Chapter Seven #3
I tensed involuntarily, the familiar walls beginning to rise. For three years, I'd offered only the barest details to anyone who asked—a drunk driver, a crash, permanent spinal damage. Clinical facts stripped of emotion, of the terror and rage and loss that had accompanied them.
Connor sensed my withdrawal. "You don't have to," he added quickly. "I just thought... after everything you've shared about my family, maybe it would help to talk about it."
Something in his voice—the genuine concern, the lack of agenda—made me reconsider. Perhaps it was time to speak the words I'd kept locked inside for too long.
"The car went over the guardrail," I began, the words feeling rusty, unpracticed.
"It was late, raining. The other driver crossed the center line.
I swerved to avoid him, but the road was wet.
" I paused, memories flooding back with unexpected vividness—the squeal of tires, the momentary weightlessness as the car left the road, the terrifying knowledge that what was coming would change everything.
"Jake pulled me out before the explosion, but not before the damage was done." My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. "He was driving behind me. Saw the whole thing. If he hadn't been there..."
Connor's hand found mine, fingers intertwining, anchoring me to the present as I drifted into the past.
"I woke up in the hospital three days later.
The doctors told me the spinal damage was permanent.
T10 complete spinal cord injury." The medical terminology felt safer, a buffer between me and the reality of what it had meant.
"They said I would never walk again. Never feel anything below the injury site. "
I laughed bitterly. "They also said sexual function was 'highly unlikely.' Seems they were wrong about that, at least."
Connor's lips curved slightly, but his eyes remained serious, focused on my face as if he could see past the practiced detachment to the pain beneath.
"The physical recovery was... difficult. But it wasn't the worst part." I hesitated, approaching the truth I rarely acknowledged even to myself. "The worst was watching people leave."
Connor raised himself onto one elbow, his expression questioning.
"Elizabeth—a woman I'd been seeing casually—visited twice, then disappeared.
Business associates suddenly found reasons not to meet in person.
Friends became increasingly 'busy.'" The words tasted bitter, the old hurt surprising me with its persistence.
"People say they can handle disability, but when faced with the reality of it. .."
"They couldn't see past the wheelchair," Connor finished for me, understanding immediately.
"Precisely. Except Jake and a few of my other frat brothers. And Michael, though he was an employee first."
Connor was silent for a moment, processing. Then, with deliberate care, he shifted down my body and pressed his lips to the jagged scar that ran along my hip—the place where metal had torn through flesh, where surgeons had pieced me back together.
The unexpectedness of the gesture stole my breath. His lips moved to the next scar, and the next, a tactile affirmation of acceptance that meant more than any words could have.
"These are part of you," he said between kisses. "Not something to be hidden or pitied."
As his lips mapped the geography of my injuries, something inside me began to unravel—a tightness I'd carried for three years, a grief I hadn't allowed myself to fully acknowledge. I hadn't realized how desperately I'd needed someone to see my scars not as marks of loss but as evidence of survival.
Connor continued his gentle exploration, his touch equal parts reverence and healing. Each press of his lips against damaged skin felt like absolution, a wordless promise that he saw me—all of me—and found nothing wanting.
By the time he finished, something had shifted inside me—a weight lifted, a wound finally allowed to breathe. I pulled him back up to me, cradling him against my chest, unsure who was comforting whom anymore.
"Thank you," I whispered into his hair, the words inadequate but sincere.
Connor's arms tightened around me, his body warm and solid against mine. "For what?"
"For seeing me," I said simply. "The real me."
He smiled against my skin, echoing words I'd spoken to him on our first night together. In the quiet darkness of the bedroom, with city lights creating patterns across our entwined bodies, I felt something I hadn't experienced in three years.
Peace.
* * * *
Morning light filtered through the penthouse windows, creating golden pathways across the rumpled sheets where Connor still slept. I'd been awake for hours, watching the play of sunlight across his features, memorizing the peaceful expression he wore in sleep.
Last night had changed something between us—crossed a line from arrangement to something dangerously close to genuine connection. I'd shared more of myself with him than I had with anyone since before the accident.
My hand hovered above his shoulder, reluctant to wake him, to break the spell of quiet intimacy that had wrapped around us like a cocoon. Then his phone rang, shattering the moment with the harsh electronic trill that seemed to vibrate through the peaceful morning air.
Connor stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion before focusing on the buzzing device on the nightstand. I watched his expression shift from sleepy contentment to wariness as he recognized the number on the screen.
"It's my mother," he said, voice still rough with sleep.
Something cold settled in my stomach. "Don't answer it."
But Connor was already reaching for the phone, his jaw set in a determination I was coming to recognize all too well. "I have to."
I watched as he sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
Even from where I lay, I could hear Margaret Matthews' voice—sharp, demanding, with the false sweetness of someone trying to manipulate. Connor's face transformed as he listened, all traces of softness vanishing, replaced by a hardness I'd never seen before.
"You want to meet?" he repeated, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his shoulders. "Why would I agree to that after what you did?"
Whatever she said in response made Connor's knuckles whiten around the phone. His eyes met mine, a silent conversation passing between us.
"Fine. Two hours. The café on Westlake. Public place, lots of witnesses." His voice had taken on an edge I hadn't heard before. "And Mother? Come alone. If I see Harris or anyone else, I'm gone."
He ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate care that belied the storm I could see brewing behind his eyes.
"Don't go," I said, the words escaping before I could temper them with my usual calculation. "She drugged you once. She'll do it again."
Connor swung his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.
"I need answers, Julian. Not just about Harris, but why.
Why she would sell her own son." He turned to look at me, determination etched in every line of his face.
"I need to hear it from her. I need to see her face when she tries to justify it. "
I understood the need for closure, for confrontation, but all I could think about was Connor unconscious again, vulnerable, taken by Harris before I could reach him.
