Chapter 92 Broadcast
Violet
I did not mean to fall asleep in his bed again.
I remember waking up in my own room sometime after midnight, heart pounding, sheets twisted around my legs, that lingering nightmare still clinging to me like damp air. I don’t even remember making the decision. I just remember standing outside Rowan’s bedroom door at one in the morning, hesitating for half a breath before knocking softly.
He opened it almost immediately.
Like he’d been awake.
Like he’d been waiting.
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk.
He just stepped aside.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
I crawled into his bed without argument. He slid in beside me, one arm anchoring around my waist, and I was asleep before I could overthink it.
Like I belonged there.
Like my body recognized something my pride hadn’t caught up to yet.
The next morning feels deceptively normal.
Sunlight spills across the kitchen island. The house is quiet in that early way before the chaos of the day kicks in. I’m perched on one of the stools, hair still slightly damp from the shower, eating toast and sipping coffee while scrolling through Rowan’s calendar on my phone.
Two meetings before noon. One with legal. One with the development team. A call with a financial advisor at one. Ricki Merci’s follow-up briefing at four.
My brain settles into routine.
Organize.
Plan.
Control what I can.
The kitchen smells like espresso and toasted bread. It almost feels peaceful.
Almost.
I’m mid-bite when Camille barrels into the room.
She is wearing a bra.
And a pencil skirt.
Half her makeup is done. One eye lined perfectly, the other bare.
Her hair is clipped up in a way that suggests she got distracted halfway through getting ready.
“Where’s the remote?” she demands, breathless.
I blink at her. “Good morning to you too.”
“The remote, Vi.”
“It was on the counter last night.”
She snatches it, nearly knocking over a glass, and flicks the television on.
I frown. “Camille, what—”
The news channel fills the screen.
Breaking banner in bold red across the bottom.
ROWAN ASHCROFT HOUSING KEY WITNESS IN INTERNAL AFFAIRS INVESTIGATION
The room goes silent except for the low murmur of the reporter’s voice.
And then—
The video plays.
Grainy.
Shaky.
But clear enough.
Rowan carrying me into the house.
My face buried in his chest.
His hand firm at my back.
The day of the funeral arrangements.
The day I broke.
The day I felt safe.
My stomach drops so hard I almost feel it physically hit something.
“No,” I whisper.
The reporter continues smoothly, professionally, but there’s an edge beneath it.
“Sources have confirmed that Mr. Ashcroft has been housing Ms. Violet Pierce, a key witness in the ongoing Internal Affairs investigation surrounding suspended Detective Daniel Calder.”
They replay the clip.
Slow motion this time.
“Questions are now being raised regarding the nature of their relationship and whether Mr. Ashcroft’s involvement may compromise the integrity of the investigation.”
A still frame freezes.
Rowan’s face.
Intense.
Focused.
“City officials declined to comment, but Councilwoman Hargrove issued a statement late last night emphasizing the importance of transparency when powerful private citizens become entangled in active investigations.”
Camille’s hand tightens around the remote.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
The reporter continues.
“While there is currently no evidence of wrongdoing by Mr. Ashcroft, critics argue that housing a material witness could create the appearance of undue influence.”
Undue influence.
Like I’m some weak, manipulated girl being tucked away by a billionaire.
My throat tightens.
They don’t show the context.
They don’t show the panic attack.
The sobbing.
The way my body gave out in the car.
The way he carried me because my legs weren’t steady.
They show possession.
Not protection.
“I—” My voice shakes. I swallow hard. “How did they get that?”
The clip plays again.
A different angle flashes briefly.
A slight tilt.
A flicker of red in the corner.
Body cam footage.
It clicks.
Security.
Someone on security.
The day he carried me inside.
My chest feels tight.
I stand abruptly, toast forgotten.
Rowan steps into the kitchen at that exact moment.
Barefoot.
Shirt half buttoned.
Expression unreadable.
He stops when he sees the screen.
He doesn’t move closer.
He doesn’t react visibly.
He just stares.
The video loops again.
The reporter’s voice fills the space between us.
“Public opinion remains divided. Some see Ashcroft as protecting a vulnerable employee. Others question whether the billionaire developer may be attempting to control the narrative of the investigation.”
Control.
The word hits like a slap.
Rowan’s jaw tightens slightly.
Not outrage.
Offense.
Like the entire broadcast just insulted him personally.
And maybe it did.
“How?” I whisper again, more to myself than anyone else.
“When did anyone film that?”
Camille turns slowly toward Rowan. “Tell me that’s not from inside your security team.”
Rowan’s voice is calm.
Too calm.
“It is.”
My heart pounds in my ears.
Theo rushes into the room seconds later, still buttoning his shirt.
“Okay, what the hell—”
He stops dead when he sees the television.
The video replays.
Theo exhales sharply. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Silence stretches heavy and thick.
The reporter continues, tone clinical.
“Internal Affairs representatives have not indicated whether this development will impact the ongoing investigation into Detective Calder’s conduct. However, legal experts suggest that such close proximity between employer and witness could complicate testimony.”
Complicate testimony.
My stomach twists.
I wrap my arms around myself without thinking.
I don’t feel safe.
Not like I did yesterday.
Yesterday, this house felt like a fortress.
Now it feels exposed.
Violated.
Like someone was watching from the dark and I never knew.
Rowan finally moves.
He steps closer to the television, eyes scanning the frame like he’s dissecting it.
“They cropped it,” he says quietly.
Theo looks at him. “Cropped what?”
“The entry angle,” Rowan replies. “That’s not standard perimeter footage. That’s shoulder height.”
Body cam.
Theo runs a hand through his hair. “You think one of your guys sold it?”
“Yes.”
Camille’s voice cracks slightly. “Sold it to who?”
Rowan doesn’t answer immediately.
He doesn’t need to.
We all know.
Hargrove.
Or someone aligned with her.
I swallow hard.
“They’re going to think you’re manipulating me,” I say quietly.
Rowan turns toward me then.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“I don’t care what they think,” he says evenly.
“I do,” I snap back, more emotion in my voice than I intended. “They’re going to say I’m not credible. They’re going to say I’m compromised.”
Theo nods grimly. “They will.”
My pulse spikes.
“They’re going to freeze my accounts,” I whisper. “They’re going to drag me back in. They’re going to twist everything. Now, it doesn't matter what I say. They are going to say you coerced me. That you prepped me to go against Calder."