Charles POV:
The turbulence hit somewhere over Nevada, jarring me from a restless, uneasy sleep. My ribs ached, a dull throb beneath the expensive suit jacket, a constant reminder of Nathan’s… message. The hit-and-run. It hadn’t been random. I knew it. He knew I knew it. And Agatha… Agatha was caught in the middle, scared, confused, vulnerable.
My girls. The phrase echoed in my mind, possessive, protective. I’d left her alone in that cavernous mansion, a knot of unease tightening in my gut even as the private jet lifted off the tarmac. This West Coast deal, this “unavoidable” meeting… it felt like a mistake. A distraction. My place was with her. Protecting her. Especially now.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Mr. C
Nathan POV:A sharp, insistent pain bloomed behind my eyes, spreading like cracks in ice. Rough hands. They hauled me upwards, my body protesting, every muscle screaming.The cheap mask, my pathetic disguise, ripped from my face. The sudden glare of a flashlight, harsh and disorienting, blinded me for a moment."Nathan Richards, you're under arrest."Metal cuffs bit into my wrists, cold, unyielding. I blinked, trying to force my vision to clear, the world swimming back into a nauseating focus.The wine cellar. Broken bottles glinted like scattered jewels in the harsh light, spilling their dark contents across the stone floor, staining it like old blood.And Charles Campbell, a c
Charles POV:The turbulence hit somewhere over Nevada, jarring me from a restless, uneasy sleep. My ribs ached, a dull throb beneath the expensive suit jacket, a constant reminder of Nathan’s… message. The hit-and-run. It hadn’t been random. I knew it. He knew I knew it. And Agatha… Agatha was caught in the middle, scared, confused, vulnerable.My girls. The phrase echoed in my mind, possessive, protective. I’d left her alone in that cavernous mansion, a knot of unease tightening in my gut even as the private jet lifted off the tarmac. This West Coast deal, this “unavoidable” meeting… it felt like a mistake. A distraction. My place was with her. Protecting her. Especially now.The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Mr. C
Agatha POV:"Who are you?" I managed again, my voice trembling, barely a whisper. My hand tightened over my belly, a primal instinct to protect the life within. "What do you want?"Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. This wasn't a random intruder. This was… something else. Something targeted. The anonymous texts, the warnings, the attacks… they all coalesced into this one terrifying moment.My mind screamed: Run!I slammed the heavy oak door shut, fumbling with the deadbolt, my fingers clumsy, shaking. The satisfying click of the lock engaging offered a fleeting moment of relief, immediately shattered by a heavy thud against the door from the other side.He was trying to get in.My breath hitched. I stumbled backwards, away from the door, my eyes darting around the vast, empty foyer, searching for an escape route, a weapon, anything. The silent alarm! Dad had insisted on it years ago. The panic button was in the kitchen, by the back door.Another thud, louder this time, the w
Agatha POV:The soft glow of the nursery nightlight cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. I stood in the doorway, one hand resting protectively on the gentle swell of my belly, a quiet smile playing on my lips. Three weeks since that terrifying night Charles had been attacked, since I’d made the impossible choice to… stay. To try.It hadn’t been easy. The weeks that followed were a blur of whispered confessions, cautious reconciliations, and the slow, painstaking rebuilding of something resembling trust. Charles, in the wake of the attack, had been… different. Softer, somehow. The raw vulnerability I’d glimpsed that night hadn’t entirely disappeared. He’d admitted his fear of losing me, his possessiveness born of insecurity, not just a desire for control. He’d even, grudgingly, started therapy, a concession that had shocked me more than anything.We talked. Really talked. For hours.About his past, his BPD diagnosis (which he finally confirmed, admitting Jasmine had been rig
Nathan POV:The grainy video feed stuttered, then froze. Charles. His arm around Agatha. Helping her into his car. Her face pale, yes, but she wasn’t pulling away. Not this time. They were leaving the hospital. Together.My fist slammed down on the rickety table. The cheap laptop jumped. The screen flickered, then settled back on their frozen image."Damn it!"The whiskey bottle was nearly empty. I reached for it, my hand shaking, and poured the last few drops into a smudged glass. The cheap stuff burned going down, but it didn't touch the cold, hard knot in my gut.I’d watched the news reports. The "hit-and-run." The "cowardly attack." Campbell, playing the victim, milking it for all it was worth. And Agatha… rushing to his side. Worry etched on her face. Her anger, her suspicion of him, apparently forgotten in a wave of misplaced concern.My plan. My perfect, calculated plan. It was supposed to drive them apart. Expose Campbell’s weakness. Show Agatha his vulnerability, his inabilit
Agatha POV:The quiet truce we'd called settled over the penthouse like a thick blanket. I sat on the edge of the massive sofa, Charles propped up against the cushions, his arm in the sling, a faint grimace of pain crossing his face now and then despite his best efforts to hide it.Charles shifted slightly, his gaze finding mine in the dim light. His eyes, usually so sharp, so intense, held a softness I rarely saw, a vulnerability brought on by pain and exhaustion.“Since we’re on a truce for tonight,” he said, his voice low, husky, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “what if maybe… we…”He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. He reached out his good hand, his fingers gently touching my cheek, hi