Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
Lachlan
"Father?" I say when he answers. My jaw tightens at the request I’m about to make, already anticipating his response.
Between my mother’s situation and my breach of fiduciary duty at work, I doubt he will readily come to my aid. This is a man who can no longer bear to share a meal with me; I should have known better than to call him for help. Dad won’t help.
I end the call at once. There is no point in explaining my situation when his decision is already made. I am no longer the golden child; he has chosen Aiden over me. To add to my embezzlement of company funds, if he hears that I’m a murder suspect, I doubt he will vouch for my integrity. If my mother is capable of murder, then it is not a stretch to believe I am capable of arranging one.
A wave of dejection and embarrassment rolls through me, twisting my stomach. I already have a history of theft; soon, I’ll have a criminal record for murder if I don’t find a way out of this mess quickly.
I try to dial another number, but the detective shakes his head. "Just one call, Mr. Mendes."
"I haven't even spoken to anyone yet," I snap.
"That’s on you," he replies. "We don't have the luxury of granting you unlimited phone privileges."
"I have a right to call whomever I want!" I hiss.
"Perhaps, if you weren't the prime suspect in a homicide investigation."
"I didn't order her death! I don't even know him!" I glare at Justin, who continues to watch me with a twinkle of amusement. "You think this is funny?"
An officer steps up to my side while I’m glaring at Justin.
"I advise you to cooperate, Mr. Mendes. It’s best if we don’t have to use force," the detective warns.
"Can you just listen to me? You're a detective, for God's sake. Use a polygraph or anything—I’m being framed!" I hiss, my eyes wide with desperation.
Detective Jordan exhales, bracing his hands on his waist, his jacket pushing back with the motion. "We have evidence..."
"That evidence isn't concrete!" I snarl.
"You aren't the one to tell me how to do my job," he bristles.
"Please. Look into this further. I walked in here of my own accord, didn't I? If I had secrets to hide, I would have fled the moment you suspected me of Annabelle Wilson’s death."
The detective considers me for a brief second. "Okay. I will investigate further. But you aren't allowed to leave tonight."
"I'm ready to comply with your investigation, but I can't stay here," I say, my nose wrinkling in disgust as I glance around. "Not in the cells."
"My apologies, but you’ll have to adapt to the circumstances." With a single nod, the officer behind me prods me to move.
I muffle curses under my breath as I’m stripped of my phone, my expensive watch, and my other luxuries. It is humiliating to be led to a cell in full view of every officer in the room. Mercifully, I’m not handcuffed, but the knowing stares, the murmurs, and the occasional glances in my direction are enough to make my head reel.
Aiden. Aiden.
His name echoes in my head, a blinding fury sweeping through me.
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Aiden
"It’s likely Lachlan isn't truly behind Annabelle Wilson’s death," Jordan tells me as Hermione slips into the car and settles in.
She tosses her belongings into the backseat and fastens her seatbelt. She offers a silent, smiling greeting since I’m on the call, then takes out her own phone.
"What makes you think so? He could be putting on an act," I reply.
"Trust me, I can tell when someone is performing. He seems genuinely troubled. He might not be involved at all. In fact, the evidence we found on Justin as he was leaving Annabelle’s apartment the night he killed her isn't entirely concrete. Our current theory is that he killed her after she threatened to expose the group, then ransacked the place for evidence. He was leaving with the photos in his possession when he ran into Noah. Or, perhaps he knew all along he’d be caught and set it up to look as though Lachlan was the mastermind. Who knows?"
I huff, my frustration mounting. "Investigate it thoroughly." As much as I desire to see Lachlan and his mother incarcerated, I refuse to let anyone be prosecuted unjustly.
Lachlan’s time is still running out. Once Ghost uncovers the necessary evidence, I will ensure he is dealt with accordingly. At the very least—a sigh of relief escapes me—Annabelle Wilson is no longer a factor. The immediate threat against Hermione and me has been neutralized.
