Unbeknownst to Henry and Isabella, shadows lurked outside the penthouse building. Henry’s bodyguards, a new team of four elite professionals trained by the Jackson family —Matthew and Theo were still at the hospital because of the earlier hit and run caused by Mirabel—had been shadowing him discreetly as per their protocol. Never too close, always at a distance to respect his privacy. They were ex-military, dressed in nondescript civilian clothes, blending into the bustling city streets. The night of the bar fight, they’d arrived too late to intervene, watching from afar as Henry stumbled out, bloodied and drunk. "Damn it," one muttered, a burly man nad Leo. "We should’ve been closer."
They’d imdiately called the family secretary, Mr. Paul Jules. "Mr. Jules, it’s Leo. Henry’s been in a bar fight—nothing life-threatening, but he’s ssed up. His BMW’s still at the joint. We need cleanup."
Paul sighed over the phone, his voice clipped. "Idiots. Get the car towed discreetly. I’ll handle the bar—pay off any witnesses, erase footage. And keep eyes on him. Mr. Jackson Senior will have my head if this escalates."
Word traveled fast in the Jackson household, a sprawling estate on the outskirts of New York City where old money reigned supre. Henry’s father, Mt. Hill Jackson—a towering figure in finance, with a silver mane and a temper like thunder—caught wind of the incident through Paul’s report. He was in his study, surrounded by leather-bound books and whiskey decanters, when he dialed the bodyguards’ lead.
"Leo, you fool!" Mr. Hill bellowed into the phone, his voice echoing off the oak-paneled walls. "My son gets into a bar brawl, and you lot are twiddling your thumbs? What do I pay you for? Protection, not spectator seats!"
"Sir, our orders were to maintain distance—personal space, as Henry requested," Leo stamred, standing rigid in the lobby of Isabella’s apartnt complex, pretending to check his phone.
"Distance be damned! If he gets hurt again, I’ll fire every last one of you and sue you into oblivion. Do you hear ? Track him now—where is he?"
Leo glanced at his team, who nodded from their vantage points. They’d trailed Henry’s cab to the penthouse, run a quick background on Isabella Voss—self-made millionaire, clean record—and confird she was nursing him back to health. "He’s at Isabella Voss’s penthouse, sir. She’s taking care of him. Seems safe. We’re stationed around the building, watching discreetly. Even she doesn’t know we’re here."
Mr. Hill grunted, sowhat mollified. "Fine. Stay invisible, but vigilant. Report any changes. And tell Paul to send him a ssage—remind him family’s here when he’s ready."
Back inside the penthouse, Isabella remained oblivious to the guardians outside. That night, as Henry’s fever raged and he woke crying out Eliana’s na in the witching hour, she was there, holding his hand. "It’s just a dream," she soothed, her voice a lullaby in the dim light. "You’re not alone, Henry. I’m here. Tell about her—what made you love her so much?"
Through choked sobs, he poured it out: the college days, the hidden affections, the loyalty that had defined him. Isabella listened, her own heart aching in solidarity. "I get it," she said softly. "Logan’s betrayal felt like the end of the world. But look at us now—two broken souls finding solace. You’ll get through this. I’ll be your rock, just like you were mine."
anwhile, across the city at St. Patrick’s Hospital, the sterile hallways buzzed with the quiet efficiency of nurses and beeping machines. Eliana Bennett had been discharged the next morning after her admission, her body still frail but bolstered by dications and sheer willpower. The doctor, a kindly woman with graying hair, had warned her: "Rest is crucial, Miss Bennett. For you and the baby."
But Eliana couldn’t rest—not yet. She made her way to her father’s room, the IV marks still fresh on her arm. Frank still lay there, unmoving in his coma, tubes snaking across his chest, his face peaceful yet hauntingly still. The room slled of antiseptic and faded hope. Eliana collapsed into the chair beside him, her slender fra trembling as tears fell down her warm brown skin.
"Oh, Papa," she whispered, clutching his hand—cold and unresponsive. "I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I couldn’t protect you better. Mom—Mirabel—she did this to you. Her greed, her sches... I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve fought harder." Her voice cracked, honey eyes swimming with grief. "But I’m going to make it right. I promise. I’m marrying Rafael today. He’ll give the power, the resources to take her down. No more hiding, no more weakness. I’ll avenge you, Papa. Just... please wake up. For . For your grandchild."
She stayed there for what felt like hours, apologizing a dozen tis, each word laced with raw emotion. "I’m sorry I underestimated her once. Sorry I let her harm you. Sorry for everything." Finally, she kissed his forehead, wiping her tears. "I love you. Hold on."
Stepping out into the hallway, she found Rafael Vexley waiting in his wheelchair, his athletic build commanding even in pretense. Jas stood nearby, ever vigilant. Rafael’s steel eyes, hidden behind the facade of cloudiness, fixed on her with a mix of concern and sothing deeper—hurt.
"Rafael," Eliana said, her voice steady despite the redness in her eyes. "I’m ready. Let’s get married. Now. No more delays."
Rafael’s jaw tightened—so subtly anyone would’ve missed it. This was supposed to be a victorious mont for him. Sure, the marriage was nothing more than a contract, a calculated alliance designed to outmaneuver Mirabel... but still. A part of him had hoped she would show at least a flicker of excitent, sothing to make this feel less like a sterile business transaction and more like a step toward sothing real.
Instead, her tone was flat. Detached. As if she were agreeing to sign paperwork, not vow her life to his.
The realization stung more than he expected.
He drew in a slow breath, smoothing the tension from his face. When he forced a smile, the curve of his lips was laced with sarcasm—and sothing bruised beneath it.
"As you wish, my ever-eager bride," he murmured, the words cutting softly, betraying the hurt he was trying to hide. Then, without looking away from her, he called out, "Jas?"
Jas shot Rafael a worried glance, his brow furrowed. He knew his boss better than anyone—the sarcasm masked vulnerability.
"Lead the way to the car," Rafael instructed, ignoring the look. "We’re off to make this official."
They moved toward the exit, Jas pushing the wheelchair while Eliana walked beside them, her long curls swaying with each determined step. In the sleek black car waiting outside, Rafael settled in, the leather seats creaking softly. As they all buckled up, he turned to Jas. "Is the dia ready? We need this public—to send a ssage to Mirabel."
"Yes, sir," Jas replied from the driver’s seat, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Reporters are tipped off. It’ll be all over the news by evening."
Rafael nodded, then reached for Eliana’s hand, his touch warm and possessive. "Are you ready for this? Truly?"
She t his gaze, her expressive eyes hardening with resolve. "More than ready. Let’s end this nightmare."
Jas started the engine, and the car pulled away from St. Patrick’s Hospital, heading toward the courthouse where vows would bind them in a web of love, deception, and impending revenge.
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