Chapter 117
Rhett's POV
"It's nothing," she replied, her voice slightly hoarse. "Just watched a sad movie. I'm about to go to sleep. Don't you have your meeting soon?"
"Don't bullshit me," I said, softer now. "What's really going on?"
"Really, I'm fine." The strain in her voice told me everything her words didn't.
I sighed, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Having trouble sleeping without me? Sheryl, you don't have to pretend with me. I'll be home tomorrow morning."
"I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow night?"
"Change of plans," I said, my voice dropping to that tone I reserved only for her. "I miss you. Want to hold you. Kiss you." What I didn't say: I want to be there when you're hurting, want to let you fall apart in my arms where it's safe.
The line went quiet for a long moment. All I could hear was the background noise from whatever she was pretending to watch.
"Rhett..." Her voice finally broke through, thick with emotion. "I miss you too."
"I know, baby," I said softly, feeling something tighten in my chest. "Just try to get some sleep. By the time you wake up, I'll be home."
She made a small sound of agreement before ending the call.
---
The meeting had barely concluded when I returned directly to Boston.
The private jet touched down smoothly on the tarmac. Through the window, I could see a line of dark SUVs waiting, each one housing men who answered only to me. As the cabin door opened, I adjusted my suit and descended the steps with practiced indifference.
My security detail—twelve men in matching black suits—formed a perimeter as I walked toward the lead vehicle. Jack opened the door for me, his face impassive as always.
"Mr. Hayes, Joel's on the line," Jack said, handing me his phone once I'd settled into the leather backseat.
I accepted it with a slight nod. "What?"
Joel's voice came through immediately, his usual cocky tone unmistakable. "The prodigal son returns to Boston?"
"Cut the crap," I replied, watching the city skyline grow larger through the tinted windows. "What did you find?"
"You were right. Your uncle Darren isn't in Chicago like he claimed. He's in Guatemala, of all places." Joel's voice dropped to a more serious tone. "He's registered a shell company there, and—this is where it gets interesting—his account just received a very substantial wire transfer."
I narrowed my eyes. "How substantial?"
"Thirty million. From a Guatemalan bank account."
"Greedy bastard," I muttered, a humorless smile crossing my face. "His appetite grows with every passing year."
I ended the call and gazed out at Boston's Financial District coming into view. Fifteen minutes until I'd be home. Fifteen minutes until I'd see Sheryl again. The thought alone made something in my chest tighten in a way I refused to examine too closely.
My phone buzzed with a message notification. I typed a quick text to Sheryl—I'd be home soon. I knew she'd still be sleeping; she always slept late when she was in a bad mood.
Just as I hit send, Jack's phone rang again. He glanced at the caller ID, his expression darkening.
"It's the border team," he said quietly.
"Put it on speaker."
A young man's voice filled the car. "Mr. Hayes, we've got information on those mercenaries operating in Central America. They're from a South African private military company that recruits former special forces from South Africa, North America, and Europe."
"Get to the point," I snapped.
The man's voice quickened. "Yes, sir. For the past three years, they've been accepting contracts from a single client when operating in the U.S.—Thomas Smith, chairman of Hope Heaven Charity."
Before I could respond, a deafening crash rocked the car. The SUV lurched violently to the side as a black sedan slammed into us at full speed.
"What the—" Jack started, but was cut off when our driver lost control.
The SUV spun wildly, tires screeching against the pavement. Through the windshield, I caught a glimpse of another vehicle speeding directly toward us.
The impact was explosive. Metal tore through metal. Glass shattered. The world tumbled around me in a chaos of sound and fury.
Then came the flames.
Sheryl's POV
The next morning, I woke to the sound of someone gasping. Peeling my eyes open, I found Martha staring at me with a hand pressed to her chest.
"Mrs. Hayes! Why on earth are you sleeping down here?"
I pushed myself up from the couch, still clutching a throw pillow. My neck ached from the awkward position, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. I'd barely slept all night, only drifting off as dawn broke through the windows.
"I was watching TV and dozed off," I lied, smoothing down my wrinkled clothes. I hadn't even changed into pajamas.
Martha frowned, clearly not buying it, but she was too professional to press further. I glanced at the clock: 9:05 AM. Rhett would be home soon.
I reached for my phone on the coffee table and saw his text from fifteen minutes ago: [Just landed. Heading home. Stay put—don't go anywhere. See you soon.'
"Martha, could you prepare something to eat? Rhett will be home shortly," I said, standing up and stretching my stiff limbs.
"Of course, Mrs. Hayes. Would you like coffee while you wait?"
"Please," I nodded, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV before heading upstairs to freshen up.
My finger had just pressed the power button when the breaking news banner caught my eye. The volume was low, but the images were unmistakable: a three-car pileup on the airport expressway. Emergency vehicles surrounded the scene, their lights flashing against the morning sky.
I turned up the volume just as the camera zoomed in on a black Lincoln Town Car engulfed in flames. My heart stopped when I saw the license plate visible through the smoke—a distinctive sequence of ones that was unique in Boston. Rhett's car.
The remote slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't process what I was seeing.