Chapter 148: Explain What

Cecilia

"But the data itself might not be totally gone," I said, my brain already working through possibilities even though the pain meds were making everything feel fuzzy around the edges.

"Arthur, if I could get remote access to their network—even if they wiped the local machines, there's gotta be cloud backups somewhere, off-site redundancies, cached files sitting on their ISP's servers."

"Modern security systems don't just store footage in one place anymore. They push encrypted copies to like, multiple locations for exactly this kind of situation. If I could trace their network setup, figure out where those backup streams were going—"

"Absolutely not." His voice went hard, that tone he uses when he's done discussing something. "Ceci, you're in a damn hospital bed. You can barely sit up without going pale. You're not going anywhere near anything Grey-family related."

"But if we could prove—"

"I don't care." He shot up from the chair so fast it scraped against the floor, making me flinch. He stalked to the window, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he was trying not to punch something.

"I don't give a shit about proof or justice or making sure those bastards pay for everything they've done. All I care about—the only thing I care about—is keeping you alive, which means getting you the hell away from this mess."

"Arthur—"

"Besides," he cut me off, turning back with this look that was pure exhaustion mixed with determination, "Ronan didn't just delete files—he literally took the servers with him. "

He was right, and god, I hated it.

Hated that Ronan Grey was out there with evidence that could destroy his entire family, evidence he'd probably already burned or buried so deep nobody would ever find it.

Hated that people like that little girl at the auction, like those three boys—their suffering might never get the justice it deserved.

The silence got heavy between us, thick with frustration and fear and all these things neither of us were saying. Finally Arthur came back to the chair and dropped into it like all the energy had just drained out of him.

His hand found mine again, but this time his grip was loose, almost careful—so unlike him it made my chest tighten with worry.

"Ceci, aren't you going to explain yourself to me?" he said suddenly, his voice quiet and casual in this forced kind of way that immediately set off alarm bells in my head.

"Explain what?" I asked, genuinely confused, my brain still too foggy to keep up.

He just looked at me with this intensity that made me feel naked, like he was trying to read my mind. The silence stretched out until it got uncomfortable, and I watched emotions flash across his face too fast to catch before he smoothed everything into careful blankness.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" I reached for him, but he pulled back slightly—not avoiding me exactly, but not welcoming the touch either, and that felt so wrong it made my stomach hurt.

He let out this long breath, his shoulders dropping. "Nothing. It's nothing." He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Just—get some rest, Ceci. You need to heal."

"Arthur." I made my voice as firm as I could manage. "Tell me what's going on. Right now. Don't shut me out like this."

He went quiet for a long moment, staring at our hands where his thumb had stopped that unconscious stroking thing he always does. I could literally see him fighting with himself about whether to say whatever was eating at him.

When he finally looked up, the pain in his eyes made my breath catch.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, the words coming out flat and defeated in a way I'd never heard from him before.

"What?" My mind raced, trying to figure out what he meant, but he held up a hand to stop me.

His jaw clenched. "Ceci, just—heal first, okay? None of this matters. Nothing's more important than you getting better."

The words should've been comforting, but instead they felt like he was closing a door between us, locking away something I desperately needed to understand.

I was literally about to cry—from frustration, from exhaustion, from this horrible feeling that something fundamental had shifted and I had no idea what or why—when someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," Arthur called out, his voice suddenly steady and controlled like we hadn't just been having whatever that conversation was.

Harold pushed through the door, moving carefully like every step hurt. One arm was wrapped around his ribs, and his face looked pale under all the bruises, but his eyes were sharp as they flicked between us.

"Well," he said, and there was this hint of dry humor in his voice despite the obvious pain, "Mr. Winston, you really gotta keep Miss Locke in check. She's just as impulsive as you are—actually had the nerve to drag us around that manor like we were on some kind of field trip."

I felt myself smile despite everything.

"She's my fiancée," Arthur said, and his voice got that possessive edge it always does when he talks about me. "Of course she's like me."

Heat flooded my face immediately, and I had to look away.

The weird tension from a minute ago seemed to fade a little, which was almost worse because now I was even more confused about what the hell had just happened.

"Right," Harold said, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile through the pain. "Well, on that touching note—Mr. Winston, I need to brief you on the UK branch situation. Also submitting my leave request. I'm out right after this."

He pulled out a tablet with his good hand, wincing at the movement, and started scrolling through what looked like incident reports.

"Wait, hold on," I interrupted. "You're injured and you're still working? You need to rest!"

Arthur's expression softened when he looked at me, then he turned to Harold. "Listen to her. Go take a vacation. I'm staying in the UK until Ceci's cleared to travel anyway—I'll handle whatever comes up."

Harold opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, seemed to think better of it, then nodded. "Thank you, sir. Ma'am." There was this little smile playing at his lips as he said it.