Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 79

Catherine: POV

I thought they'd let me go.

'I mean, I'm a **Vanderbilt.**'

Old money. Connected. Important.

But no. They threw me in a fucking **cell.**

The walls are gray concrete. The bed is a metal slab with a thin mattress that smells like bleach and piss. There's a toilet in the corner—**in the fucking corner**—with no privacy, no door, nothing.

I can't breathe in here.

I've been here three days.

**Three days.**

And every minute feels like a year.

The other women in here—they're **animals.** One of them called me "Princess" when I walked past. Another spat on the ground near my feet.

I wanted to scream at them. Tell them who I **am.**

But my lawyer said to keep my mouth shut.

*"Don't make things worse, Catherine."*

**Worse?**

How could it possibly get **worse?**

---

They arrested Marcus and his crew the same night they arrested me.

I didn't know that until the cop told me during booking.

"You and your three buddies are in deep shit," he said, grinning like it was **funny.**

I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.

He just laughed. "Sure you don't, sweetheart."

---

I was **careful.**

I didn't use my phone. I wasn't that **stupid.**

I used **payphones.** Different ones each time. Scattered across the city.

One near Grand Central. One in Brooklyn. One outside a bodega in Queens.

I wore sunglasses. A baseball cap. Kept my head down.

**How the fuck did they find me?**

The detective who interrogated me—some smug asshole named Rodriguez—he spent **weeks** piecing it together.

"You were smart," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Using payphones. Different locations every time. No digital trail."

He smiled.

That fucking smile.

"But smart criminals always make **one** mistake."

My stomach dropped.

"We pulled footage from every security camera within a three-block radius of each payphone," Rodriguez continued. "Traffic cams. ATM cams. Bodega security. Even residential doorbell cameras."

He slid a folder across the table.

Photos.

**Me.**

At every single payphone.

Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Same posture.

"Facial recognition software is a beautiful thing," he said. "Even with the disguise, we got enough angles to confirm it was you."

**Fuck.**

"Then we cross-referenced the timestamps with the call records to Marcus Boyle's burner phone. Perfect match. Every single time."

He pulled out another photo.

Me at a Starbucks.

"After you made the call near Grand Central, you stopped for coffee two blocks away. Used your credit card. Ten minutes after the call."

I felt sick.

"We also found a partial fingerprint on one of the payphone receivers," Rodriguez added. "You must've taken your glove off for a second."

He leaned forward.

"And then there's Marcus Boyle. The second we showed him the evidence, he **sang** like a canary. Gave us everything. Your voice on the calls. The instructions. The money you promised."

"I want my lawyer," I whispered.

"Oh, you'll get your lawyer." He stood. "But it won't matter. We spent three weeks building this case. We have surveillance footage. Call records. Forensic evidence. Witness testimony. Your **motive.**"

He paused at the door.

"You thought you were being clever. But you left a trail, Catherine. And we followed it right to your door."

---

Victoria said it had to look like an accident. Said Elena needed to "lose the baby naturally." Said Julian would never forgive her if he knew the truth.

And I **wanted** that.

Wanted to see that smug little bitch suffer. Wanted to see her **gone.**

She's a **nobody.** A housekeeper's adopted daughter.

And Julian—**my cousin**—he **married** her.

It made me **sick.**

---

The first night in here, I barely slept.

Women screaming. Crying. Metal doors slamming.

I lay on that disgusting mattress and thought about my penthouse. My silk sheets. My view of Central Park.

Brunch at The Plaza.

Shopping on Fifth Avenue.

And now I'm **here.**

Because of **her.**

---

On day three, a guard came to my cell.

"You have a visitor," she said.

I stood up too fast. Dizzy. Hopeful.

*My lawyer. Finally.*

But when they led me into the visitor's room, it wasn't my lawyer sitting on the other side of the plexiglass.

It was **Julian.**

My stomach dropped.

He looked different. Colder.

His suit was perfect. But his eyes—

**Jesus.**

His eyes were like ice.

I picked up the phone on my side of the glass.

He picked up his.

And just **stared** at me.

The silence stretched.

I broke first.

"Julian—"

"**Why?**" His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't **lie** to me." He leaned forward. "The police spent three weeks tracking you down, Catherine. Security footage from every payphone you used. Forensic evidence. Call records. They built an **airtight** case."

My mouth went dry.

"Julian, I—"

"**Why?**" he asked again. "Why did you do it?"

I looked down at my hands.

Handcuffed.

*Fuck.*

"She doesn't **belong** here," I whispered.

"What?"

I looked up. Met his eyes.

"She doesn't belong in this family. She's a **nobody,** Julian. A housekeeper's daughter—"

"She's my **wife.**"

"She **trapped** you—"

"She saved my **grandfather's life.**"

"She's not good enough—"

"**Shut up.**"

His voice cracked like a whip.

I flinched.

He stood.

Walked to the glass.

Pressed his hand against it.

I thought he was going to **break through** and kill me.

"I warned you," he said softly. "I **warned** you not to touch her."

"Julian—"

"I told you at the estate. I told you to leave her alone."

"She's **ruining** everything—"

"**She's my wife.**" His voice was deadly calm now. "She was **pregnant** with my child. And you sent three men to **beat her** until she **miscarried.**"

Tears burned my eyes.

"I didn't mean for it to go that far—"

"I don't **care** what you meant."

He leaned closer to the glass.

"She almost **died,** Catherine. She had a concussion. Cracked ribs. She **bled out** on the side of the road. And our baby—"

His voice broke.

Just for a second.

Then that ice came back.

"Our baby is **dead** because of you."

"Julian—"

"Did anyone **help** you?" he asked suddenly.

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"Did anyone help you plan this? Anyone tell you to do it? Anyone pay for it?"

*Victoria.*

Her face flashed in my mind.

*"Make it look like an accident. Make sure the baby doesn't survive. I'll take care of your family's debts."*

She wired half a million to my father's account from a shell company.

She promised that if I kept my mouth shut, she'd keep funneling money into our business.

Julian was watching me.

**Waiting.**

I swallowed hard.

"No," I said. "No one helped me."

He studied my face.

Long.

Hard.

*Don't break. Don't break—*

"You're **lying.**"

"I'm not—"

"Who was it?" He slammed his hand against the glass. "Who the fuck are you working with?"

"**No one!**"

"**Catherine—**"

"I did it because I **hate** her!" I screamed. "Because she doesn't **deserve** you! Because she's a **nobody** and you're a **Sterling** and she has no right to be in our family!"

The words came out raw.

**Honest.**

Julian stared at me.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile.

"You're going to prison," he said quietly. "Assault. Attempted murder. Conspiracy. You're looking at ten to fifteen years, Catherine. **Minimum.**"

My blood turned to ice.

"What?"

"And when you get out—if you ever get out—you'll have **nothing.** Your trust fund? Gone. Your social standing? **Gone.** Your name? Worthless."

"You can't—"

"I already **did.**" He leaned back. "I've instructed the family lawyers to cut all ties with the Vanderbilts. No more business. No more favors. No more **money.**"

"Julian, **please—**"

"You should have thought about that before you touched my wife."

He stood.

Adjusted his cuffs.

"Enjoy prison, Catherine," he said. "I hope it teaches you some **humility.**"

"**Julian!**"

But he was already walking away.