CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
The cafe hummed with the soft murmur of morning conversations and the hiss of espresso machines. Damon sat hunched over the small table, his eyes fixed on the papers in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, his shoulders rigid with tension that seemed to radiate from his entire body.

Chris sat across from him, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the wood-grain table. He watched Damon carefully, noting the deadly intent blazing in his boss's eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly as they gripped the evidence.

Last night, Chris had sent him a text after his discovery, asking to meet first thing in the morning. He'd had something important—something explosive—to show Damon.

"Why do you sound so worked up?" Damon had asked, his tone teasing despite the late hour.

Chris's eye had twitched, his lips forming a tired grin at Damon's attempt at humor. "Can we not play games tonight? It's late. I should be sleeping, not having toddler-level banter with you, Damon Hartley."

Damon's laughter had filled his ear through the phone. "Alright, alright. What's going on, Rhodes?"

Chris had glanced back at his computer screen and sighed heavily. "Can we meet tomorrow morning, boss? It's urgent. Really urgent."

"How serious are we talking?" Damon's tone had shifted immediately to concern. "Can you come over tonight?"

"Hell no. I'm not driving at this hour." Chris had rubbed his tired eyes. "We'll talk tomorrow. Can we meet then?"

A heartbeat of silence. "Alright. Send me the location."

Now they sat in this cafe, and Damon still hadn't spoken. Chris had explained everything he'd discovered about the photographs—the digital manipulation, the fabricated evidence, all of it. But Damon had just stared at the papers in silence for the past ten minutes.

"Boss, are you okay?" Chris finally asked, his voice tired and concerned.

Damon lifted his head slowly.

Chris gasped. His boss's eyes were glassy, brimming with unshed tears that threatened to spill over at any moment.

"She was innocent, Chris." Damon's voice cracked on the words. "Hell, she was completely innocent. And I left her standing there—at that altar—in front of everyone she knew. Everyone."

His hand dragged down his face, his breathing uneven. "She kept asking me what was wrong. Kept reaching for me, asking me to talk to her. And I—" His voice broke completely. "I pushed her away. Every single time. And all the while, she was innocent. She never betrayed me. Never cheated. This is so messed up."

A frustrated sound escaped him—something between a laugh and a sob.

"I was furious yesterday too when I found out," Chris said gently, his own chest tight with sympathy. "But right now, we know the truth. We know she's innocent. We know she didn't deserve what was done to her five years ago." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But sitting here drowning in guilt won't change anything. You need to talk to her. Explain everything. Show her this evidence."

"And say what?" Damon's voice was hollow. "Sorry I destroyed your life based on fake photographs my father manufactured?"

"Yes. Exactly that." Chris leaned forward. "I'm sure she'll understand once she sees the proof. And then—then you work on earning her forgiveness. Even if she doesn't want you back romantically, maybe she can at least be in mutual agreement with you. Accept that you were manipulated too."

"It's not that simple, Chris." Damon's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I still want her. I never got over her—not really. I still desire her so much it physically aches." He pressed his fist against his chest. "Will she ever be able to forgive me for what I did? Even knowing I was lied to?"

"You'll never know until you try, boss." Chris's fingers finally stopped their anxious tapping. "Enough with this cat-and-mouse game between you two. Lay everything out. Give her the truth she deserves."

Damon exhaled slowly, his eyes closing. "I need to confront my father first. I need to know why the hell he did this. Why ruin my life—ruin her life—just to prove what, exactly?"

"You should definitely do that," Chris agreed. "And give him a punch if necessary. From me."

Despite everything, Damon's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

༺༺♡♡༻༻

Everyone crowded into Margaret's hospital room, the air thick with tension and exhaustion. Margaret sat upright on the bed, her hands twisted anxiously in her lap. Tisha stood near the window, her posture military-straight but her eyes haunted.

Two police officers—a woman whose name tag read "Emerald" and a male officer named Davis—stood near the foot of the bed. Officer Emerald pulled out a notepad and pen.

"Can you walk us through what happened, Ms. Margaret?" Her voice was professional but kind. "Take your time. Every detail matters, no matter how small."