However, if Lachlan didn't orchestrate her death and isn't associated with the assassin, who is issuing the orders? Who is financing this conspiracy? It would have to be another adversary—someone whose animosity toward me is matched only by their desire to harm Hermione.
"I will," Jordan assures me.
"Thanks, Jordan."
"Anytime, Aiden," he replies, terminating the call.
"Jordan?" Hermione inquires as I set my phone aside. She leans in to greet me properly.
"Hey, beautiful," I murmur against her lips.
She dabs a smear of lipstick from my mouth before retreating to her seat. "Hello, sexy Mr. CEO," she teases, waving at me and batting her eyelashes coyly.
I snicker. "Don't make me laugh."
"Tell me about Jordan. Has he arrested Annabelle Wilson? Was that the subject of your conversation?"
Hermione is well aware of the instructions I gave Noah to monitor Annabelle’s movements—the reason he hasn’t been available to chauffeur her since the restaurant incident. Kash had been her newly assigned driver, but tonight, I have come personally to collect my wife. I had intended to surprise her before receiving word of Annabelle's murder earlier this morning.
"Noah reported that Annabelle was assassinated this morning."
Hermione gasps, her eyes wide with shock. "By whom?"
"Her assailant was apprehended in the act by Noah and is currently being detained. Evidence found on his person suggested a collaboration with Lachlan; he appeared to be the financier. However, Jordan doubts the veracity of that evidence, given Lachlan's reaction during the interrogation. He suspects Lachlan is a scapegoat, and that someone else is pulling the strings from the shadows."
Hermione exhales a heavy breath. "That is unsettling. Where is Lachlan now?"
"At the precinct, presumably. He’ll be held as the prime suspect until further evidence surfaces to exonerate him."
"What about your father? Is he aware that his son is in custody?"
"I’m certain his informants have reached him by now."
"Has he intervened to secure his release yet?"
"Not that I’m aware of. But I doubt Father will involve himself. We’ll just have to observe how the situation evolves." I turn the ignition and pull away from the curb.
"Where is Kash?"
"I granted him the day off."
"Oh? Are we celebrating your inaugural day as CEO?" Hermione coos.
"Can’t I treat my wife spontaneously? Must there always be a formal occasion?"
"Or are you simply evading kitchen duties tonight?" she teases, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I thought you took pride in your cooking."
I struggle to suppress a grin as I focus on the road.
"In all seriousness," Hermione says, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "your responsibilities will only multiply now as the CEO. Cooking isn't a sustainable habit. I told you to consider employing a professional chef."
"I prefer our privacy. No outsiders."
"What, do you fear you'll be seduced by the cook in my absence?"
"Tell me you're joking!" I swivel toward her, feigning an affronted expression.
Hermione laughs softly. "I know. I trust you."
"Good. I may have been a playboy in the past, but even I have standards." I roll my eyes playfully. We soon arrive at the venue I secured for dinner and settle in as our orders are served. It is a secluded booth designed for privacy and an intimate atmosphere.
"I imagine this might become our routine if you become preoccupied with your new role," Hermione remarks.
"I will never be too busy to prioritize my home," I declare firmly.
"Still, I refuse to let you return from the office only to be burdened by kitchen duties. You will eventually burn out."
"We can always rotate the responsibility," I offer.
Hermione tsks, waving her slender fingers in front of my face. "These hands were not made for laboring over a stove."
"But they were made for eating, I presume?" I counter with a smirk.
"Come now. Why are you so opposed to employing a cook? Once we start a family, we couldn't possibly rely on takeout for the children."
"Are you planning on granting my father’s wishes anytime soon?" I tease, refilling my wine glass.
Hermione’s demeanor shifts instantly at my question.
I exhale, setting the bottle down. "You don't want children," I say in a low voice. "At least, not yet."
We have already deliberated on this, but I feel the need to remind her: "I told you before—you shouldn't put your life on hold because of the turbulent history between your parents."
Hermione meets my gaze, exhaling slowly.