Chapter 6 - Gabriel
Silence is a weapon I mastered decades ago.
Most people can’t handle it. They fidget. They fill the air with useless noise because the quiet forces them to look at things they’d rather ignore.
But tonight, the silence inside my Bentley is heavy with victory rather than violence.
Blair is passed out in the passenger seat. The adrenaline crash hit her the second the engine turned over, knocking her out cold. Her head lolls against the leather, her mouth slightly open, a strand of dark hair stuck to her lip.
She looks wrecked.
She looks perfect.
I reach over and brush the hair away from her face. My knuckles graze her cheek, and even in sleep, she leans into my touch.
I pull my hand back and reach for her purse in the footwell, making sure I keep my eyes on the empty road long enough that I don’t kill us.
It’s invasive but I don't care.
I pull out her phone. The screen lights up—a picture of her and the girl who was at Red Rum with her earlier laughing with their arms around each other.
I need to talk with Cohen about digging into this girl and finding out if she’s going to be a threat to my plans for Blair, but that can wait until tomorrow. Maybe Romeo can help.
It's dangerous as hell to do this while I drive, but I can’t wait until we get home. What if she wakes up? No, it needs to be now and if I pull off the road to do it, the absence of movement might wake her.
So I swipe up.
Enter passcode.
I glance at Blair. I’m not going to waste time trying to guess what it could be.
Instead, I hold the phone up to her face.
The lock icon snaps open.
First, I go to her contacts. I find Ryder’s name. My thumb hovers over it for a second, a surge of pure, unadulterated rage boiling in my gut when I open the message thread.
Ryder: Do you know how many times I had to fake it with you?
Ryder: You weren't even good in bed. I had to think about other women just to finish.
Ryder: You were like fucking a virgin every single time.
Ryder: Maybe that's why I kept cheating. Can you really blame me?
My jaw tightens until it hurts.
This little motherfucker.
My son. My blood. The boy I gave everything to.
Where the fuck did I go so wrong with him to make him into this?
I tap the info icon.
Block.
I don't delete the thread. I want the evidence. I want to be able to look at it later and remind myself why I’m about to ruin his life. He doesn’t get to bully her. He doesn’t get to gaslight her into thinking she’s the problem.
She’s mine now. And I’m going to protect her.
I go to her settings and navigate into her cloud backup.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and set up a family sharing account. It takes me less than two minutes to link her device to mine. From now on, every photo she takes, every note she writes, every text she receives—I’ll see it.
I slip her phone back into her bag just as we pull up to the iron gates of my estate.
The sensors read my tag, and the heavy gates swing open.
She stirs but doesn't fully wake—a small mercy given what I've just done.
I navigate the winding driveway, the headlights cutting through the darkness. The house looms ahead—a sprawling structure of stone and timber that resembles a fortress more than a home.
It’s dark. Cold.
There are no Christmas lights. No wreaths. No festive bullshit.
Caroline used to handle that. Since she died, I haven't bothered. The staff knows better than to ask. Ryder used to complain about it when he still lived here, whining that it was depressing.
He was right.
But looking at the dark windows now, I don't see a depressing void. I see a canvas.
Blair can fix this.
She can fill this place with whatever holiday nonsense she wants. She can put up ten trees if it makes her smile. She can wrap the whole goddamn house in twinkling lights.
We can light up the whole goddamn neighborhood like Clark in Christmas Vacation for all I care.
Whatever makes her happy.
I park in the garage, killing the engine.
I don't wake her.
I get out, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.
She murmurs something unintelligible as I unbuckle her seatbelt. I slide my arms under her—one beneath her knees, the other supporting her back—and lift her.
She’s dead weight, warm and soft against my chest. Her head tucks naturally into the crook of my neck, her nose burying itself in my shirt. She smells like sex. She smells a little like the alcohol she was drinking at the bar.
But most of all, she smells like me.
I carry her into the house.
The air inside is still. The security system chirps a quiet acknowledgment of my presence, disarming itself as I walk through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
I don't stop. I navigate through the great room, past the massive stone fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in years, and up the main staircase.
I could put her in a guest room. There are six of them.
I don't even consider it.
I head straight for the master suite.
My room.
I lay her down on the center of the mattress. The gray duvet swallows her up. She looks small here. Vulnerable.
I stand over her for a moment, just watching the rise and fall of her chest. My hand goes to my pocket, touching the lace panties I took from her.
I’m a sick bastard. I know this.
But seeing her in my bed, knowing my seed is likely taking root inside her right now… it settles something in my chest that’s been jagged and broken for decades.
I pull my phone out again.
I scroll to Jaxon’s number. My head of security picks up on the first ring.
"Boss."
"I need you to send the boys to Blair Ashby’s apartment," I say, my voice low so I don't wake her. "Tonight." I stare at Blair’s sleeping face. "Pack everything. Clothes, toiletries, documents. If it looks important, box it. If it looks cheap or broken, trash it. Have it all here by dawn."
There’s a pause on the line. Jaxon has worked for me for ten years. He knows not to question me. "Consider it done."
"And Jaxon?"
"Yes?"
"Change the locks once you’re done. Leave the keys on the counter. She won’t be going back."
I hang up.
I walk to the window, surveying the dark grounds of my estate.
Earlier tonight, before I picked Blair up, I sat in a booth at Red Rum with Cohen and Cole.
Cole just sat there, sipping his bourbon, studying me with that knowing smirk of his. He knows what it’s like to build an empire from dirt. He knows you don't let rot spread in the foundation.
Ryder is rot.
I failed him. I know that. I gave him too much, protected him too much, and created a weak, entitled man who treats people like disposable toys.
But I’m fixing it.
I’m cutting the rot out.
And I’m starting over.
Cohen had the papers ready. The disinheritance documents are drafted. I’m still not sure I’m ready to sign them.
I turn back to the bed. Blair shifts, kicking one leg out from under the blanket. Her dress rides up, exposing the smooth skin of her thigh.
I walk to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water.
I come back to the bed and sit on the edge.
Gently, I wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes. I clean her face. Then I lift the hem of her dress.
I clean her thighs. I clean the evidence of what I did to her, wiping away the dried fluids.
It’s intimate. Domestic.
It’s the most possessive thing I’ve ever done.
She sighs, her hand finding my knee in her sleep.
"Gabriel," she whispers.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"I'm here," I tell her.
I strip out of my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
I climb into bed beside her.
For the first time in thirteen years, I don't stay on my side.
I slide toward the center and pull her back against my chest. I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand resting flat over her stomach.
Mine.
She settles against me, her breathing syncing with mine.
Tomorrow, she’s going to wake up and realize she’s trapped. She’s going to realize she can’t go home. She’s going to realize the game she thought she was playing has rules she never agreed to.
She might scream. She might fight.
Let her.
Every door she tries to open will lead her right back to me.