Chapter 167

Chapter 167
Willow's POV

Richard Sinclair emerged from the back of the police car, his face contorted in pain. Blood soaked the right leg of his expensive trousers, a hastily applied bandage visible through the torn fabric. He leaned heavily on the door, his normally perfect posture compromised by injury.

When his eyes found mine, his expression transformed instantly—pain giving way to an exaggerated display of relief. His features arranged themselves into what looked like practiced concern.

"Willow!" he exclaimed, voice breaking with theatrical emotion. "Thank God you're unharmed!" The performance was so convincing I might have believed it if I hadn't known the man's history. His eyes darted over me, taking in the blood-stained clothes with a flash of something that looked almost like disappointment before settling back into concerned relief.

"I tried to stop this," he continued, wincing as he shifted weight. "When I realized what Chloe was planning, I immediately called the police." He gestured to his injured leg with a pained expression that seemed calculated for maximum sympathy.

A police officer supported Richard as he took an unsteady step forward. "She shot me," he explained. "Chloe. When I confronted her about her plans tonight and threatened to call authorities." He shook his head, mastering his pained expression into one of fatherly disappointment. "My own daughter... I never thought she would go this far."

The officer beside him nodded. "Mr. Sinclair contacted us immediately after being shot. Reported that his daughter was armed and dangerous, possibly heading to harm Ms. Clark. Unfortunately, we couldn't get here in time to prevent..."

His gaze shifted to the ambulance where paramedics were loading Beckeet. Richard's expression transformed again—this time to practiced remorse, complete with furrowed brow and mournful eyes.

"The Wilder boy," he said softly. "Is he...?" He didn't finish the question, but his face performed a perfect mimicry of someone struggling with guilt and concern.

"He's alive," Damian answered coolly. "No thanks to your daughter."

I noticed something flicker across Damian's face as he looked toward the ambulance—a complex emotion I couldn't quite read. Despite everything that had happened between them—Beckeet's public criticism of Wildfire, their obvious rivalry over me—Beckeet had just taken a bullet meant for me. I wondered how Damian was processing that.

Richard winced, though whether from pain or Damian's words was unclear. "This is all my fault," he said, voice heavy with manufactured self-recrimination. "I should have seen the signs sooner. I should have contacted authorities earlier." The words were perfectly crafted to position himself as both victim and responsible citizen.

His attention was momentarily diverted as another stretcher passed by—this one carrying Chloe's unconscious form, her wrists secured to the rails. Richard's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something cold and calculating before snapping back to fatherly anguish.

"Is she...?" he asked the nearest officer.

"Just unconscious, sir. She'll be fine."

I caught the fleeting look of relief that crossed his face before it morphed back into pained concern. "Thank heaven for that, at least," he murmured, managing to sound both relieved and devastated simultaneously.

A detective approached our small group, notepad in hand. He glanced at Damian, then at me, then at the blood covering my clothes.

"Are you injured, miss?" he asked.

I shook my head. "It's not my blood. It's Beckeet's. He was shot." My voice sounded distant, detached, as though someone else was speaking.

Richard turned to the detective, suddenly all business despite his injury. "Detective Harmon," he said, apparently already on a first-name basis with the officer who had been taking his statement, "I've already provided what information I could about Chloe's state of mind and recent behavior. I want to make it absolutely clear that I will continue to cooperate fully with your investigation." His voice carried just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "My daughter has clearly committed serious crimes, and while it breaks my heart as a father..." he paused dramatically, "...justice must be served."

The detective nodded. "I understand we have multiple victims and suspects. Given the circumstances, we'll need statements from everyone, but—" he looked at the ambulance where paramedics were finishing with Beckeet "—we can arrange for preliminary questions at the hospital while your friend receives treatment."

"Thank you," Damian said, his hand steady on my back. "Ms. Clark has been through a traumatic experience."

"Of course," the detective replied. "Officer Martinez will accompany you to the hospital and take brief statements when appropriate. We'll need more comprehensive interviews tomorrow at the station."

Richard was being helped onto a stretcher by paramedics, his face pale from blood loss but his eyes never leaving my face. "Willow," he called, voice weakened yet somehow carrying perfectly. "We need to talk... when this is over. There's so much I need to explain..." His performance of the concerned birth father was flawless.

I turned away, unable to stomach his act. My mind was focused solely on Beckeet—on his confession, on the blood that still stained my hands, on whether he would survive.

The ambulance carrying Beckeet wailed to life, pulling away from the warehouse. A second ambulance waited for Carlos, who was being examined by paramedics. She caught my eye and gave a slight nod, indicating she would be okay.

"Come on," Damian said gently. "We should go."

As we walked to his car, I glanced back one last time. Richard was being loaded into an ambulance, but even from this distance, I could see him speaking earnestly to the detective who had stayed by his side—no doubt continuing his performance as the principled father forced to turn against his own daughter.

In Damian's car, following close behind the ambulance, I finally allowed myself to tremble. The adrenaline was fading, leaving me hollow and cold.

"He took a bullet for me," I said quietly, the reality of it still sinking in.

"Yes," Damian acknowledged after a moment. "He did."

"He said he loves me." The words escaped before I could stop them.

Damian was silent for several seconds, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. "I heard," he finally said.

"I never knew. All this time, I thought..." What had I thought? That Beckeet was just a friendly regular at the bar? That his music career mattered more than anything? That he could never see me as more than a friend?

"What do you feel for him?" Damian asked, his voice carefully controlled.

I stared out the window at the passing city lights. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "He's always been there, but I never thought about him that way. And now he might die because of me."

"Not because of you," Damian corrected firmly. "Because of Chloe. Because of her obsession and jealousy."

We rode in silence for the remaining minutes until the hospital came into view—Angeles Heights Medical Institute, its modern glass facade gleaming under spotlights. The ambulance carrying Beckeet had already arrived, medical personnel rushing his stretcher through the emergency entrance.

Hold on, Beckeet.