Margaret's throat worked as she swallowed. "I—we had just left the school. James was talking about his day. He was so excited, telling me about a painting he'd made." Her voice wavered. "We hadn't walked far when I felt—something. Like I was being watched."

"Did you see anyone suspicious?" Officer Davis asked.

"No. I looked back but just saw other parents and children. Nothing unusual." Margaret's hands clenched tighter. "I kept walking, and then—then I felt a sharp pain in my neck. A needle. Someone injected me with something."

Her hand moved to touch the spot, now covered with a small bandage. "A hand covered my mouth so I couldn't scream. And then—then someone grabbed James. Pulled him away from me."

Her voice broke completely. "He was screaming for me. Screaming 'Grandma Maggie' over and over. I tried to hold on, tried to fight, but whatever they gave me—my body just stopped working. And then I heard gunshots and people screaming and everything went black."

Tears streamed down her face now. "I failed him. I couldn't protect him."

"You did everything you could," Officer Emerald said gently. "Ms. Tisha, can you tell us what you witnessed?"

Tisha's jaw tightened. "I was waiting by the car as instructed. I heard screams first, then gunshots. I ran toward the school entrance immediately." Her voice was clipped, controlled, but Alexandra could hear the self-recrimination beneath it. "By the time I reached Margaret, she was unconscious on the ground. The boy was gone. I pursued in the direction witnesses pointed, but—"

She stopped, her hands clenching into fists. "Whoever took him had a vehicle waiting. They were gone before I could reach them."

"Did you see the vehicle? Make? Model? License plate?" Officer Davis's pen was poised over his notepad.

"Dark sedan. Tinted windows. Too far to see plates clearly." Tisha's voice was flat with frustration. "I failed in my duty to protect him."

"From what you're both describing," Officer Emerald said carefully, "this wasn't a random abduction. Whoever did this knew James's routine. Knew what time school let out. Knew where you'd be parked. This level of planning suggests—"

"That someone's been watching us," Thomas finished grimly from his position near the door. "For how long?"

Adrian stood near the window, his face pale. Guilt twisted in his gut like a knife. Marcus. This had Marcus's fingerprints all over it. And Adrian had brought Marcus into Alexandra's life. Had paid him to get close to her.

This was his fault.

"We're going to do everything we can to find James," Officer Emerald continued. "But we need to explore all options. One suggestion—and I know this is difficult—is putting James's photo out to the media. Local news stations, social media. If someone's seen him, if he's been taken somewhere public, we need eyes everywhere looking for him."

"No." Alexandra's voice cut through the room like a blade. She'd been silent until now, standing in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. "Absolutely not."

"Ms. Sterling—"

"I said no!" Her voice rose, shaking with emotion. "I'm not putting my son's face all over the news like he's some—some lost pet. What if whoever has him sees it and panics? What if they hurt him because we went public?"

"Ms. Sterling, I understand your concern," Officer Davis said calmly. "But statistically, the first forty-eight hours are critical. The more people looking—"

"I don't care about your statistics!" Alexandra's voice cracked as tears began streaming down her face. "He's my baby. My son. And you're standing here telling me you have no leads? No suspects? Nothing? It's been over twenty-four hours and you have nothing?"

"We're doing everything—"

"It's not enough!" Alexandra's hands shook violently. "None of this is enough! My five-year-old son is out there somewhere, terrified, and you want me to put his face on the news so the whole world can watch me fall apart?"

"Alex," Thomas started gently.

"Don't." She held up a hand, tears blurring her vision. "Just—don't."

She turned and walked out of the room, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

"I'm sorry," Alicia said quickly to the officers. "She's—this is destroying her. I need to—"

She rushed after Alexandra without finishing her sentence.

The room fell into uncomfortable silence. Margaret was crying quietly, her hands covering her face. Adrian stared at the floor, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Thomas's expression was grave as he looked at the two officers.

"We'll put out his photo if you think it will help,"
Thomas said quietly. "But give us a day to talk to Alexandra about it first. She's not thinking clearly right now."