Richard
Natalie was in trouble.
When Carson's call came through, I was chairing a top-level meeting about the Group's five-year Asia-Pacific strategy. Several core executives were waiting for my final decision.
"Sir, Mrs. Winston was attacked on her way to the recording studio! Her arm is injured, she's severely traumatized, she's unconscious—they're rushing her to Ethelred Hospital!"
Carson's words detonated in my brain like a bomb.
I shot to my feet. The chair legs scraped across the floor with an ear-splitting screech. The conference room went dead silent. Everyone stared at my face—drained of blood, dark as hell itself.
"Meeting adjourned." My voice didn't sound like my own. There was a tremor I'd never heard before. I grabbed my suit jacket and bolted from the conference room, leaving a roomful of stunned executives in my wake.
"Get the car to Ethelred Hospital!" I barked at David, my stride never breaking toward the private elevator. My fingers twitched uncontrollably. I clenched my fist hard, nails digging into my palm, trying to use pain to crush the panic threateningto devour my sanity. Images I couldn't control flooded my mind—Natalie's pale face, blood-soaked dress, ice-cold fingers... No! Damn it! Don't think!
The drive to the hospital—every second stretched into eternity. I kept calling Carson, demanding updates. Natalie had regained consciousness. Initial exam showed she and the baby weren't in immediate danger. Her arm was superficial. But severe shock had triggered frequent contractions—signs of preterm labor. She needed immediate hospitalization for fetal preservation. The attacker had been subdued and taken to the station.
"That bastard," I ground out through clenched teeth, then told David, "Before I get to the hospital, I want to know who sent him. If he won't talk, use everything we've got."
The VIP floor at Ethelred Hospital had been completely locked down. When I burst into the room, Natalie was half-sitting against the headboard, pale as paper, her lips bloodless. Her left forearm was wrapped in bandages. Her right hand unconsciously covered her swollen belly. Her body still trembled.
Carson and another guard stood at the door like stone sentinels, faces grim.
"Natalie." I moved to the bed, my voice involuntarily soft, afraid of startling her.
Natalie slowly turned her head. When she saw me, her eyes held nothing but raw terror and vulnerability. She opened her mouth to speak but only managed a broken sob. Tears streamed down silently.
My heart felt like an invisible hand had grabbed it, twisted it, and squeezed until I couldn't breathe. I sat on the bed and carefully pulled Natalie into my arms, blanket and all. I felt her body rigid, trembling. "Shh... It's over. I'm here. It's over."I rubbed her back, my jaw pressed tight against the top of her head.
"He... he grabbed me... knife... the baby..." She sobbed incoherently against my chest.
"The baby's fine. The doctor said so. You're both strong." I kissed her forehead, my voice raw. "I promise—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it."
Over the next few days, I canceled everything. I didn't leave the room. Natalie's body stabilized with medication and rest, but her nerves stayed shot. Any sudden sound—even a nurse opening the door—made her jump. The baby's movements became unusually frequent and violent. The doctor said maternal anxiety was directly affecting the fetus.
I watched Natalie's brow furrow even in sleep. I saw the worry in her eyes when she touched her belly. The urge to destroy everything burned in my chest day and night. But I had to stay calm. For her. For the baby.
After dinner, I handed Natalie my tablet. It showed my private island in the South Pacific—isolated, absolute security, independent medical team.
"Like it?" I pointed to the crystal blue water on the screen. "When you're better, maybe we could stay there awhile." Neither of us could survive another attack. Better than staying in L.A.—at least it was safe.
She looked at the images. Her eyes glazed for a moment. Her fingers traced the fine sand on the screen. Then she shook her head and handed the tablet back. Her voice was soft but clear. "I can't hide forever, Richard. Especially not now."
She was right. Hiding solved nothing. It only lengthened the shadow. I had to rip out the shadow by its roots, expose it to the sun, burn it to ash.
The investigation confirmed what I'd expected, but made my rage burn hotter. Every thread—the crude but viciousphotoshopped images online, the hired thug who attacked her—all pointed to one person. Olivia.
She'd used fringe contacts and channels from her time at Winston Group to hire hackers and trolls for the online assault, then tapped underground connections for a street criminal. The intent was clear. Destroy Natalie's reputation. Or failing that, kill her and my child.
"Where's Olivia now?"
"Last confirmed location was Southeast Asia. Some remnants of her family's connections are helping her hide."
I smiled coldly. "Then take out everyone helping her hide. Notify all our partners, financial institutions, law firms—from this moment, anyone doing business with the Carter family or their affiliates is an enemy of Winston Group. I want them bankrupt within seventy-two hours. As for Olivia—file international charges for commercial fraud, invasion of privacy, conspiracy to commit assault, attempted kidnapping. Get Interpol involved. Extradition requests to every country she might hide in. Post a ten-million-dollar bounty for her exact location."
I didn't just want her in prison. I wanted her to watch everything she had—family, wealth, reputation, future—crumble to dust before her eyes. I wanted her to know what despair felt like.
I thought the iron fist and full-scale siege would at least force her back into her hole long enough for Natalie to get through the late pregnancy safely. But I'd underestimated the hatred and execution of a woman gone completely mad.
