POV Owen
Rhea slides a folder across the kitchen counter like she’s handling a live explosive.
“Before you open it,” she says quietly, “you should know what you’re about to see changes everything.”
I flip the cover anyway. Inside are screenshots, wire receipts, encrypted ledgers—all traced through burner accounts and fake charities until they land on one name.
Adrian Cole—Michael Morris’s shadow. His “advisor.” The man who’s been lurking behind every political and financial move in this family since before I married into it.
I glance up. “You’re sure?”
Rhea nods. “Payments routed through Kite’s shell company. Adrian funneled money straight into the same account that hosted the deepfake of Gregory West. Three transfers, each labeled ‘consulting fees.’”
“Consulting on what?”
She looks at me grimly. “Your destruction.”
I exhale slowly, fingers tightening on the folder. “Michael doesn’t know. He wouldn’t risk his daughter’s life for this.”
“You think that,” she says, “because you still believe Michael cares more about his daughter than his name.”
The words hit harder than a bullet. I stand, chair scraping against the marble. “Where is he?”
“Adrian’s at the Morris estate. Charity dinner prep. Probably thinks he’s untouchable.”
“He’s not,” I say.
Rhea grabs my arm. “You’re still under house arrest.”
“Then I’ll make it look like a family visit.”
She sighs, muttering, “Every time you say that, somebody ends up bleeding.”
“Then pray it’s not me.”
The Morris estate hasn’t changed—a palace dressed as a house, with glass walls that pretend to be transparent while hiding everything that matters.
The guard at the gate nods me through after one look at my last name. It’s ironic, really. The only reason I’m still allowed past this driveway is the same reason they’d burn me alive if they could.
Adrian Cole is standing on the terrace, silver hair slicked back, swirling whiskey in a glass. His smile when he sees me could cut stone.
“Owen,” he says, like we’re old friends. “Shouldn’t you be on a leash?”
I walk right up to him, ignoring the smirk. “Cut the sarcasm. You know why I’m here.”
He lifts a brow. “I assume it’s not to discuss floral arrangements.”
I toss the folder onto the table. Papers scatter, the wind catching the edges. “You’ve been paying Kite.”
Adrian doesn’t even flinch. “Big accusation for a man with a felony record.”
“I have proof.”
He takes a sip of his drink, unfazed. “Then congratulations. You’ve learned to read a ledger. Shame you’ll never be able to prove where the order came from.”
I step closer. “You mean Michael.”
He laughs softly. “You always were quick.”
The sound of his amusement makes my blood boil. “If he wanted me dead, he could’ve sent a bullet. Why ruin Noelle’s name?”
“Because bullets end lives,” he says calmly. “Scandals end legacies.”
I grab his wrist before I can stop myself. “You’re lying.”
His smile widens. “Am I?”
The air between us tightens, heavy and sharp. For a second, I want to throw him over the railing and watch the truth splatter across the roses below. But he doesn’t flinch—he’s used to men like me. He knows how far we’ll go before we remember the price of survival.
“Michael wanted to protect her,” I say. “He always said—”
Adrian cuts me off. “Michael wants to protect his name. Everything else is collateral.”
I release his wrist, stepping back, trying to keep my rage from exploding. “You’re playing me.”
He tilts his head. “I’m simply telling you that your father-in-law finally realized his daughter married a weapon. And weapons, Mr. Tate, have expiration dates.”
I stare at him, the weight of it settling like lead in my chest. “You tell Michael if he wants me gone, he looks me in the eye when he says it.”
Adrian chuckles. “He doesn’t need to. You’ll destroy yourself trying to prove he’s guilty.”
I turn away before I do something irreversible. But as I walk toward the garden exit, his voice follows.
“You’re fighting the wrong war, Owen!” he calls after me. “Michael fights for legacy. You fight for love. Guess which one history remembers?”
I stop, hands shaking. The sun is setting over the estate, painting everything gold—the same color Noelle wore when she said yes to me, before the world started tearing holes through our vows.
For a moment, I see it all too clearly: Michael sitting behind his desk, pen in hand, calculating which part of his bloodline is worth saving; Noelle standing on a podium, defending my name while the crowd sharpens their knives. Legacy. Love. Different wars but the same battlefield.
By the time I reach the car, Rhea’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “You’re late. Did you get what you needed?”
“More than that.” I stare back at the house in the distance. “I got a confession.”
“From Adrian?”
“Not in words. In smugness.”
“Smugness isn’t admissible in court.”
“It’s admissible in war,” I mutter.
Rhea sighs. “You planning to tell Noelle?”
The question hits me like a blow. I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror—dark eyes, jaw tight, the same face I swore would never scare her.
“She’s already fighting her own battles,” I say quietly. “Courts, social workers, public opinion. She doesn’t need another ghost.”
“She’ll find out anyway,” Rhea warns. “Secrets rot faster than wounds.”
I start the engine, tires crunching gravel.
“She loves you,” Rhea says after a pause. “Don’t let that make you reckless.”
“It’s the only thing keeping me from burning this place to the ground.”