All Chapters of Anna and Jonathan: The Arranged Marriage : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

ANNA'S POV I stood there in the kitchen a moment longer than I should have, staring at the message, feeling an old, familiar dread rise in my chest despite everything we'd survived to get here. I recognized the feeling immediately, and hated it, the particular cold drop of discovering something that felt like it should have stayed hidden a little longer. I thought, standing there, of every version of this exact scenario I'd once imagined in the earliest, most fragile months of our marriage, some other woman's name lighting up Jonathan's phone, and the particular helpless panic I would have felt back then, certain it meant something I had no right to question. Tonight the panic arrived anyway, old habits dying slower than I wanted them to, but underneath it sat something steadier now, a certainty about who Jonathan actually was that hadn't existed in me a year ago. Then I remembered, deliberately, everything we'd promised each other over the past several weeks, and instead of settin

JONATHAN'S POV I knew something was wrong the moment Anna returned from the ladies' room, her face carefully composed in a way that didn't quite reach her eyes, the particular stillness she'd worn during the worst weeks of the board fight. I crossed the room to meet her before she'd even fully reached me, some instinct telling me whatever had happened in the past several minutes needed distance from the crowd before either of us tried to discuss it. "Tell me," I said quietly, steering her toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the crowd still circulating around us. She told me everything, Isabela's calculated patience in the bathroom, the mention of her father, the careful, almost gentle way she'd delivered a threat precise enough to avoid ever technically being one. I felt something cold and furious settle into my chest as she spoke, an anger sharper than anything Whitmore had managed to provoke in me, because this wasn't aimed at me. It was aimed at the people I loved mo

JONATHAN'S POV "Whitmore," I said finally, the recognition landing with a cold, sickening certainty. "That's Whitmore standing at the edge of our property, Anna. I'd know that posture anywhere, the way he stands with his weight shifted slightly back, hands clasped in front of him. I sat across from him like that for twenty minutes in his own office. It's him." I stared at the frozen image a moment longer, running the memory of that meeting back through my mind, the calm, controlled way he'd sat behind his desk even as everything he'd built quietly collapsed around him. I hadn't imagined, walking out of that office, that his particular brand of patience might simply redirect itself toward something darker rather than accepting defeat. Anna went very still beside me, staring at the frozen image with fresh eyes now, seeing what I'd seen. "Are you certain?" "Certain enough to call Marcus back," I said, already reaching for my phone. "This isn't a coincidence, Anna. Whitmore lost every

JONATHAN'S POV The hospital room filled quickly with the particular controlled urgency of a labor progressing faster than anyone had initially expected, nurses moving in and out with quiet efficiency, Doctor Reyes checking in every twenty minutes with a calm that did more to steady me than anything else in the room managed to. I had imagined this night countless times over the past several months, rehearsing it the way I rehearsed everything, trying to prepare myself for every possible version of how it might unfold. None of my imagining had accounted for arriving here directly from a night of police reports and surveillance footage, my mind still half tangled in Whitmore's arrest even as I tried to give Anna the full, undivided presence she deserved. Anna gripped my hand through each contraction, her breathing measured even as the intensity climbed, and I found myself watching her with a kind of awe I hadn't fully anticipated, every ounce of the same strength she'd shown across an

JONATHAN'S POV I found her waiting in a small consultation room near the maternity ward, a young woman I didn't immediately recognize, her hands twisted together nervously in her lap, looking considerably more frightened than dangerous. She looked up the moment I entered, relief and anxiety warring visibly across her face, and I found myself, despite everything the night had already cost me in vigilance, unable to summon much genuine suspicion toward someone who looked this thoroughly exhausted by her own conscience. "Thank you for seeing me," she said, standing quickly as I entered. "I'm Camille Reyes. No relation to your doctor, I promise, I know that's confusing. I worked as Isabela's personal assistant for the past year." "The nurse said you had information about an accomplice," I said, remaining standing myself, unwilling to settle into anything resembling a comfortable conversation until I understood exactly what I was dealing with. "I'm sorry, I think I frightened you unne