and bone- deep sorrow, her grip steady as crimson coated her hands.

“I am not your daughter,” she said in a low and deadly tone as the knife remained embedded in his leg. “Faith and I never were. I was your shield, she was your fun. Nothing more.”

Bartholomew’s lips parted, shaking, but no sound came out–only a guttural wheeze, a choked groan as he twisted in agony.

“You took us in,” she continued, breath trembling as her shoulders rose and fell. “Not out of kindness. Not out of love. You needed decoys. Two girls no one would question. Two names you could use to bury your sins. And when Faith found light… when she tasted freedom, you destroyed her.”

Marco stood paralyzed, still rooted near the door, his gun slack in his hand. The truth had gutted him in silence. This wasn’t merely justice. It wasn’t vengeance. It was grief, laid bare and weaponized.

Grace stepped back slightly and finally yanked the knife free with one swift motion. The sound of it made Bartholomew sob like a dying animal, his hand slapping over the wound to slow the blood, to hold together what dignity he had left.

But dignity had long left the room.

“I begged you to see me,” Grace whispered. “You let them hit me. Starve me. Blame me. And you just watched. You watched me crawl through life with their hate tied to my name while you held her up like a trophy.”

Tears began streaming freely down Grace’s cheeks not out of weakness, but from the burial of a girl who once believed love could change something in this cursed house. A girl who once waited in silence beside heavy doors, hoping someone would glance her way and say, I’m proud of you. That girl had died the same night Faith did, along with whatever innocence remained.

Bartholomew slumped into his chair like a dying animal, blood soaking through his clothes, mouth parting in shallow gasps. His once–commanding voice had broken into breathless whimpers, the power he wielded for decades now dissolving under the mercy of a woman he heartlessly treated like trash.

“Grace… stop it.” Marco’s voice suddenly cut through the air like a blade.

Grace slowly turned, her breath ragged, her silhouette trembling beneath the chandelier’s light. And there he was–Marco, with his gun raised and eyes locked on her. The man she had loved once

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Chapter 117: Last Shot

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with a heart full of longing now stood between her and justice.

She let out a soft scoff, more sad than surprised. “What is it, Marco? Are you going to protect your old man now?”

His jaw clenched, thumb flicking the safety off with a click that echoed too loud in the room. “Stay away from him, Grace. This is my last warning.”

The way her name fell from his lips like a threat, not a plea, made her straighten. She turned fully to face him, stained in blood that wasn’t hers, wrapped in grief that never was his to carry. “Really, Marco? After everything I told you? You still stand there, doubting me?”

“I don’t believe you,” he replied stubbornly. “Stay away from him.”

Grace tilted her head and spoke. “I see… You acknowledge him as your father ever after what I told you.” she whispered. “I thought you were better than that. Oh well. Let me tell you this–for the first and the last time.”

She raised her knife that was in her hand as the steel caught a glint of fractured light while she looked him dead in the eye.

“Faith never loved you… And now… I understand why.” Her voice cracked but did not waver. Because you’re just as miserable as the man sitting behind me.”

Then, without warning, she spun around and drove the knife deep into Bartholomew’s chest.

The blade sank in with a sickening thud. His eyes widened. Blood spurted, staining the front of his suit like a slow explosion. For a heartbeat, the world held still.

But Marco moved.

Just as Grace reached for the gun hidden at her lower back, Marco fired. The shot rang out and struck her just below the ribs. She staggered as a gasp tore from her throat, but she didn’t cry out.

Instead, she turned that pain into momentum.

With a final, desperate lurch, Grace launched herself toward the window. The glass shattered around her like falling stars. She hit the ground outside hard, knees buckling as she rolled and dragged herself up while blood trailed down her side and her leg trembled from the impact. But she kept going.

“Grace!” Marco rushed forward and reached the broken window.

But she was already limping into the darkness, her figure shrinking with every step she forced herself to take.

“You’re not getting away from me!” he shouted after her out of rage and heartbreak that collided in his chest as he vaulted through the window and took off into the night–chasing the woman he just shot, the woman he couldn’t lose, the woman who had just shattered everything he thought he knew… the only woman for him.