Chapter 153
Elizabeth's nose suddenly stung, that sharp, telltale ache right before tears.
She looked at him, at Jacob—the man who was cold, ruthless, and decisive in killing before everyone else, yet he was pleading with her to stay with him in such an almost humble tone.
An urge to cry rose up so fast it nearly choked her.
She knew what she had been torturing herself over this whole time.
She had been wrestling with whether to tell him the truth.
Should she tell him about Hughes and Gray's deaths?
Should she tell him she was the leader of Nightfall?
Should she tell him there was a mole close to her, someone who at any moment might endanger his life?
She should have told him.
But she was afraid to.
She was afraid that once she said it, he would hate her.
Afraid that once she said it, whatever they had would be over.
But he never asked.
He knew she had secrets, he knew that she was hiding things from him, but he never pressed. He just stayed by her side, protecting her in his own quiet, stubborn way.
That kind of trust moved her so deeply that it scared her.
"Jacob," she rasped, her voice rough, "why didn't you ever ask me?"
Jacob studied her for a moment, then let out a soft sigh. "Ask you what?"
"Ask about my secrets. Ask who I really was. Ask why I kept so many things from you."
Jacob went still for a beat, then said slowly, "Elizabeth, I grew up in this world. I had seen too many things, and too many people, to count. I knew everyone has secrets. Some secrets could be told. Some couldn't."
He lifted his hand and let his fingers skim gently along her cheek. "I didn't ask, not because I didn't care. I didn't ask because I knew that when you were ready to tell me, you would."
Elizabeth's eyes finally overflowed.
She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, holding on so tight it felt like she wanted to pull him under her skin, fuse him into bone and blood.
"Jacob…" She said his name over and over, her voice so choked she could barely get the syllables out.
Jacob wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back in slow, soothing strokes.
"Don't cry," he murmured, his voice soft as cotton, wrapping around her frayed nerves. "Whatever it is, I'm here."
Elizabeth cried in his arms for a long time.
A very, very long time.
When she finally calmed down, she tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes.
Those eyes, so deep, so gentle, so full of trust.
And in that moment, she made a decision.
"Jacob," she said quietly, "after the wedding, I'm going to tell you something."
Jacob looked at her, a faint line cutting between his brows.
"What is it?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm not saying it now. I'll tell you after the wedding."
She paused, then added, enunciating each word, "No matter what it is, I hoped that after you heard it, you would still hold me like this."
Jacob held her gaze, silent for a few seconds.
Then he smiled.
There was a warmth in that smile that settled over her like a blanket, calm and steady.
"Okay," he said. "I'll wait."
Outside, the night was thick and heavy.
Moonlight slipped through the crack in the curtains and spilled onto the floor in a soft silver wash.
They sat there wrapped around each other, neither of them said another word.
But in that moment, they were closer than they had ever been.
Because of trust.
Because of love.
No matter what was beyond the horizon—whatever it turned out to be, it would never be enough to tear them apart again.
When Charles woke up, the hospital room was so quiet it felt wrong.
So quiet it made his skin crawl.
He blinked a few times as his vision cleared. White ceiling. White walls. The sharp, chemical sting of disinfectant—he was in a hospital.
He tried to move, and that's when he realized half his body wouldn't respond at all. His left arm, his left leg, were dead weight, limp and useless, like they didn't even belong to him.
Memory crashed back in a dark, suffocating wave.
Elizabeth.
The stock transfer agreement.
The vasectomy.
The baby in Sophie's belly that wasn't his.
His right hand clenched in a violent jerk, fingernails digging so hard into his palm he almost broke his skin.
"Somebody!" He roared, his voice hoarse and ragged like rusted metal scraping. "Somebody get in here!"
A nurse hurried in, eyes widening when she saw him awake. "Mr. Brown, you're awake? I'll get the doctor—"
"No!" Charles cut her off. "Schedule tests. I want a full workup. Right now."
The nurse froze, then nodded quickly and backed out of the room.
Two hours later, the results were in.
Charles stared at the report until his vision pulsed black around the edges.
It was written in brutal, clinical detail—he had undergone a vasectomy, and not recently. The scarring was old, going back many years.
Vivian, the daughter he had cherished for more than two decades, the daughter he had always believed carried his blood, was not his.
She never was.
From the very beginning, she was never his.
Sitting on the hospital bed, Charles trembled all over. He didn't know if it was from rage, from pain, or from something even worse.
After a long time, he lifted his head and said to the orderly, "Get my discharge paperwork done. Now."
The orderly started to tell him he should stay a few more days, but one look at Charles's bloodshot eyes, lit with a kind of wild, deranged fury, made the words die in his throat.
That afternoon, Charles returned to Windsor Mansion.
Sophie was sitting in the living room, a file in her hands. When she heard the door, she looked up. The moment she saw him, panic flashed across her face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a mask of concern.
"Charles, why are you home? The doctors said you needed to stay a few more days…"
Charles didn't answer.
He just stared at her, unblinking, and walked toward her one slow, deliberate step at a time.
The way he was looking at her made Sophie's skin prickle; a cold dread crept up her spine, and she instinctively shrank back. "Charles, you… what's wrong with you?"
He stopped right in front of her.
"Whose baby is it?" His voice was raw and sandpapery, so low it was almost a growl.
The color drained from Sophie's face in an instant.
"Charles, what… what are you talking about? The baby is yours, of course it's—"
"Mine?" Charles suddenly laughed, a jagged, broken sound, madness and despair twisted together in every note. "Mine? I got snipped right after we got married, and you're standing there telling me this baby is mine?!"
Sophie's pupils contracted sharply.
Her mouth opened. She wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
Charles's right hand—his only working hand—whipped up without warning and crashed across her face in a vicious slap. "You whore!"
The blow sent Sophie tumbling off the couch and onto the floor. She clutched her cheek and screamed.
Vivian was just coming down the stairs and walked into the scene mid-explosion. She froze, then shrieked, "Dad! What are you doing?!"
She rushed over to pull Charles back, but he swung around and slapped her too, knocking her to the ground.
"Dad?!" Charles looked at her, his eyes filled with madness. "You called me Dad?! Whose daughter the hell are you, don't you know?!"
Vivian was stunned.
She pressed a shaking hand to her burning cheek, staring up at Charles with tears trembling on her lashes. "Dad, what are you saying…"
"What did I say?" Charles kicked Sophie, who was trying to get up, and looked down at the mother and daughter. "I said you are not my daughter! You are a bastard born to this slut and some random man!"