CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Caleb froze the moment he saw her.

Lauren stood in the doorway, pale and trembling, her eyes wide with disbelief. The moment stretched like an eternity.

He fumbled to pull his underwear back up, shame crashing over him like a wave.

She staggered backward—her heel slipping on the marble floor—then turned and bolted out of the house.

“Lauren!” Caleb grabbed his robe and chased after her, bare feet pounding against the stone tiles. He caught her just before she reached her car, his voice cracking.

“Lauren, please—don’t go. Not like this. If you walk away without hearing me out, I swear I’ll hurt myself. I really will.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes. She spun to face him, rage flaming through her expression.

“How dare you, Caleb! How dare you!”

“I did it because of Madeline!” he shouted, broken. “I did it because I thought I was protecting you—because of what she did to you!”

“Stop lying to yourself!” she screamed, voice shaking. “You didn’t do this for me—you did it for your yourself...your sexual urges...".

He grabbed her hand, desperate, shaking. “Lauren… You were the only person I ever trusted. I thought I was losing you. I thought if I could use Madeline’s worker—use Guinevere—to flip the game…”

She yanked her hand away.

“You must really think I’m stupid,” she whispered. “You didn’t do this out of love. You did it because you were scared of Ethan and couldn't even wait for me to carry out my revenge successfully ”

She turned to leave. He grabbed her again—this time not out of desperation, but from something darker festering inside.

“You think you can just walk away?” he growled, eyes cold. “Like you’re innocent in all this? I know why you're leaving. It’s not because I cheated—it’s because Ethan came back. You were just waiting for an excuse to run back to the man you always loved.”

Her palm collided with his face in one swift, heart-shattering slap.

He staggered back, stunned.

She choked on her sobs. “You never trusted us. That’s why you gave up on us first.”

Without another word, she climbed into her car and sped off into the night.

***

Caleb stood motionless as Lauren’s car disappeared into the night, her tail lights fading like the last remnants of everything he once believed they had.

He tasted blood in his mouth—he had bitten his lip without realizing. His hands trembled, but not from heartbreak. From rage.

The door creaked behind him.

Guinevere stepped out again, her hips swaying confidently as she adjusted the sleeve of her coat. “You’ve always been easy, Caleb,” she said, smug. “Angry little billionaire. Madeline knew just how to break you.”

“You took pictures of us and sent to her...” he said quietly.

She grinned. “Of course. What’s a mission without evidence?”

“I was never the target, was I?” he asked, his voice low.

“You were the puppet,” she said. “Mission accomplished.” She winked and walked across the lawn toward her house like a model returning from a runway.

He watched her. His fingers tightened around the edge of his robe.

That night, Caleb didn’t go to bed. He changed into dark clothing, poured himself a glass of scotch, and sat in front of the monitors in his underground office. This wasn’t heartbreak anymore. It was surgical clarity.

By 1:00 a.m., his men were already in position.

Earlier that afternoon, posing as pest control agents, they had entered Guinevere’s house under a fake appointment booked by one of Madeline’s shell companies. They wore clean suits, left no fingerprints, and placed a device the size of a matchbox inside the master bedroom’s central air vent. It looked like a standard bug repellent pod, but inside it was a micro-ignition capsule filled with thermite gel—hot enough to eat through steel in seconds.

Another agent had hacked into the neighborhood’s smart grid, scheduling a “planned blackout” to begin at 2:13 a.m.—an outage just long enough to disable CCTV feeds and fry security routers in the area. It wouldn’t be traced back to Caleb; the cyber fingerprints led to a fake tech repair company in Dubai.

At exactly 2:18 a.m., Caleb’s private team used a silent protocol to unlock Guinevere’s smart kitchen remotely. Gas began to leak—odorless, quiet, deliberate. Within seven minutes, the house was a silent trap waiting to breathe fire.

The ignition capsule in the vent activated precisely on the timer. A small spark flickered within the walls—and in an instant, flames exploded into the bedroom like a wrathful scream.

By the time fire trucks arrived, it was already too late. The house had gone up like a paper lantern. Neighbors had heard the blast, but no one saw anyone go in or out. Guinevere had been asleep. Alone. And now—unrecognizable.

The fire department ruled it an accident caused by a smart appliance malfunction. Her security cameras had gone offline minutes before the fire started, leaving no footage. Just static.

The following morning, the world woke up to headlines about the tragic death of Beverly Hills new resident, Guinevere Cross in a freak fire.

