Chapter 11
I told my father the same night.
He didn't believe me. Didn't believe Roman. Called it a mistake, a coincidence, a misread.
"Marcus has been with me for thirty-five years. He's family."
"He walked me down the aisle, Dad. He introduced me to Derek. He—"
"Elena." His voice was sharp. Final. "You're hurt. You're traumatized. You're seeing enemies in shadows."
I stared at him.
"The phone records—"
"Could mean anything. Marcus handles hundreds of contacts. Doesn't mean—"
"Hundreds of texts to the man who tried to kill your daughter?"
The words hung between us. Dad's jaw tightened. But he wouldn't break. Thirty-five years of trust was a fortress, and I was throwing pebbles at it.
Fine.
I'd do it myself.
Roman met me in the study that night. Quiet. Careful.
"Your dad shut it down?"
"Yeah."
"Want me to keep digging anyway?"
"Yes."
Roman nodded. No hesitation. "I've already got people on it. Give me forty-eight hours."
Those forty-eight hours were the longest of my life.
I couldn't eat. Could barely sleep. Kept one eye on Sophia at all times—moved her bassinet right against my bed, locked my door, had a gun in the nightstand drawer.
Because if Marcus was behind this, then he wasn't done. Derek was a pawn. Vivian was entertainment. The real play was something else entirely.
On the second night, Roman came to my room at 3 AM.
"Got it."
He spread papers across my bed. Bank statements. Shell companies. Transfer records.
The story they told was simple and ugly.
Marcus Webb had been bleeding my father dry for years. Embezzling from the family's legitimate businesses—construction, real estate, shipping. Millions. Tens of millions. Funneling it through a web of offshore accounts into his own pocket.
But he needed one thing to finish the job: my father's death.
And before my father died, he needed the heir eliminated.
Me.
"Derek wasn't random," Roman said. "Marcus introduced you on purpose. Groomed him for years. The whole marriage was a setup—get you isolated, get you pregnant, get rid of you during childbirth. Natural causes. No suspicion."
"And Sophia?"
"Insurance. If your father investigated, Marcus would produce the 'grandchild' and use her as leverage. Control the bloodline, control the inheritance."
I sat very still. Let it process.
My godfather. The man who gave me a gold necklace on my sixteenth birthday. Who told me I was beautiful. Who told me I deserved a normal life. Who encouraged me to leave.
He encouraged me to leave.
Because I was easier to kill when I was alone.
"Does my father know yet?"
"No. You want me to tell him?"
"No. I'll do it."
This time, I had proof. This time, he'd listen.
I walked into my father's study at dawn, Sophia on my hip, Roman behind me carrying a folder thick enough to kill a man.
Dad was at his desk. Coffee steaming. Reading glasses on.
He looked up. Saw the folder. Saw my face.
"Elena—"
I set the folder in front of him. Opened it. Pointed.
"Marcus Webb has been stealing from you for twelve years. He orchestrated my marriage to Derek as an assassination attempt. He planned to kill me during childbirth and use my daughter to control your estate after your death—which he's also planning."
Dad didn't move.
I watched his face cycle through denial, confusion, calculation—and finally, the cold settling of rage.
He picked up one page. Then another. Then another.
Five minutes of silence.
When he looked up, his eyes were dead.
"Get Marcus on the phone."
He didn't believe me. Didn't believe Roman. Called it a mistake, a coincidence, a misread.
"Marcus has been with me for thirty-five years. He's family."
"He walked me down the aisle, Dad. He introduced me to Derek. He—"
"Elena." His voice was sharp. Final. "You're hurt. You're traumatized. You're seeing enemies in shadows."
I stared at him.
"The phone records—"
"Could mean anything. Marcus handles hundreds of contacts. Doesn't mean—"
"Hundreds of texts to the man who tried to kill your daughter?"
The words hung between us. Dad's jaw tightened. But he wouldn't break. Thirty-five years of trust was a fortress, and I was throwing pebbles at it.
Fine.
I'd do it myself.
Roman met me in the study that night. Quiet. Careful.
"Your dad shut it down?"
"Yeah."
"Want me to keep digging anyway?"
"Yes."
Roman nodded. No hesitation. "I've already got people on it. Give me forty-eight hours."
Those forty-eight hours were the longest of my life.
I couldn't eat. Could barely sleep. Kept one eye on Sophia at all times—moved her bassinet right against my bed, locked my door, had a gun in the nightstand drawer.
Because if Marcus was behind this, then he wasn't done. Derek was a pawn. Vivian was entertainment. The real play was something else entirely.
On the second night, Roman came to my room at 3 AM.
"Got it."
He spread papers across my bed. Bank statements. Shell companies. Transfer records.
The story they told was simple and ugly.
Marcus Webb had been bleeding my father dry for years. Embezzling from the family's legitimate businesses—construction, real estate, shipping. Millions. Tens of millions. Funneling it through a web of offshore accounts into his own pocket.
But he needed one thing to finish the job: my father's death.
And before my father died, he needed the heir eliminated.
Me.
"Derek wasn't random," Roman said. "Marcus introduced you on purpose. Groomed him for years. The whole marriage was a setup—get you isolated, get you pregnant, get rid of you during childbirth. Natural causes. No suspicion."
"And Sophia?"
"Insurance. If your father investigated, Marcus would produce the 'grandchild' and use her as leverage. Control the bloodline, control the inheritance."
I sat very still. Let it process.
My godfather. The man who gave me a gold necklace on my sixteenth birthday. Who told me I was beautiful. Who told me I deserved a normal life. Who encouraged me to leave.
He encouraged me to leave.
Because I was easier to kill when I was alone.
"Does my father know yet?"
"No. You want me to tell him?"
"No. I'll do it."
This time, I had proof. This time, he'd listen.
I walked into my father's study at dawn, Sophia on my hip, Roman behind me carrying a folder thick enough to kill a man.
Dad was at his desk. Coffee steaming. Reading glasses on.
He looked up. Saw the folder. Saw my face.
"Elena—"
I set the folder in front of him. Opened it. Pointed.
"Marcus Webb has been stealing from you for twelve years. He orchestrated my marriage to Derek as an assassination attempt. He planned to kill me during childbirth and use my daughter to control your estate after your death—which he's also planning."
Dad didn't move.
I watched his face cycle through denial, confusion, calculation—and finally, the cold settling of rage.
He picked up one page. Then another. Then another.
Five minutes of silence.
When he looked up, his eyes were dead.
"Get Marcus on the phone."