Chapter 144 Dirty hands

Chapter 144 Dirty hands

~ALEXANDER'S POV~

Playing dirty wasn't just a tactic I learned; it was my first language.

I checked my watch as the black SUV idled outside the unassuming warehouse on the outskirts of Queens. 

6:00 PM. 

I had promised to pick Claire up for dinner at seven. That gave me exactly one hour to break a man who had held out for weeks.

"Status on the Sterlings?" I asked Ilynos as he opened my door.

"Quiet, sir," Ilynos reported, his face grim. "Brad Sterling goes to the office, comes home. Annette goes to the gym, goes to Darla's. They look clean."

"They aren't clean," I muttered, buttoning my jacket. "They just know how to hide the dirt. Keep watching them."

I walked into the warehouse. The air changed instantly—from the exhaust of the city to the metallic tang of rust, old oil, and fear.

Ilynos led me to the back room. Inside, Owen Sinclair sat zip-tied to a heavy steel chair. 

He looked... reduced. 

His designer clothes were ruined, his face bruised and unshaven. He had been here for weeks, isolated, with only my security team for company.

He looked up when I entered. His eyes were swollen, but there was still a trace of defiance in them.

"You can't keep me here forever, Hayes," Owen croaked. "People will ask questions."

"People like who?" I pulled up a metal folding chair and sat opposite him, crossing my legs casually. "Your drug contacts? They think you stole from them and ran. The police? They have a warrant for your arrest."

"Monica will find me," he spat.

I smiled. It was a cold, practiced expression.

"Ah. Monica." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "That's actually why I'm here. I thought you should know."

"Know what?"

"She's gone, Owen. Left the country three days ago."

I watched his eyes. The hint of doubt.

"Liar," he whispered.

"Is it a lie?" I shrugged. "Her father arranged it. A private jet to a non-extradition country. But here is the interesting part... her father told the Feds that you were the mastermind behind the embezzlement. That you forced Monica to drug her husband. That you were the architect of the entire downfall of Blackwood Industries."

Owen's face went slack. "No. We were partners."

"You were a tool," I corrected brutally. "And now you are the fall guy. She is sipping Mai Tais on a beach, and you are rotting in a warehouse waiting for me to hand you over to the police, where you will serve twenty years for crimes she committed."

I stood up, checking my watch.

"Enjoy prison, Owen. I hear the showers are lovely." I turned to leave. I counted the steps in my head. One. Two. Thr.....

"Wait!"

I stopped. I didn't turn around immediately. I let him sweat.

"She... she wouldn't do that," Owen stammered. "She needed me."

"She needed a scapegoat," I said, turning back. "But I'm a generous man. If you give me something... something that destroys the Blackwood name completely... maybe I will lose the evidence linking you to the drugs. Maybe you only go down for fraud. Two years instead of twenty."

Owen breathed heavily, his chest heaving. He looked at the floor, then at me. The loyalty in his eyes died, replaced by self-preservation.

"Alistair," Owen whispered.

"What about the uncle?"

"It wasn't just embezzlement," Owen said, the words spilling out fast now. "Monica found files in Richard's safe. Old files. From five years ago."

I stepped closer. "What files?"

"There was a merger. Blackwood Industries was trying to acquire Titan Logistics. Titan refused to sell. The CEO, a man named Henderson... he was going to expose Blackwood for cooking their books."

My eyes narrowed. "I remember Henderson. He died in a boating accident."

"It wasn't an accident," Owen said, a dark smile twisting his bruised lips. "Richard didn't have the stomach for it. Richard never gets his hands dirty. But Alistair? Alistair would burn the world to save his dearest nephew."

I went still.

"Alistair had the boat rigged," Owen confessed. "Monica kept the proof as insurance. She told me about it when we were high one night. It's the reason Alistair hasn't killed her yet. She knows where the bodies are buried."

"Where is the proof?"

"It's not digital," Owen said. "It's physical. A safety deposit box in Jersey. Monica has the key."

I stared at him. This wasn't just corporate sabotage. This was murder. This was the nail in the coffin I had been looking for.

"Ilynos," I said without looking away from Owen. "Get the details. And then call the police. Anonymous tip on Mr. Sinclair's location."

"You said you'd help me!" Owen screamed.

"I lied," I said coldly. "Playing dirty runs in the family."

I scrubbed my hands in the restroom of St. Jude's Hospital until the skin was red. I needed to wash the warehouse off me. I needed to wash Owen and Alistair and the rot of the Blackwood legacy off my skin before I touched her.

I checked my reflection. The predator was gone. The fiancé remained.

I walked toward the cardiac wing. Claire was standing outside Room 304, talking to a doctor. She looked tired, her shoulders slumped, but beautiful. 

Even in the harsh hospital light, she was the only thing in the world that made sense. I watched her for a moment, just breathing her in. Then she turned.

Our eyes met.

I smiled, the first genuine smile I had felt all day.

She didn't smile back.

Her face was blank. Guarded. She turned back to the doctor, finished the conversation with a nod, and walked into her mother's room without a second glance at me.

The coldness of it hit me like a physical blow.

I followed her in. The room was quiet, her mother sleeping soundly. Claire was standing by the bed, aggressively smoothing a sheet that was already flat. 

Her back was stiff.

"Claire?" I said softly.

I walked up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, needing to feel her warmth, needing to ground myself after the darkness of the warehouse. 

I pressed my lips to the curve of her neck.

"I missed you," I murmured.

She stiffened.

She didn't lean into me. She didn't sigh. She pulled away, stepping out of my circle of arms like my touch burned her.

She walked to the window, wrapping her arms around herself, refusing to meet my eyes.

Confusion washed over me, followed quickly by a quick pang of hurt. We had been good. We were a team. What had happened in the three hours since I left?

"What is it?" I asked, stepping closer but not touching her. "Is it your mother? Did something happen?"

She stared out at the parking lot below. "No. Mom is fine."

"Then what is it? Are you hurt?" I reached for her arm, panic flaring. "Did David contact you?"

She took a step back, putting more distance between us. The rejection was loud in the quiet room.

Finally, she turned. Her brown eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of fear and accusation I hadn't seen since the early days of our fake engagement.

"Eleanor Blackwood was here," she said.

My blood ran cold.

"She came to see me," Claire whispered. "And she told me things, Alexander. She told me things about you."