"At least let me come with you," I insisted, already calculating how to rearrange my morning meetings.
"No." Connor shook his head, standing to retrieve his clothes from where they'd been discarded the night before.
"This is something I need to do myself. Besides," he added, attempting a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "you said yourself Harris is looking for Connor Matthews.
He doesn't know about Connor Montgomery yet. "
The use of his new surname—my name—sent a possessive thrill through me even as I worried. "That may not matter if your mother tells him."
"She won't," Connor said with a certainty I didn't share. "Whatever else she is, she's practical. If she knows I'm married to you now, she'll realize there's more money in keeping that connection than selling me to Harris."
His cynicism about his own mother should have been shocking, but after what we'd learned, it was merely pragmatic.
As Connor dressed, I moved to my wheelchair and reached for my phone. If I couldn't stop him, I could at least ensure he was protected.
I made rapid, precise calls—to Michael, arranging security; to my assistant, cancelling my morning appointments; to the head of my legal team, instructing them to prepare emergency measures if needed.
Connor watched me from across the room as he buttoned his shirt—one of the expensive new ones we'd purchased together, I noted with an irrational flicker of satisfaction.
"You're pulling out all the stops," he observed, no accusation in his voice, merely curiosity.
"Your mother sold you once," I replied, not bothering to soften the brutal truth. "I'm not taking chances on what else she might do."
By the time we reached the door, Michael was already waiting in the private elevator, his imposing presence a silent promise of protection. I pulled Connor close before he could step inside, my grip on his arm more possessive than I'd intended.
"Take Michael with you," I insisted, my tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.
Connor hesitated, then nodded, the concession revealing more about his own nervousness than he probably realized. "I'll be fine, Julian. She can't drug me in a public café with your security watching."
He sounded confident, but I caught the faint tremor in his voice as he asked, "What if they try to take me again?"
I pressed my forehead to his, my expression hardening into something dangerous even as my voice softened. "They won't succeed. You're a Montgomery now."
The declaration hung between us, weighted with meaning beyond the legal document that had bound our names. Connor's eyes widened slightly, something like wonder flickering across his features before he leaned down to press a quick, fierce kiss to my lips.
"I'll be back before you know it," he promised.
I watched as the elevator doors closed, taking Connor and Michael down to the secure garage where a driver would be waiting.
Despite the multiple layers of protection I'd arranged, an uneasy feeling persisted, a prickling at the back of my neck that had saved me from more than one corporate ambush in the past.
I returned to my office, unable to focus on anything beyond the ticking minutes of Connor's absence. I'd just pulled up the security feed showing Michael and Connor entering the car when my phone rang.
Jake's name flashed on the screen, a welcome distraction from my mounting anxiety.
"Tell me you have good news," I said by way of greeting.
"I wish I did." Jake's voice was grim, lacking its usual easy confidence. "I found something about Harris you need to see. My team uncovered financial records, Julian. Shell companies, offshore accounts—all tied to previous 'acquisitions'."
My grip on the phone tightened. "How many?"
"Seven that we can confirm over the past five years. Young men, all roughly Connor's age and appearance." Jake paused, and I could hear him take a steadying breath. "Julian... those boys didn't survive."
The words hit me with physical force, my vision narrowing as cold fury rose inside me. "Explain."
"The pattern is always the same. Acquisition, disappearance for approximately three months, then a 'tragic accident'—drowning, car crash, overdose. Too clean, too consistent. He uses them and disposes of them when he's done."
My free hand clenched into a fist, knuckles turning white as I processed the implications. The danger to Connor wasn't just kidnapping or exploitation—it was death, methodically planned and executed once Harris had taken what he wanted.
"Send me everything," I ordered, my voice dropping to a dangerous register that made even Jake, my oldest friend, hesitate before responding.
"Already done. But Julian, there's more. The timing of these acquisitions correlates with pharmaceutical trials at Harris's research division. Trials with unusually high success rates for experimental drugs."
The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. Human test subjects. Unwilling participants in drug trials that left no witnesses.
"Julian?" Jake's voice pulled me back from the dark calculations my mind was making. "What are you going to do?"
I looked out at the city spread below my penthouse, somewhere in that sprawl, Connor was meeting with the woman who had sold him to a monster.
"Whatever is necessary," I replied, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "Harris won't touch what's mine."
“I have Stella looking into Harris. If there’s any more to find, she’ll find it.”
“Thank you.”
“You just keep a close eye on your husband. Harris doesn’t just want him because he bought him. Now, it’s a pride thing. Connor is the one that got away.”
“Michael is with him now.”
There was a pause and then Jake asked, “Michael is with him? Julian, did Connor go somewhere without you?”
I briefly explained what happened the night Connor and I met and the fact that Connor was going now to confront her.
“Get him back!”
“Believe me, I wish I could, but Connor was insistent on meeting with her. He wants answers.” I couldn’t really blame him. I’d want answers, too.
“I’m going to make some calls and send some people to keep an eye on him. If his mother tries anything or Harris shows up, we can get him out of there.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“When we get him back, we need to talk about getting one of my little trackers in him.”
“Your trackers?”
"Several of us have trackers inserted under our skin that can track us up to five hundred mile radius in case we get kidnapped.
They were invented in my lab. You can't see it once they are in place and you can barely feel it.
It also reads heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature so that those searching for you can tell what kind of condition you are in. "
“Jesus, Jake.” I thrust a nervous hand through my hair. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d let him out of your sight before.”
“Wasn’t my choice.”
Jake snorted. “Never is.”
As I ended the call, my reflection in the window showed a face transformed into a mask of cold fury, eyes hardened with the same ruthless determination that had built my empire. Harris had taken seven young men before.
Connor would not be the eighth.