Chapter 187
Chapter 187
Ryan looked in the direction he pointed. At first, nothing seemed unusual, but as he studied it more carefully, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
Each detail by itself seemed insignificant, but strung together, they created an unmistakable pattern of something sinister.
These were professionals, using their expertise to conduct reconnaissance before infiltration.
"I'll deploy more personnel immediately!" Ryan said at once.
"No need." Theodore rose, grabbing his suit jacket from the chair back. "Too much commotion will spook her."
He walked to his desk and picked up the internal line.
"Send the head of security to my office. Also, notify IT—I want access to all public and private surveillance within a one-mile radius of the postpartum recovery center for the past week."
Theodore's voice remained calm, betraying no emotion, but Ryan knew better. This was the quiet before Theodore's fury unleashed.
An invisible net was spreading, unnoticed by everyone.
A few days later, the postpartum recovery center appeared unchanged on the surface.
Except there were a few more gardeners trimming the lawn, additional security guards directing traffic in the parking lot, and even the meals delivered to Yasmin's room now passed through an extra security screening process.
Everything proceeded in silence.
Yasmin remained completely unaware.
Her world had been distilled to its essence.
Her daily routine confined to the spacious suite and the small garden downstairs.
The obstetrician had just finished her routine checkup, wearing a professionally warm smile. "Mrs. Prescott, everything looks excellent. The baby is very healthy, and the position is perfect for natural delivery. All you need to do now is relax, rest well, and wait for labor to begin."
Yasmin stroked her round belly, feeling the little life inside shift and turn.
Her expression softened in a way it never had before.
Theodore sat on the nearby sofa, holding a parenting manual, reading with complete seriousness.
He listened to the doctor's words even more intently than Yasmin, even pulling out his phone to note down several key points.
After the doctor left, the room fell quiet again.
Yasmin watched him, suddenly finding it amusing.
The Theodore who commanded boardrooms and made Wall Street tremble now resembled a student cramming for finals—nervous and awkward.
"I'm hungry," she said.
Theodore immediately set down the book and walked to the sideboard, opening the insulated container.
Today's soup was fish maw with pigeon, personally delivered by Veda that morning.
He ladled out a bowl, skimmed the oil from the surface, tested the temperature, then brought it to her.
Yasmin didn't take it. She just looked at him.
"I want an apple."
Theodore paused, set down the soup bowl, and turned to get the fruit.
He used that same small paring knife. The apple peel spiraled down in his hands, forming a thin red ribbon.
Yasmin studied his profile. In the lamplight, his features softened, no longer projecting that forbidding coldness.
She suddenly remembered—long ago, she used to peel apples for him this way.
Back then, she'd been so careful, terrified of breaking the peel, because people said an unbroken spiral meant lasting affection.
But he'd never eaten them. Never even looked.
"Theodore," she said softly.
"Mm?" He responded, focused on his task.
"If... I mean, hypothetically," Yasmin chose her words carefully, "if this baby wasn't yours, would you still treat me this way?"
Theodore's hands stilled.
The room grew so quiet she could hear the clock ticking.
He looked up, his gaze settling on her face. Those unfathomable eyes held complex emotions.
He didn't answer her hypothetical question. Instead, he cut the peeled apple into small pieces, speared one with a toothpick, and held it to her lips.
"Don't overthink it."
His voice dropped low.
Yasmin looked at him, then finally opened her mouth and bit into the apple.
Sweet juice flooded her mouth.
She understood. In his way, he was telling her there were no 'what-ifs.'
Outside, darkness deepened.
A drone disguised as a black bird silently swept across the estate's night sky, transmitting live footage back to that unremarkable apartment.
The blonde man watched Theodore's bedroom lights go out on the screen, his lips curving into a cold smile.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Mr. Prescott's weakness is quite secure right now." A woman's sweet voice came through—Scarlett.
"Not for much longer." Henry's tone was flat. "I need you to deliver a 'gift' for me. A gift that will make Yasmin walk out of that fortress willingly."
The next morning, a van bearing the "Alice Garden" logo pulled into the postpartum recovery center's designated loading zone.
