Chapter 125
Isabella's POV
The aroma of coffee gently permeated the living room, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the carpet, casting warm patches of light. I curled up in the corner of the sofa, cradling the latte Gabriel had handed me, my gaze falling on his slender fingers rhythmically tapping the laptop keyboard. Data and map markers flickered on the screen, but my attention lingered more on the slight furrow between his brows.
Afternoons like this should have been peaceful. Outside the window, Dominic played frisbee with the guards in the garden, his laughter crisp and clear. The newly installed bookshelves in the study still gave off a faint woody scent. My rebuilt small book restoration workshop was right next door, where yesterday I'd received a batch of nineteenth-century poetry collections awaiting repair. Everything seemed to be moving toward "normal life."
But I understood this was only the calm before the storm.
"Marcus has been making big moves lately," Gabriel suddenly spoke, his voice low. He closed the laptop and turned to look at me. "Several illegitimate sons in his family have died in succession—'accidents.'"
My fingers paused against the cup. "Accidents?"
"Car crashes, drownings, drug overdoses," Gabriel listed briefly, a trace of irony flashing in his green eyes. "Each handled very cleanly, police closing cases with unusual speed. His father has also been hospitalized twice recently for heart problems."
I set down my coffee cup and said softly, "He's cleaning house."
Gabriel nodded, reaching out to pull me to sit beside him. "To completely control the family's power. He's also absorbed Olivia's military supply channels—the Montague family is just an empty shell now."
"So he has complete control of the Donovan family now?" I asked, my fingers unconsciously stroking the velvet on the armrest.
"Almost," Gabriel's voice dropped lower. "Which means the final showdown is coming. He won't hide behind the scenes like before. This time he'll definitely strike personally."
My heartbeat amplified in my ears, not fear, but a strange calm—like the brief deathly stillness of the ocean before a storm arrives.
I leaned sideways into Gabriel's embrace, feeling his body heat through his black shirt and his steady heartbeat. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of coffee, cedar, and faint gunpowder that clung to him.
"As long as I'm with you, I'm not afraid of anything," I said softly.
This wasn't flattery or deliberate sweet talk, but the most genuine emotional expression I'd learned after experiencing Marcus's betrayal, imprisonment, and escape. I used to think I only needed books and a quiet life, but now I understood that some people's very existence is the most solid shelter.
Gabriel didn't speak, only tightened his arms around me, his chin resting lightly on top of my head. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Outside the window, Dominic's laughter remained crisp, the sunlight still warm. But I knew that beneath this peaceful light and shadow, dark currents had quietly begun to surge.
Two hours later, Gabriel's phone received an urgent message from Quincy, and the tranquility shattered completely. We hurried down to the manor's underground levels, where the air grew thick with a metallic smell.
The interrogation room reeked of rust, sweat, and decay, each breath like swallowing blades. I stood three steps behind Gabriel, trying to keep my breathing steady, but the churning in my stomach nearly forced its way up my throat.
The scene before me was more brutal than any "interrogation" I'd imagined.
The man bound to the iron chair had once been one of Gabriel's mid-level operatives responsible for East District warehouse logistics—now his original appearance was unrecognizable.
His face was swollen like fermenting dough, his left eye completely sunken into its socket, the fingernails of his right hand torn out one by one, fresh blood dripping down his wrist to pool in the indentations of the floor into small dark red puddles. Each drop of blood exploded into tiny crimson flowers as it hit the ground, like some twisted art performance.
"Say it again," Quincy stood before the man, his voice terrifyingly calm. "What orders did Marcus give you?"
The man's lips trembled, squeezing out muffled groans from his throat. I couldn't make out the specific words, only saw the bloody foam surging between his teeth.
Quincy raised his hand, and the enforcer behind him immediately lifted a barbed whip.
I instinctively turned my head, but the sound still drilled into my ears—the dull thud of tearing flesh, the man's screams, the sharp whistle of the whip cutting through air.
My stomach contracted violently.
I covered my mouth, acid surging up my throat. I desperately swallowed it down, but the next second an even stronger wave of nausea came.
"Stop," Gabriel's voice suddenly rang out, carrying an unquestionable command.
The whip froze in mid-air, the interrogation room falling into eerie silence, leaving only the man's ragged breathing and the sound of dripping blood.
Gabriel turned, crossing to me in a few strides, his expression shifting from cold and sharp to concerned in an instant as he reached out to steady my shoulders. "What's wrong?"
I wanted to answer, but another wave of nausea surged up my throat. I bent over dry heaving, but nothing came up—I'd only had coffee this morning, my stomach empty except for churning acid.
Gabriel immediately signaled for a subordinate to bring water, twisted off the cap, and supported the back of my head to help me rinse. The water brought brief coolness as it flowed down my throat. I spat out the first mouthful, then drank a few small sips to settle the churning in my stomach.
"Go to the hospital for a checkup. Right now," Gabriel said, tension in his tone.
I looked up, about to say "it might just be the smell," but the words caught in my throat.
My brain felt like someone had pressed pause.
This month's period... hadn't come yet?
I rapidly calculated dates in my mind. The last one was three weeks ago? Or four? I hadn't paid attention to this detail at all recently.
And these past few days, I'd been inexplicably drowsy. Even after sleeping eight hours, I still wanted to nap at noon. Yesterday while organizing bookshelves, I'd even fallen asleep leaning against them, waking to find Gabriel carrying me to the bedroom.
Now the nausea.
I froze in place, my gaze involuntarily falling to my lower abdomen. It was still flat, nothing visible beneath my clothes, but I suddenly had an overwhelming intuition—
"I might be pregnant."
The moment the words left my mouth, even I was stunned.
Gabriel's fingers paused on my shoulder, his entire body freezing like someone had pressed pause, staring at me intently.
Everyone else in the interrogation room also stopped moving. Quincy turned his head, nearly dropping the tablet in his hands. Even the man bound to the chair stopped groaning, staring at us with confusion through his one working eye.
Time seemed to stand still.