CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
"Of course," Officer Emerald said, her voice sympathetic. "We'll be in touch if we find anything. And we'll have patrols monitoring the area around the school, the house, anywhere James frequented."

"Thank you," Thomas said, though the words felt hollow.

The officers left, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The moment they were gone, Margaret's quiet crying turned into full sobs. "Will she ever forgive me?" Her voice was muffled behind her hands. "Will Alexandra ever be able to look at me again without seeing—"

"Stop," Thomas said firmly but gently. "None of this is your fault, Margaret. You hear me? None of it."

But Margaret just shook her head, unable to accept his words.

Adrian couldn't take it anymore. The guilt was suffocating him. He turned and walked toward the door.

"Adrian," Thomas called after him.

"I need air," Adrian managed to say before disappearing into the hallway.

Tisha looked at Thomas, who nodded toward the door. "Go find Alexandra and Alicia. Make sure they're safe."

"Yes, sir." Tisha left immediately, grateful for something concrete to do.

Thomas sank into a chair, suddenly feeling every one of his years. Margaret continued to cry, and he had no words of comfort to offer.

Because the truth was, he didn't know if they'd find James in time. Didn't know if whoever had him planned to return him at all.

And that terrified him more than he could say.

༺༺♡♡༻༻

Damon stood outside his father's study, his hand raised to knock. He'd been standing here for two minutes, trying to control the rage boiling in his blood.

The evidence was in his other hand—printed copies of Chris's analysis, clear proof of the digital manipulation.

He didn't knock. He turned the handle and shoved the door open.

Richard looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face before he schooled it into irritation. "I don't recall inviting you in, Damon."

"We need to talk." Damon's voice was deadly calm as he closed the door behind him. "Now."

"I'm busy—"

"I don't give a damn if you're busy." Damon crossed the room and slammed the papers down on Richard's desk. "Explain these."

Richard glanced down at the papers, and Damon saw it—just a flicker, but there. Recognition. Guilt. Fear.

"I don't know what—"

"Don't you dare lie to me," Damon interrupted, his voice rising. "Not anymore. I know, Dad. I know you faked those photographs. I know you manufactured evidence to make me think Sasha cheated on me."

Richard's face hardened. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" Damon grabbed the top sheet and held it up. "Because my IT specialist ran a full analysis. Photoshop. Digital manipulation. The shadows don't even match, Dad. You didn't even do a good job of it."

"Even if that were true—"

"It is true!" Damon's control finally snapped. "You destroyed my life! You destroyed her life! You made me leave the woman I loved standing at an altar in front of everyone, thinking she'd betrayed me, when it was all a lie!"

"I did what was necessary," Richard said coldly, standing from his desk. "That woman was beneath you. Beneath this family. I wasn't going to let you throw away everything we'd built for some—"

The hit came so fast Richard barely saw it coming.

Damon's fist connected with his father's nose with a sharp punch that echoed through the study.

Richard stumbled back, his hand flying to his now bleeding nose. Shock and fury warred on his face.

"How dare you—"

But before he could finish, Richard's own hand shot out, returning the slap with even more force.

Damon's head snapped to the side. His cheek exploded with pain, his eyes stinging. But he didn't back down. He turned back to face his father, and for the first time in his life, he saw Richard Hartley for what he truly was.

A monster.

"You're pathetic," Damon said quietly, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "You're so desperate to control everything and everyone that you'll destroy your own son's happiness. Well, congratulations, Dad. You won."

He stepped closer, getting right in Richard's face. "But here's what's going to happen now. I'm going after Alexandra. I'm going to tell her everything—every lie you told, every manipulation, every sick thing you did to keep us apart."

"You do that and—"

"And what?" Damon challenged. "You'll disown me? Cut me off? Go ahead. I don't need your money. I don't need your company. And I sure as hell don't need a father like you."

Richard's face went purple with rage. "You ungrateful—"

"I'm done," Damon interrupted, his voice eerily calm now. "You're not my father anymore. As far as I'm concerned, Richard Hartley is dead to me."

He turned and headed for the door.

"If you go to her," Richard called after him, his voice venomous, "I'll ruin her. I'll destroy everything she's built. I'll—"

Damon spun back around, and the look in his eyes made Richard actually take a step back.

