Liam’s POV
I was sowhere else. Sowhere beautiful.
The garden stretched before , a vibrant tapestry of erald grass and wildflowers dancing in a gentle breeze. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of ancient oak trees, casting dappled patterns that shifted and swayed across the ground. The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and sowhere nearby, I could hear the lodic trickle of water from a fountain.
But none of that compared to the sound that made my heart swell with an emotion so pure it almost hurt—laughter. Children’s laughter.
I sat on a weathered wooden bench, watching them play. Two small figures, chasing butterflies and each other across the lawn, their movents carefree and bursting with joy. My children. My twins.
"Daddy! Daddy, watch this!" called the little boy, his voice high and clear as he attempted a wobbly cartwheel that collapsed into a giggling heap.
"I can do better!" declared his sister, executing her own version that ended similarly, both of them dissolving into fits of laughter that echoed through the garden.
I found myself smiling—not the careful, asured smile I wore in boardrooms, but sothing genuine that started sowhere deep in my chest and radiated outward. When was the last ti I’d felt like this? This lightness, this... happiness?
"Daddy, co play!" They were suddenly in front of , small hands tugging at my wrists, their faces animated with excitent. Their features remained curiously blurred, like looking through frosted glass, but sohow I could still see the sparkle in their eyes, the rosiness of their cheeks, the way their smiles lit up their entire beings.
"Please, Daddy!" the little girl implored, bouncing on her toes with impatience. "Chase us!"
I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet, marveling at how readily my body responded, how absent the constant ache in my ribs was. Standing, I towered over them, these tiny perfect humans who looked up at with such uncomplicated adoration.
"You better run," I warned playfully, hunching my shoulders and extending my hands like claws. "Because the daddy monster is going to get you!"
They shrieked with delight, scattering across the lawn as I gave chase, deliberately keeping my pace slow enough to let them stay just ahead. Round and round the garden we went, weaving between flower beds and trees, their laughter a constant soundtrack that seed to heal sothing broken inside .
When I finally caught the little girl, scooping her up into my arms, she squealed with a mixture of terror and delight. I spun her around, her small body weightless in my grasp, her giggles infectious. As I twirled her, I caught glimpses of black hair—Diane’s hair—and eyes that might have been mine. The blurriness of her features only seed to heighten the emotion of the mont, as if my mind couldn’t quite comprehend the perfection it was creating.
"My turn, Daddy! My turn!" The little boy was jumping up and down, arms stretched toward , desperate for his share of attention.
I gently set his sister down, cupping her small face in my hands. Her features swam before my eyes, refusing to crystallize, but I could feel the softness of her skin, the warmth of her small body. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, overwheld by a surge of protectiveness so intense it montarily took my breath away.
Then I turned to my son, lifting him high above my head as he shrieked with joy. "Airplane!" he demanded, and I obliged, moving him through the air in swooping patterns that made him howl with laughter.
"Landing ti," I announced, bringing him down toward the soft grass. But instead of setting him on his feet, I allowed myself to topple backward, cradling him against my chest as we fell together onto the lawn. He bounced slightly on my torso, giggling uncontrollably at this new ga.
His sister, not wanting to be left out, launched herself onto my chest as well, and I found myself pinned beneath them, their small bodies warm and solid and so undeniably real. I wrapped my arms around them both, holding them close, breathing in the sweet scent of their hair.
In that mont, everything else fell away—the anger, the betrayal, the bitter divorce proceedings, the machinations of corporate rivals. None of it mattered. Only this: my children, safe in my arms, happy and loved.
"I love you," I whispered, my throat tight with emotion. "I love you both so much."
I was about to tell them more—that I would always protect them, always be there for them, that they were the most important thing in my world now—when a shrill, insistent sound pierced through the perfect mont.
My phone. Ringing.
The garden dissolved around , the weight of my children lifting from my chest, their laughter fading like mist in the morning sun. I gasped awake, disoriented, my hand automatically reaching out as if I could pull them back from wherever they had gone.
But they weren’t real. Not yet.
The room was dark, the only light the faint glow of my phone screen as it continued to ring on the nightstand. I blinked, the dream still clinging to like cobwebs, leaving behind an ache that was almost physical in its intensity.
I pushed myself up, wincing at the now-familiar pain in my ribs, and reached for the phone. The screen was too bright in the darkness, making squint as I read the caller ID: Jackson.
For a mont, I considered ignoring it—the glowing numbers on my bedside clock read 11:00 AM. How had I woken up so late. But the mory of the dream was already beginning to fade, replaced by the reality of my current situation, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to bed.
I swiped to answer the call. "What is it, Jackson. This better be important."
"We have a problem." His voice was tight, clipped, lacking its usual professional detachnt. "I think my cover’s been blown."
I sat up straighter, suddenly alert. "What are you talking about?"
"I was following your wife and her lawyer friend today, as instructed," he said, the words coming in a rush. "Tailed them to so pastry shop. But sothing went wrong. They must have spotted , because the next thing I know, police sirens are heading our way."
"Police?" I repeated, a cold knot forming in my stomach. "What happened?"
