Chapter 30 Chapter 30
She sat up too quickly, her head still heavy and her vision slow to focus. Pale morning light leaked through the curtains, but it did nothing to chase away the fog clinging to her thoughts. The banging came again — hard, rapid, and loud enough to make the doorframe tremble.
Still half-asleep, she didn’t even think to check the peephole. One hand clutched her robe closed, the other flicked the latch. She swung the door open.
Carl stood there.
His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed with something darker than anger, and his voice came out sharp enough to slice through the haze in her head.
“Where the hell have you been, Amelia? Or should I say… the future Mrs. Hearst?”
The words hit like a slap, but she barely had time to process them before he stepped forward, forcing her backward into the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud.
“Carl, stop—” she started, but he was already on her, crowding her space.
“You ignore every one of my calls all night?” His tone was low, dangerous. “What—too busy screwing my replacement to answer?”
“That’s not—”
Carl’s eyes flicked to the small table by the window — the untouched champagne bucket, the plate of half-eaten chocolate-covered strawberries, and the folded card propped neatly against the tray.
He moved toward it slowly, like a predator zeroing in. He picked up the card, opened it, and read Bryson’s neat handwriting.
His grip tightened until the cardstock crumpled in his hand.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, his voice shaking with the effort it took to keep it low. “He sends you champagne? Strawberries? And you ate them?”
Amelia’s stomach turned cold. “Carl—”
“Don’t,” he snapped, spinning back toward her. His face was flushed now, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “You’re sitting here playing perfect little hostess to him while I’m out there wondering where my wife is.”
He closed the distance in two long strides, shoving her hard into the wall. The impact rattled a framed print from its hook, the frame tumbling and striking the side of her head before splintering on the floor. Glass shattered, a jagged edge scraping her cheek and collarbone.
Pain flared hot and sharp, and Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Carl leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper. “You think you can humiliate me? You think you can walk around like you’re untouchable? You’re mine, Amelia.”
Down the hall, Bryson balanced two paper cups of coffee in one hand, a folder tucked under his arm. He was halfway to Amelia’s door when he caught it — the muffled thud of something hitting the wall, followed by a sound that froze him mid-step.
Amelia’s voice.
“Carl, stop—”
Then a sharp crash of glass. And under it, the low, venomous growl of a man’s voice: “You’re mine, Amelia.”
Bryson’s pulse spiked, his vision tunneling. The coffees hit the carpet, forgotten. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate — his free hand went to his pocket, yanking out the spare keycard he’d taken the night before. He’d only planned to use it if she locked herself out or left something behind.
Not for this.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open with force.
Carl spun at the sound, surprise flashing in his eyes — then something uglier. His gaze darted to the keycard in Bryson’s hand, and his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Well, isn’t this convenient.”
Bryson didn’t move further in yet — not until he’d taken in the scene. Amelia was pressed against the wall, the shattered frame at her feet, a thin line of blood tracing down her cheek. Her robe had slipped slightly on one shoulder where the glass had grazed her.
Bryson’s jaw tightened. “Step away from her.”
Carl gave a short, humorless laugh. “She’s my wife, Hearst. Maybe you should step away.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Bryson’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “What I heard was you putting your hands on her. That ends now.”
Carl’s smirk faltered, but his posture stayed arrogant. “You think you can just waltz in here—”
Bryson took a step forward, his height and presence swallowing the space between them. His voice was deadly calm. “Carl, you’ve got exactly three seconds to walk out of this room before I make you wish you’d never opened your mouth. And if I ever hear her cry because of you again, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”
Carl’s eyes flicked between Bryson’s unflinching stare and Amelia’s wide, shaken gaze. For the first time, hesitation crept in. He straightened his jacket, muttered something under his breath, and shoved past Bryson toward the door.
“This isn’t over,” Carl said, but the edge in his voice was thinner now.
“Yeah,” Bryson replied without looking away from him. “It is. Now get out.”
When the door closed behind Carl, Bryson immediately crossed the room to Amelia, his hands gentle but his eyes still blazing. “Baby,” he said softly, the contrast in his tone striking. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Amelia shook her head, but the tears brimming in her eyes gave her away.
“Come here,” he murmured, pulling her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like he could shield her from every single thing in the world. “He’ll never get that close to you again. Not while I’m breathing.”
By early afternoon, the incident in her hotel room felt like something Amelia was trying to convince herself hadn’t happened.
She stood at the mirror in her suite, hair smoothed back into place, a soft cream blouse replacing the robe. Her makeup was subtle, practiced — enough to conceal the scrape on her cheek without drawing attention to it. The collar of her blouse covered the bandage on her collarbone.
Amelia stood frozen where Carl had left her, her back still against the wall, eyes glassy and unfocused. The thin line of blood on her cheek glistened in the morning light, but she didn’t move to wipe it away.
It physically hurt Bryson to see her like this. Not just shaken — detached. Like someone had pulled her out of herself and left her here in pieces.
“Amelia,” he said softly, but she didn’t answer.
Bryson’s expression hardened, though his touch stayed gentle as he guided her toward the bed. “Sit.”
She obeyed, silent, her hands limp in her lap.
Bryson moved with precision. His phone was already at his ear as he stepped away, voice clipped and commanding. “I need security on the 12th floor. Now. And if Carl Pierce comes within fifty feet of this room again, I want him removed from the property — I don’t care who he is.”
Another call. “Housekeeping, I need immediate glass cleanup in 4208. Bring a vacuum and gloves.”
Then a third call, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. “Get the project manager on the line. Tell him any investor arrivals today are to be handled without me or Amelia. No welcome drinks, no early meetings. We’ll see them all Monday at the walkthrough. Today is cleared.”
When he hung up, he disappeared into his own room for less than a minute, returning with a first aid kit. Kneeling in front of her, he opened it, his large hands steady as he pulled out antiseptic and gauze.
“This might sting,” he murmured, dabbing carefully at the cut on her cheek.
She flinched slightly at the touch, but not from pain — more like the world had just come back into focus for a moment.
“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice quieter, but no less firm. “I’ve got you.”
She blinked at him, and for a heartbeat, he thought she might cry. But then she just looked away again, staring past him at nothing.
Bryson finished cleaning the wound, wrapped the small scrape along her collarbone, and tossed the soiled gauze into the bin. He kicked off his shoes, pulled back the covers, and guided her into bed.
He lay beside her, one arm sliding under her head to pull her against his chest. His other hand smoothed slowly over her hair, grounding her with the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“Baby,” he whispered into her hair, his voice a vow, “he will never touch you again. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll protect you from him, from all of it. Whatever it takes.”
For the first time since he’d walked in, her hand moved — just enough to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on.
Bryson kissed the top of her head, his words low but certain. “I’ve got you, Amelia. Always.”