"Try it," Damon said softly, dangerously. "I dare you to try any of your tricks again. Because now I know what you're capable of. And I won't hesitate to expose every dirty secret you've ever buried. Every illegal deal. Every person you've destroyed. All of it. Just pray I don't get my hands on them."

He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "Stay away from Alexandra. Stay away from me. Or I swear to God, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of man you really are."

He walked out, slamming the door so hard it rattled in its frame.

Richard stood alone in his study, his hand still pressed to his bleeding nose, fury and something that looked almost like fear warring in his expression.

༺༺♡♡༻༻

Marcus paced restlessly across the basement room, his eyes constantly darting to the small bed in the corner where James lay motionless.

The boy had been unconscious since they'd brought him here yesterday. Just sleeping. Not waking. Barely moving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Marcus's jaw clenched with growing irritation and—though he hated to admit it—worry.

What if they'd given him too much of the sedative? What if something was wrong?

He whirled toward the two men standing near the door—the idiots he'd hired to grab the kid.

"How much sedative did you give him?" Marcus demanded, his voice sharp.

"Just what you said," one of them replied nervously. "Enough to keep him quiet during transport."

"That was yesterday!" Marcus's voice rose. "He should have woken up by now!"

"Maybe the kid's just a deep sleeper—"

"Or maybe you overdosed him!" Marcus ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. If something happened to James, if the boy died or suffered brain damage or—

This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't planned to hurt James. The kid was just a leverage. A way to force Alexandra to finally see him, to remember what they'd had, to give them another chance.

But if James didn't wake up...

"Get out," Marcus said tightly. "Both of you. Now."

"But—"

"Out!"

The men scrambled for the door, clearly relieved to escape his wrath.

Marcus was alone with the sleeping child. He moved closer to the bed, looking down at James's small face. The boy's cheeks were still swollen from crying before the sedative had knocked him out. His dark lashes rested against his pale skin.

He looked so much like Alexandra. Same delicate features. Same—

James's eyes fluttered.

Marcus went completely still.

The boy's eyelids moved again, struggling to open. His face scrunched up slightly, like he was trying to fight his way back to consciousness.

"Come on, kid," Marcus murmured. "Wake up. Please just wake up."

Finally—finally—James's eyes opened. They were swollen, red-rimmed from crying, glazed with confusion and lingering drowsiness. His gaze wandered around the unfamiliar room, taking in the concrete walls, the single window with bars, the sparse furniture.

Marcus had tried to make it comfortable. There was a nice bed with soft blankets. Some toys in the corner. He hadn't planned to hurt James. Just needed to keep him here until Alexandra—

James's eyes settled on Marcus. The boy stared at him for a long moment, his expression blank with confusion.

Then recognition dawned.

James's eyes went wide. He scrambled backward on the bed until his back hit the wall, his small body trembling. His clothes had been changed—Marcus had done that while he was unconscious, putting him in clean pajamas—but James seemed to notice that too, which only increased his fear.

"Stay away from me," James said, his voice small and terrified.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Marcus said quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, James. I promise."

"You—" James's voice shook. "You're the man. The one who talked to me. Near my house."

"That's right." Marcus forced a smile, trying to appear non-threatening. "You remember me. That's good. I told you I was your mom's friend, remember?"

James's lower lip trembled. "Where's my mama? Where's Grandma Maggie? I want to go home."

"You will," Marcus said, moving slightly closer. James flinched, pressing harder against the wall. Marcus stopped, keeping his distance. "You'll go home soon, boy. I just—I need your mom to come talk to me first. That's all. Then you can go home."

"I want my mama now," James said, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please. I want my mama."

Marcus's chest tightened with unexpected guilt.

Fuck! He cursed. Not understanding why he was feeling bad.

"I know you do. And she wants you too. She's probably very worried about you right now."

"Then let me go!" James's voice rose, cracking with desperation. "Please! I'll be good! I promise I'll be good! Just let me go home!"

"Soon," Marcus repeated, but even to his own ears, the word sounded hollow. "I promise, James. Soon."

But as he looked at the terrified five-year-old sobbing on the bed, Marcus couldn't help but wonder—what the hell had he done?