"I got out of there just in ti," Jackson continued. "If I hadn’t heard those sirens coming from a distance, they would have caught in there. Pretty sure soone in that shop called them or maybe your wife."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, fully awake now. "Did Diane see you? Did she identify you?"
"Can’t be sure," he admitted. "But they were acting suspicious the mont they got inside. Her friend was scanning the street. I think they made as a tail."
I ran a hand through my hair, my mind racing through the implications. "So what are you saying?"
"I’m saying I need to disappear for a while," Jackson stated flatly. "And I need the rest of my paynt from our previous arrangent. Now. Tonight. Before the police connect any dots."
"You want money?" I almost laughed at the audacity. "When you’ve potentially just blown everything up?"
"I did my job," Jackson’s voice hardened. "I followed them, as instructed. The fact that they spotted isn’t on —they’ve obviously been on high alert since that stunt at the farrs market. That’s the risk of surveillance."
Anger surged through , hot and familiar. "You’re supposed to be a professional! ’The risk of surveillance’? Is that what you call getting spotted and having the police called on you? I hired you because you claid to be good at this and besides I had told you to back down for a while after the last encounter!"
"Watch your tone," Jackson warned, his voice dropping dangerously. "I don’t work for you anymore, Ashton. This call is courtesy to let you know I’m out, and to remind you that you still owe for services rendered."
"Services rendered?" I spat. "You’re an incompetent fool! You were supposed to shadow Diane discreetly, not alert her to being followed and bring the police into this! Why should I pay you another cent when you couldn’t follow simple instructions?"
"Simple instructions?" Now Jackson laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "You wanted to intimidate a pregnant woman. You wanted to make her afraid. Well, mission accomplished—she’s afraid enough to call the cops. But now I’m the one exposed."
"That’s your problem," I retorted. "In fact, you should be refunding what I’ve already paid you, not asking for more. You’ve created a disaster here."
"A refund?" The amusent in Jackson’s voice turned to ice. "You’re not serious."
"Dead serious," I snapped. "I hired you to do a job professionally, without leaving evidence that could be traced back to . And what’s the first thing you do? Get spotted, photographed probably, and have the police called. You call that professional?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Jackson spoke again, his voice had changed—lower, more controlled, almost pleasant. "I see. So this is how you want to play it."
"This isn’t a ga, Jackson. This is my life, my reputation, my future. And you’ve jeopardized all of it with your incompetence."
Sothing in his tone made my skin crawl. I pressed on, ignoring the warning bell in my head. "I want you to lose my number. We’re done. Consider our arrangent terminated."
"Oh, it’s terminated all right," Jackson agreed, that dangerous pleasantness still in his voice. "But before I go, let make sothing very clear to you, Liam. I’ve been in this business a long ti, and I’ve dealt with all kinds of clients. The grateful ones. The nervous ones. The ones who think they’re smarter than everyone else."
He paused, and I could almost see him leaning forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But the ones who try to stiff ? The ones who bla for their own dirty work, who insult and then dismiss ? Those are the ones who always, always regret it."
A chill ran down my spine, but I forced myself to sound dismissive. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"It’s a promise," Jackson replied, his voice now cold and precise. "I know where you live. I know your routines. I know about Diane, about your company troubles. I know enough to end what’s left of your reputation with one anonymous tip to the right reporter."
"You wouldn’t dare," I breathed, but the certainty was draining from with each word he spoke.
"I would. And when I’m done destroying what’s left of your life, I’ll find you," Jackson continued, each word asured and deliberate. "And I’ll put a bullet through your skull. Just so we’re clear."
The line went dead before I could respond, the abrupt silence more chilling than anything he could have said next.
I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the phone still pressed to my ear, my heart hamring against my ribs. Had I really just made an enemy of a man who knew every detail of my personal life? A man I had hired specifically because he operated in the shadows, because he knew how to hurt people?
"Fuck," I whispered into the empty room, dropping the phone onto the bed beside .
I fell back against the pillows, the dream of the garden and my children seeming impossibly distant now. How had everything spiraled so completely out of control? What had started as a straightforward divorce—painful, yes, but manageable—had morphed into this nightmare of public humiliation, physical injury, and now explicit threats on my life.
And through it all, the twins. My children. The blurred faces from my dream seed to hover at the edges of my consciousness, a reminder of what was truly at stake.
I had been so consud with winning—with making Diane pay, with preserving my company, with maintaining control—that I had lost sight of what I was about to beco: a father. Not just any father, but the father of twins who would need , who might one day run laughing to in a garden, calling "Daddy" with voices full of love and trust.
The realization hit with unexpected force: I wanted that dream to beco reality, to make my self believe I’m going to be a father. Despite the anger that still simred within , despite the bitterness toward Diane and her betrayal. I wanted to be the man they ran to, the father they trusted, the daddy they adored —But I know those chances have been ruined.
Now Jackson’s threat hung over like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. I had made a terrible mistake in hiring him, an even worse one in antagonizing him. I was left wondering if I would live long enough to see my children’s faces—truly see them, not just in dreams.
Or if my own actions had ensured that, like in the dream, they would forever remain blurred and just beyond my reach.
Reviews
All reviews (0)