Some murmured suspicion. Some shrugged. But no one asked too many questions.

Caleb did not attend the press conference.

He didn’t need to.

He had already watched the flames from his office screen, glass of scotch in hand, not blinking once.

She was gone. And she would never betray anyone again.

Not him.

Not Lauren.

Not ever.

***

The dim warehouse echoed only with the soft hum of a single fan.

The masked group sat in their usual circle—six of them—faces cloaked in shadows and silence.

Their leader, the man in the silver-trimmed mask, clicked a remote. A blurred image flickered onto the screen behind him: Guinevere’s charred estate, flames reduced to black ash.

“She’s dead,” the woman in the raven mask said coldly. “Guinevere Cross. Burned alive in her own home. Official report says it was a smart kitchen malfunction.”

“Official lies,” muttered the tall man beside her.

“We all know Caleb did it. The real question is why.”

A voice from the far end, masked in deep crimson, answered first. “Because Lauren left him. Because she found out he staged the betrayal. Because Caleb Monroe has finally lost control.”

“No,” said the silver mask. “Not lost control. He’s reclaiming it. He’s done pretending to be clean. Guinevere was just the beginning.”

The woman leaned forward, lowering a small device onto the table—a voice recorder, scratched at the edges, but intact.

“One of the maids recorded him,” she said. “In his underground office. The night Guinevere died. He gave orders. Timed everything to the minute. Talked about thermite. About hacking the grid. It was all premeditated.”

Silence stretched thick in the room.

“He covered his tracks perfectly,” the younger man in the wolf-shaped mask added. “CCTV gone, gas leak simulated, no physical evidence. The police believe it was accidental. But we know better.”

The raven mask exhaled slowly. “So he’s begun to kill. All for a woman who no longer wants him.”

***

Madeline Carter swept her arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and a crystal vase crashing to the floor.

“Damn him!” she screamed. “He killed Guinevere Cross! Caleb Monroe actually did it!”

Edith Penrose didn’t flinch. Calm as ever, she bent down and began picking up the mess, her manicured hands moving with quiet precision.

“If you keep reacting emotionally,” she said, placing a shattered photo frame aside, “you’ll lose. You’re not dealing with children, Madeline. You’re dealing with monsters.”

Madeline paced like a caged wolf. “I never expected him to go that far. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Our informant wasn’t on shift that night,” Edith said coolly, rising to her feet. “The only lead we have is the maid who was on duty. If we can’t get footage, we’ll get confession.”

She smirked, eyes glinting. “All we need is to get close to her.”

Madeline paused. Then gasped. “Why are you so damn intelligent?”

Edith winked without answering.

Before either could speak again, a timid knock came at the door.

One of Madeline’s maids stepped inside, eyes wide, fingers clutching the hem of her apron. “Ma’am... there’s a man here. He—he looks dangerous.”

Madeline and Edith exchanged a glance and hurried out into the foyer.

They both froze.

There, drenched in sweat, shirt disheveled, and face blotched red from panic, Caleb Monroe dropped to his knees before them like a beggar. His eyes were wild—pleading, broken, unhinged.

“Please,” he gasped. “Don’t kill me the way you killed Guinevere. Please. I’m not your enemy—I’ll do whatever you want.”

Edith narrowed her eyes. Madeline stepped back.

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

Caleb reached into his coat with shaking hands and pulled out a scorched, half-melted identity card. He held it out as if it might explode.

“I found this,” he said hoarsely. “At the site. I—I didn’t give it to the cops. I swear. I figured if I did, they’d link it to you. I hid it but those fools found it. Please. I’m not trying to die. Just—let me work with you. I can be useful.”

Madeline’s eyes locked on the badge—her own ID from a defunct Monroe Holdings facility. Her mouth fell open.

“How dare you,” she whispered.

Caleb remained on his knees, trembling like prey.

“How dare you!!!” she roared, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Do you know who I am?! Do you think I’m afraid of you?!”

“I’m begging you,” Caleb said, tears springing to his eyes. “You burned her. I know you did. Just don’t burn me.”

Before anyone could speak again, sirens cut through the air.

Doors burst open.

FBI agents stormed in, guns raised, shouting for everyone to get on the ground.

Madeline froze, stunned.

“Miss Carter,” one agent said coldly, “you’re under arrest for suspicion of first-degree arson and the murder of Guinevere Cross.”

“What?” she breathed. “No! You’re making a mistake! I didn’t—”

But one of the agents held up the ID badge in an evidence bag.

