Chapter Thirty Six: The Mask Slips 2

Later, after we'd found our way to the bed through a haze of gentle touches and whispered conversations, I lay with his arm heavy across my waist, the weight of it more comforting than I'd expected.

He was asleep beside me, his face peaceful in a way I rarely saw when he was awake. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and in sleep, he looked younger, less burdened by the weight of empires and enemies.

But I couldn't sleep.

Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, in the way the silence felt too heavy, too expectant.

Not with Delilah—she was finished, destroyed by her own rage and desperation.

Not with Lydia—she'd retreated with whatever dignity she had left, licking her wounds in whatever hole she'd crawled into.

But Blake...

Blake had looked at me tonight with the kind of rage that came from a man who'd lost everything and had nothing left to lose. The kind of fury that made rational people do irrational things.

The war wasn't over.

It had just shifted battlefields.

Two floors below, Jules sat in the security command center, her sharp eyes scanning footage from the evening's events. Empty coffee cups and energy drink cans littered the desk around her—she'd been here for hours, going through every camera angle, every suspicious moment, every potential threat.

She'd seen it all tonight.

The attempted poisoning.

The theft of the gift.

The violent push down the stairs.

Blake's pathetic attempt at reconciliation.

But something in her gut told her there was more. There was always more with people like the Reynolds family—they didn't go down quietly, and they sure as hell didn't go down without trying to take everyone else with them.

She skimmed through hallway feeds methodically, checking room sweeps, monitoring exit footage. Most of it was exactly what she expected—drunk socialites stumbling to their cars, business moguls making deals in shadowy corners, the usual chaos that followed any gathering of the wealthy and powerful.

But then she found something that made her blood run cold.

She rewound a particular segment from one of the less-monitored cameras, the one positioned in the east hallway that most people forgot existed.

Time-stamped one hour after Blake had pushed Scarlett down the stairs.

The camera was angled slightly to the left, barely catching the corner of the hallway that led to the suite Dominic had been quietly converting into a nursery. He thought he'd been subtle about it, but Jules noticed everything—the way he'd had contractors come in during Scarlett's doctor's appointments, the soft colors he'd requested, the security upgrades he'd insisted on for that particular wing.

And there, standing in that hallway like a statue carved from obsession and rage, was Blake.

Alone.

Motionless.

He'd been there for over thirty minutes, according to the timestamp.

No phone in his hand.

No drink to occupy his attention.

No conversation with passing guests.

Just standing there.

Staring at the door to the future nursery.

Waiting.

Planning.

Calculating.

Jules leaned closer to the screen, her heart rate spiking as the implications hit her like a freight train.

"What the hell are you planning, you psychotic bastard?" she whispered to the screen.

She reached for the intercom with hands that were steadier than she felt.

"Dominic. We have a problem. A big one."

The bedroom was dim when Dominic left, slipping out with the silent grace of someone who'd learned to move without waking sleeping enemies.

I stirred the moment the door clicked shut behind him, reaching instinctively across the bed for his warmth. My hand found his pillow instead—still warm from his body heat, still carrying the scent of cedar and musk and something indefinably him.

Something about the quality of silence he'd left behind felt different.

Wrong.

Charged with a tension that made my skin prickle with warning.

I sat up in bed, pulling the sheet around myself, every instinct I'd developed since Blake's betrayal screaming that danger was circling closer.

Dominic stood in front of the security monitors, his face illuminated by the blue glow of multiple screens. Jules was beside him, her usually unflappable demeanor cracked just enough to show the concern underneath.

He didn't speak for a long time, just stared at the frozen image of Blake standing in the hallway like a predator marking territory.

"Why there?" he said finally, his voice carefully controlled.

"That's the room you've been preparing for the baby," Jules replied quietly. "The one you think Scarlett hasn't noticed."

Dominic exhaled slowly, a sound that contained volumes of barely leashed fury.

"He stood there for thirty minutes. Doing nothing."

"Not nothing," Jules corrected grimly. "He was thinking. Planning. And that's what scares me."

Dominic's hands clenched into fists at his sides. When he spoke, his voice carried the promise of violence that had built his empire and destroyed his enemies.

"I want security tripled. Immediately."

"Already done."

"I want every window in the east wing rechecked. Every blind spot mapped and covered. I want infrared sensors, motion detectors, and armed guards posted before dawn."

Jules nodded efficiently. "Team's already en route."

Dominic's jaw worked as he stared at the screen, memorizing every detail of Blake's posture, every shadow that might hide a weapon or a plan.

"I let him get too close tonight," he said, the words heavy with self-recrimination.

"You couldn't have known—"

"I should have." His voice cut through her reassurance like a blade. "I should have seen this coming. Should have recognized that a man like Blake Reynolds doesn't just give up. He doesn't accept defeat gracefully."

Jules placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding him before his rage could spiral into something destructive.

"He's unraveling, Dom," she said softly. "Completely coming apart at the seams. And he's circling Scarlett like prey. Like he's decided that if he can't have her, no one can."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication and the promise of violence to come.

Across the city, in a penthouse hotel suite with blackout curtains and a minibar stocked with untouched gin, Blake Reynolds sat on the carpeted floor surrounded by the detritus of his destroyed life.

His tie lay discarded in one corner. His tuxedo jacket hung over a chair like a shed skin. His shirt was wrinkled and partially unbuttoned, revealing a chest that rose and fell with the shallow breathing of a man on the edge of complete breakdown.

But it was the wall in front of him that told the real story.

Photos covered every inch of available space, taped to the expensive wallpaper with surgical precision. Pictures of Scarlett spanning months, maybe years—candid shots that spoke of obsession and surveillance and a love that had curdled into something toxic.

Scarlett laughing at a farmer's market, her hair wild in the autumn wind, unaware that she was being watched.

Scarlett in her wedding dress on the day she'd married him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears and the kind of hope that he'd systematically destroyed.

Scarlett at tonight's gala, crowned in red silk and power, transformed into something magnificent and untouchable.

Each image was a monument to his obsession, a shrine to the woman who'd escaped his control and become something he could never possess or destroy.

But beside the photos, spread across a low table like battle plans, was something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Blueprints.

Architectural drawings of Dominic's mansion, every wing labeled in Blake's careful handwriting, every entrance and exit marked with military precision. Security protocols noted in the margins. Guard rotations timed and documented. Weak points highlighted in red ink.

And in the center of the largest blueprint, drawn with the kind of care reserved for the most important targets, was a perfect red circle.

Over the room that would become Scarlett's nursery.

Blake stared at the plans for a long time, his fingers tracing the lines and measurements like he was reading a love letter written in architectural ink.

Then he reached out with one trembling finger and touched the photograph of Scarlett in her red gown, her face radiant with triumph and power.

"If I can't have her," he whispered to the empty room, his voice dry and cracking with madness and desperation, "then no one will."

The words hung in the air like a promise.

Like a threat.

Like the beginning of the end.