POV Owen
I hate Lucille Alexander.
Should’ve known that psychotic bitch wouldn’t disappear quietly into whatever hell spawned her. Should’ve known she’d come back swinging the moment she realized I actually gave a shit about someone.
After the hospital, she called. Not a social call.
“Owen, darling,” she’d purred through the phone like poison wrapped in silk. “We need to chat.”
“We need to do fuck-all.”
“It’s about your mother.”
My blood turned to ice water. “What about my mother?”
“Such a lovely woman. Margaret, isn’t it? Room 314 at St. Mary’s. I do hope her treatment continues going well.”
The threat was crystal fucking clear. Lucille works at that hospital. Has access to everything—medications, IV lines, life support systems. Could make my mother’s death look like natural progression of her illness.
“What do you want?”
“Stop fucking Michael Morris’s daughter.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t care what it is. End it. Now. Or Margaret Tate has a very unfortunate relapse.”
The woman had me by the throat, and we both knew it. My mother’s the only family I have left, the only person I give a shit about besides—
Well. Besides the girl I was about to destroy.
“You’ve got one week to convince her you’re not worth her time,” Lucille continued. “Make it believable, or make funeral arrangements.”
That’s when I realized what I had to do. Lucille’s smart, professional, paranoid as hell. She’d be watching, listening, making sure I followed through. Only way to sell it was to make it real.
Had to break Noelle’s heart so completely she’d never look back.
So yesterday, I made that call. Timed it perfectly—knew she’d be coming downstairs around that time, knew she’d hear every word if I spoke loud enough. Positioned myself in the library where the acoustics would carry my voice down the hall.
“I don’t love her. She’s nothing to me.”
Each word felt like swallowing glass.
“Noelle Morris is just a spoiled brat who thinks money can buy her whatever she wants.”
The lies tasted like battery acid, but I forced them out anyway.
“She’s completely delusional if she thinks this means anything real.”
I heard her footsteps stop in the hallway. Heard the sharp intake of breath that meant the knife had found its mark.
“She’s daddy’s little princess playing at being rebellious.”
Had to make it convincing. Had to make her hate me enough to run. Only way to keep her safe from Lucille’s reach.
“It’s pathetic, really.”
The sound of her running upstairs nearly broke my resolve. But I finished the call, played my part, bought myself time to figure out how to eliminate Lucille permanently.
Now I’m standing in Michael Morris’s office, staring down the barrel of a father’s rage while the girl I love thinks I’m human garbage.
Perfect fucking plan.
“How could you sleep with my daughter?” Michael’s voice is deadly quiet, the kind of calm that precedes absolute violence.
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” His laugh could freeze hell. “You were hired to protect her, not fuck her.”
“Dad, please—” Noelle starts, but Michael cuts her off.
“Stay out of this.” His eyes never leave mine. “This piece of shit took advantage of you.”
“He didn’t take advantage of anything,” Noelle says, and there’s fire in her voice that makes my chest tight.
“You’re twenty-two years old!”
“And you’re never here!” She explodes, and suddenly we’re in the middle of a family drama that’s been brewing for years. “You want to know why I slept with him? Because he was the first person who made me feel like I mattered!”
I watch Michael’s face crumble as Noelle unloads two decades of abandonment issues all at once. Part of me wants to step in, defend him, explain that everything he’s done has been to keep her safe.
But that would require explaining why I know so much about Michael’s world, and we’re not ready for that conversation.
“You hire someone to protect me, but you can’t be bothered to actually be my father,” Noelle continues. “So yeah, I fucked the help. Congratulations, your parenting strategy worked perfectly.”
Michael looks like he’s been shot. “Noelle—”
“You were trying to keep yourself from dealing with anything real.”
The silence stretches like a live wire. Michael’s processing, calculating, probably deciding how to dispose of my body.
That’s when I make my move.
“No need to fire me,” I say, stepping through the doorway. “I quit.”
Michael’s head snaps toward me, and the look in his eyes promises slow, painful death.
“You son of a bitch.” He’s moving toward me, and I can see his hand sliding toward the gun I know he keeps in his desk drawer. “You think you can just walk away after—”
“Dad, don’t—” Noelle moves between us, but Michael’s beyond reason now.
“Get the fuck off my property,” he snarls, “before I put a bullet in your head.”