The driver and florist presented their appointment confirmation and identification. Everything checked out.
They were delivering a large floral arrangement commissioned to celebrate a new birth.
As the arrangement was unloaded for secondary screening, a newly arrived "security guard" passed a handheld scanner over the basket's base.
The device emitted a faint warning tone.
"Hold on." The guard stopped the florist. "There's metal inside. We need to inspect it."
The florist's expression shifted slightly, but she cooperated, opening a concealed compartment. Inside wasn't anything dangerous—just an elegantly wrapped blue velvet box.
"This is... a gift the client specifically requested be personally delivered to Mrs. Prescott," the florist explained.
The guard said nothing. He put on gloves, removed the box, and signaled to the nearby guard station.
The floral arrangement was allowed through.
The box was not.
Night fell like ink.
In the greenery along the west wall, tree shadows swayed like ghostly tentacles.
Two black figures silently scaled the ten-foot wall, their movements clean and efficient.
They'd timed the gap between infrared sensor sweeps perfectly, dropping down with barely a sound.
This area was a surveillance blind spot—the only breach point they'd identified after days of reconnaissance.
The two exchanged glances and hand signals, preparing to execute their plan and infiltrate the rear courtyard of the building where Yasmin stayed.
The instant they took their first step, two figures rose from the previously pitch-black shrubbery behind them.
Not security uniforms—gardener's clothes, holding large pruning shears.
From the shadows of the driveway on their left, two parking attendants emerged, cutting off their retreat.
No warnings. No challenges.
The two "gardeners" didn't even drop their shears. They simply lunged forward with speed and force completely inconsistent with their supposed identities.
The intruders reacted quickly, pulling back and attempting to counter.
But their opponents' goal wasn't combat—it was containment.
One gardener's arm was slashed open by a knife, blood instantly soaking his sleeve. He didn't even flinch. He simply used his body weight to slam his target against the wall.
On the other side, the two attendants closed in.
The entire encounter lasted less than thirty seconds. No gunshots—only dull thuds of bodies colliding and the sharp crack of dislocating bones.
By the time Ryan arrived with backup, both intruders were bound hand and foot with zip ties, mouths gagged with cloth, thrown on the ground like dead fish.
"Search them," Ryan's voice was ice.
Items were quickly recovered.
Two syringes filled with amber liquid. Several sets of specialized restraints. A micro signal jammer.
The intent was obvious.
Cold sweat broke out on Ryan's back.
He glanced toward the building where Yasmin stayed. The lights glowed softly, everything peaceful.
He didn't want to imagine what would have happened if Theodore hadn't prepared in advance.
Theodore stood in the monitoring room hastily converted from part of the recovery center, watching the live feed on the screens.
His expression revealed nothing—neither relief at success nor gratitude for a close call. Only bottomless cold.
A subordinate respectfully placed the blue velvet box intercepted from the flower arrangement before him.
Theodore opened it.
Inside wasn't jewelry or anything valuable.
It was an expertly forged amniocentesis report. The conclusion section had several words circled in red pen, indicating a rare genetic disease. Beneath the report lay a card.
The card bore Scarlett's handwriting, delicate yet venomous.
[Theo, our child shouldn't have any flaws. Let me take care of this 'accident' for you. We can start fresh.]
Theodore stared at the card for a long time.
Then he picked up his phone and called Ryan.
"The men?"
"Boss, we've got them both secured. They're tough."
"Have they given up who sent them?"
"Tight-lipped," Ryan said, "but it won't matter. They'll talk soon enough."
"Don't bother." Theodore's tone was flat. "Turn them over to the police directly. Have the city bureau pick them up personally. Tell them it's terrorism-related, foreign infiltration, attempted kidnapping. Have them dig down this line inch by inch."
Ryan hesitated. Theodore wasn't going to interrogate them himself?
"Also," Theodore's voice betrayed no emotion, yet sent a bone-deep chill through Ryan, "notify the corporate legal department. Contact our Swiss and North American legal teams. I want every asset the Baker family holds globally investigated down to the last cent. I want the name 'Scarlett' frozen in every bank account in every country."