Chapter 19
When Jack picked up the toy gun and displayed that unnaturally precise aim, Pacquiao's pupils contracted. He jerked upright in his seat.
"Wait. That kid—" His eyes narrowed, studying the boy through the tinted glass. "Is that Jacob's son? The one he guards like the crown jewels? The kid who's practically a ghost in public?"
His lieutenant leaned in for a closer look, then confirmed, "Yes, boss. That's definitely Jack. Jacob's boy."
A low chuckle rumbled from Pacquiao's chest, the sound of a predator spotting wounded prey. "Jacob's son. Being paraded around my territory by his fiancée. Playing with guns like he's been doing it for years. Now what the hell is that about?"
He stroked the neat goatee on his chin, his gaze flickering with calculation.
Jacob's operation was locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Finding a weak point had been damn near impossible. And now? They'd just walked right through his front door.
This Elizabeth woman—she was no helpless socialite. To get Jacob's kid out in public, keep him obedient, even let him show off shooting skills?
Interesting. Very interesting.
Maybe this was his chance to really stick it to Jacob.
A serpent's smile curved across Pacquiao's face. He gestured to his right-hand man. "Send an invitation. In my name. To Ms. Windsor."
"What kind of invitation, boss?"
"Tomorrow night. That private charity gala we're hosting." Pacquiao swirled his whiskey, eyes glinting like polished obsidian. "Make sure it specifically mentions that both she and Jack are cordially invited. I want to see if Ms. Windsor's got the balls to show up. And what kind of show she'll put on when she does."
Smith's fiancée bringing Jacob's son to his rival's party? Christ, that would be a spectacle worth watching.
His lieutenant caught on immediately. "Yes, boss. I'll handle it right away."
Through the floor-to-ceiling window, Pacquiao watched Elizabeth take Jack's hand as they prepared to leave. He raised his glass toward them in a mock toast, as if celebrating the opening act of a very entertaining play.
Vivian had dressed to kill—full makeup, designer dress, the works. She carried a gift basket of expensive health supplements as she arrived at the Aiden family estate.
She and Henry had been dancing around each other for months now. With him at his lowest point, she needed to pour on the sympathy, be his shoulder to cry on.
More realistically? She needed to ride his coattails to somewhere better.
She'd thought marrying Henry might be a decent option once. But now that he was basically crippled? Vivian wasn't so sure he was worth the investment.
Still, until she found a better prospect, she couldn't afford to drop him.
A servant led her to Henry's bedroom. The stench of antiseptic hit her like a wall.
Henry lay propped against the headboard, his face ghost-white. Both hands were wrapped in thick bandages. He looked hollowed out, his eyes haunted with barely suppressed terror.
"Henry!" Vivian immediately switched on her devastated-girlfriend act, rushing to his bedside. Tears sprang to her eyes on command. "Your hands—what happened? Which bastard did this?! I swear I'll—"
She caught sight of his mangled hands, and her stomach turned.
Another finger. Someone had taken another finger in just days. And with all his power and connections, Henry couldn't even touch whoever did it. What kind of heavyweight had he pissed off?
Would she get caught in the crossfire?
Even as her mind raced through these calculations, her mouth kept spewing righteous fury at Henry's mysterious attacker.
"Shut up!" Henry's ragged voice cracked like a whip, sharp with fear she'd never heard from him before. "Don't mention it! Nobody mentions this shit again!"
He looked like a cornered animal, head whipping around as if enemies lurked behind every wall.
Jacob's ice-cold warning and the agony of losing his fingers had carved themselves into Henry's bones like a brand.
All he wanted now was to hide. To never, ever provoke anything connected to Jacob again.
Vivian flinched at his outburst, her lower lip trembling. "Henry, I'm just worried about you."
Henry squeezed his eyes shut, too exhausted to explain.
Seeing she'd get nowhere with direct questions, Vivian pivoted. Her voice turned coy, almost pleading. "Henry, you're still going to Mr. Pacquiao's private gala tomorrow night, aren't you? I heard everyone who's anyone will be there."
Henry didn't even open his eyes. "Not going. Not in the mood."
Panic flared in Vivian's chest.
That gala had a sky-high barrier to entry. Without Henry as her plus-one, she'd never get through the door.
She couldn't miss this chance to network, especially with the kind of high-level players who'd be in attendance.
"Henry—" She deployed every weapon in her arsenal, her voice dripping honey. "Staying cooped up in here isn't helping you heal. You need to get out, see people, remember what it feels like to be yourself again."
Henry remained unmoved.
Vivian studied his expression, then leaned in, her tone shifting to something more strategic. "Think about it, Henry. Are you really okay with how things are? That gala is the perfect place to gather intel, make connections. You might even meet someone who can help us. You can't just keep taking hits lying down, can you?"
Her words hit their target with surgical precision.
Because Henry did hate this. He hated the phantom pain in his missing fingers. Hated Jacob's iron grip on him. Hated Elizabeth's cold indifference most of all.
And he craved power. Craved revenge.
At least, he needed to protect the Aiden family from further attacks. He needed Jacob to think twice before coming at him again, to actually consider the consequences.
Not like his bastard father, who'd chewed him out after learning what Jacob had done to him.
Seeing his resolve waver, Vivian bent close to his ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Pacquiao himself might be there. If we can get in his good graces, imagine what that could mean for us."
Henry's eyes snapped open.
She was right. He couldn't miss this. With Pacquiao backing him, how would Jacob dare humiliate him again?
He had to go. He needed to go.
Blood vessels webbed across Henry's eyes as he looked at Vivian, jaw clenched. "Fine. I'll go."
Triumph surged through Vivian's veins, though her face showed only adoration and relief. "Henry, I knew you wouldn't let them break you."
Her flattery landed exactly as intended. Henry's ego—battered and bruised from repeated humiliations—swelled back to life under Vivian's careful ministrations.
He studied her face, the way it echoed Elizabeth's features just enough to stir something dark in him. His throat worked as he swallowed. "Vivian. Don't go home tonight. Stay here. I need you."
Vivian hesitated for half a second, eyeing his bandaged, blood-tinged form with barely-concealed distaste. But she recovered instantly, manufactured blush creeping across her cheeks. "Henry, I'd love that. I've missed you too."
She leaned down, fingers working his belt open with practiced efficiency. Her mouth found him, coaxing him to full hardness despite his injuries. Then she gathered her skirt and straddled him.
Henry groaned, fingers digging into her waist as she moved. Her abandon, her hunger for him—real or performed—ignited something he'd thought Jacob had extinguished.
Watching her lose herself in the rhythm, Henry felt a flicker of his old confidence return.