Chapter 49: Carlos!

About An Hour Later...

Carlos moved down the polished marble hallway of his estate like a man with a ticking bomb inside his chest. His face gave nothing away— stone-cold, unreadable. The only sound that accompanied him was the sharp, unrelenting click of his Italian leather shoes on the glistening floor. Each step deliberate. Each breath heavier than the last.

As he reached the east wing— isolated, high-security— his men straightened instantly.

“Evening, sir,” they chorused in perfect synchrony, heads bowing respectfully.

Carlos didn’t acknowledge them. Not a nod. Not a glance. His eyes stayed forward, locked on the door at the end of the corridor.

The one behind which Megan was being held.

He reached it, hand clenching around the gold-plated handle. He twisted— locked.

A second attempt. Still locked.

Two sharp, calculated knocks followed.

“Who’s there?” came a firm voice from within— one of the SS agents stationed inside.

Silence.

Then, after a few seconds, came the soft click of the door unlocking.

It creaked open, revealing the agent’s stiff face. The moment he realized who stood before him, his spine straightened.

“Apologies, sir. We didn’t know it was yo—”

Carlos brushed past him without a word.

The room was large but bare— only the cushion bed, a small table, and a single barrel chair. Megan was sitting upright on the bed, her arms folded, legs crossed, dressed in a silk robe. The moment she saw him, her eyes lit up. She sprang to her feet.

“Carlos!” she gasped with a smile, rushing toward him.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp like a blade slicing through her joy.

She stopped in her tracks. Mid-step. Frozen.

His eyes bore into her.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm. “Do you know what this is costing me?”

Her smile faltered. Her hands dropped slowly to her sides. “Carlos, I— I’m sorry. I—”

“Shut your dirty mouth,” he barked, cutting her off before she could finish. His nostrils flared as he stepped toward her. “You have no idea the hellstorm you’ve unleashed.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“Don’t speak!” he roared, voice rising. “The press is everywhere. CNN, BBC, The New York Times— every outlet has a headline with your name on it. ‘Carlos Antonio’s Wife Kills Rival at Yacht Party.’ That’s what they’re running with.”

She looked down at the floor, visibly shrinking.

“I’ve paid millions— millions,” he hissed, “just to suppress the footage, silence witnesses, bury the story. But you invited the entire goddamn influencer elite, diplomats, celebrities! There were cameras everywhere. And then you, you brilliant genius—” he scoffed bitterly “—you admitted to killing her. Out loud. On video.”

“I didn’t know I was on video,” Megan muttered weakly.

Carlos’ laugh was cold, cruel. “Do you think that matters to the law? To a world that already hates power? Do you think I can bury a public murder?”

She didn’t respond.

“I can’t clean this up. Not entirely. But there’s one thing I will clean up,” he said, pointing a finger at her stomach. “You’re carrying my child. That’s the only reason you’re still here right now.”

She looked up at him, hurt flickering in her eyes. “Carlos…”

He cut her off. “I’ll delay the arrest. I’ll delay everything. I’ll buy the time we need until that baby is born. But after that?” His face hardened. “They can take you. I won’t let you bring down my family, my company, my legacy. Six generations of blood and sweat— real sacrifice. I won’t throw that away because you couldn’t control yourself.”

Carlos turned away briefly, running both hands through his hair. He let out a ragged breath.

“First, I lost Cynthia— who’s probably carrying my child too. And now this,” he said quietly.

Megan’s head snapped up.

“What did you say?” she asked, a sharp edge in her voice.

Carlos didn’t look at her.

“My sister is in Nigeria?” she asked, stepping forward again.

“Yes.”

“You’re flying out to find her?” she pressed.

“I am. She was the good sister. The one I should’ve chosen,” he replied, eyes like ice.

That hit Megan like a punch to the gut. Her entire expression shifted— from guilt to something darker. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. “So this is how you treat me? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Carlos finally turned to her again. His face was calm, disgust etched into every corner of it.

“Count yourself lucky you’re carrying my child,” he said slowly. “Because if you weren’t, I’d have already made you disappear. And I’d sleep just fine afterward.”

He then turned to leave.

Megan’s voice followed him, dripping venom. “You bastard.”

Carlos didn’t stop.

“Carlos!” she shouted.

But he was already at the door.

When he stepped back into the hallway, his men stood at attention.

He didn’t even look at them when he said, “Ready one of the private jets. We’re flying to Lagos tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” they responded in unison.

Without another word, Carlos walked on— his thoughts already far from the estate, focused solely on one thing:

Finding Cynthia.