“This was recovered from the ashes. And your footprint was found at the back entrance—matched through a partial shoeprint.”

Edith turned her head slightly, hiding her smirk.

Caleb stood slowly, brushing dust from his knees as the cuffs clicked around Madeline’s wrists.

She stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You set me up…”

A shadowed smile played on his face.

As the agents dragged her away, her screams echoed through the estate.

And Caleb—eyes dry now—watched with cold satisfaction.

You don't mess with me like that Madeline Carter.

You actually underestimated because of what I look like on the outside but you don't really know me.

***

Interrogation Room – FBI Headquarters, Beverly Hills

Madeline Carter sat rigidly in the harsh fluorescent light, the chill of the sterile room biting through her designer blazer.

Across the table, Detective Marcus Reed watched her steadily, a man who had seen countless cases crumble or stand on evidence — and this one, he said quietly, was sealed tight.

“Madeline,” he began, voice even but unwavering, “I want to be frank with you. The facts, the evidence — they don’t just point to you. They convict you, at least in the eyes of the law.”

She met his gaze, steady but fragile. “I didn’t do this. Caleb Monroe set me up. I swear.”

Reed shook his head slowly. “Caleb Monroe is nowhere near our suspect list. You know why?”

Madeline’s heart clenched. “Because he’s good at playing the victim?”

Reed pulled a file from the stack, flipping to a photo of Madeline’s charred ID badge, next to images of a burnt footprint cast from the scene. “This was found at the site, planted. Your partial shoeprint was matched at the back door. Your phone pinged within walking distance. Threatening texts sent in your name. And the identity card that Caleb ‘found’ and handed over—”

“But—”

“No but,” Reed interrupted firmly. “You can hire the best defense lawyers in the world. They might slow this down. They might argue technicalities. But the jury won’t ignore a trail of physical evidence like this, especially with arson and a death involved.”

Madeline’s voice cracked. “I’m innocent. Caleb did this. He’s manipulating everyone.”

Reed sighed. “That’s a story for your lawyers to tell. But right now? You’re the one sitting here, charged with first-degree arson and murder.”

He leaned forward, voice low but sharp. “The truth is, no matter your resources or status, once the Feds have a case this airtight, it’s nearly impossible to walk free. Especially when the accused has motive, opportunity, and physical proof against her.”

Madeline swallowed hard, the walls closing in.

“Your best chance,” Reed added, “is to cooperate".

Silence stretched between them — heavy, cold, and final.

Madeline blinked back tears .

***

Lauren had been watching Ethan for days. Quietly. Closely. She’d memorized his routines, his sudden mood swings, even the way his phone never seemed to leave his side anymore.

Tonight, she was done pretending.

Slipping behind one of the velvet cushions in the living room, she peeked as Ethan reached for his car keys and stepped out. She glanced at the clock.

11:06 p.m.

Too late for anything innocent, she thought.

Zipping up her hoodie, she waited a beat, then slipped out the back door like a shadow. Her hands trembled — not from fear, but from fury and suspicion. She had been burned once before, by Caleb Monroe. She wasn’t about to let Ethan make her the fool again.

Ever since Madeline Carter had sent her that photo — Ethan and Amy, her own best friend, smiling like lovers over coffee — something inside Lauren had shifted. Betrayal tasted all too familiar now.

As Ethan’s black Mercedes glided out of the driveway, Lauren darted toward the main road and flagged the nearest taxi.

“Follow that car,” she said urgently, pointing.

The driver blinked at her through the rearview mirror. “Are you serious?”

She tossed a hundred-dollar bill into the front seat. “Dead serious.”

They trailed the car through the quiet streets of Beverly Hills, until it finally pulled into the parking lot of Laris, a sleek, dimly lit restaurant known for discretion. Lauren's stomach twisted.

He was meeting her. He was really meeting Amy.

The moment he stepped inside, Lauren was already out of the cab. She threw on a pair of dark sunglasses, tugged her hood lower, and marched in.

And there she was — Amy Grant, sitting at a corner table, glowing under the golden light.

Ethan walked straight to her and smiled.

They leaned in. Whispered. Laughed.

Enough.

Lauren stormed toward the table, heart pounding like thunder in her chest.

Amy looked up just in time to see the fury in her friend’s eyes—

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the restaurant like a whip. Gasps erupted from nearby tables.

Amy clutched her cheek, stunned.

Ethan shot to his feet.