Chapter 28
28
Gage
I read over the reports my CFO sent through overnight and lean back in my chair and scrub a hand down my face. The numbers aren’t catastrophic. Not yet. But the pattern is there. Subtle. Steady. Sliding in the wrong direction. A handful of high-tier clients have quietly withdrawn over the last month. More are asking questions. And that’s something I’ve never seen in my company and don’t plan to accept now.
I started building this company after finishing my degree. My father thought I was slumming it. He wanted me to be like Bradford and join the family’s textile empire. I couldn’t think of anything more soul-destroying. I knew I was building the only future that wouldn’t bore me to death.
I did a few years working for a top intelligence firm, saw the holes in how they operated, built a black-book contact list, and used seed money from my trust fund. I started small but carved a niche by being the guy who could make problems disappear.
Now, we’re a global intelligence firm trusted by corporations, billionaires, and governments. We locate threats. Track assets. Gather intel. Offer protection and retaliation services. Corporate and political cleanup. We’re the kind of firm people whisper about in boardrooms and war rooms. The kind you call when something goes wrong that can’t be leaked, fixed, or forgiven.
And yet here I am. Falling behind on work for the first time in my life and watching numbers trend the wrong way. I’ve built an empire by never missing a threat. And I’ve let one grow right under my fucking nose.
Looking at the numbers now, and knowing the hours, the blood, the obsession it took to build this up from the ground? Yeah. This burns.
The fucking bad press needs to be stopped.
And I need to get my eye back on the fucking ball.
I spend the next few hours in back-to-back calls. Department heads. PR leads. My top operatives. I’ve built this company to run without me micromanaging every detail, but when it matters? They answer to me. And right now, seeing the numbers, I know I haven’t been checking in the way I usually do.
Just after lunch, Lucy buzzes me.
“Ah, Gage, I think you have a situation out here. One that needs gentle hands. Not your usual.”
“The fuck?” I check my watch. I’ve got three minutes until I go into another meeting with my CFO to drill down deeper into the numbers. “Whatever it is, you handle it.”
“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work this time. It’s Amelia, and the way those tears are streaming down her cheeks screams I need my man right now . Just sayin’.”
Fuck.
My chair’s shoved back and I’m out the door, and fuck me , I’ve never seen Amelia like this. She’s sitting in one of the visitors chairs across from Lucy’s desk, crying—shoulders tight, hands clenching in her lap like she’s bracing for impact. The kind of posture that says the fear of God isn’t just in her eyes, it’s crawling through her entire body.
She stands the second she spots me, and we meet in the middle.
“What the fuck’s happened and who the fuck do I need to kill?” My chest is squeezing with anger, the fucking ropable kind, at the thought of someone hurting Amelia.
Her hands grab my hips like they’re the only anchor she has. “It’s James,” she starts, but her tears get the better of her and she can’t get another word out. All she can do is hold me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. Her expression says this situation is DEFCON 1 level, and yeah, I caught that already.
That fucking motherfucker.
I swear to Christ I will end him.
I tell Lucy to cancel my meeting and take Amelia into my office.
Once I settle her on the couch, I rein it all in—the fury, the instincts, the need to fix—and give her what she needs instead. Gentle hands, like Lucy said. And fuck, it nearly kills me to stay calm when every part of me is ready to burn the world down.
“What did he do?”
She works her way through some sobs that get caught in her throat before taking a deep breath. “He came to my place,” she chokes out. “He just...he just walked in like he owned it. Lied to the doorman to get through.”
My jaw fucking locks.
“I didn’t even know he was there until he was walking into my studio,” she goes on, her words tumbling out now, frantic and broken. “He started saying awful stuff about you. About how dangerous you are. About the collar. He said I’m obviously just letting you use my body however you want. Then he said I was putting Sarah in danger, and that I’ve lost all good sense of judgment by letting you anywhere near us.”
I see fucking red.
“I told him to leave. I told him he was out of line. But he just laughed.” Her whole body trembles. “He said he’s documenting everything. That if I won’t protect Sarah, he will. He said I look pathetic. That I’m just letting you control me. That I’m making it easy for him to prove I’m unfit.”
A fucking growl builds in my throat, but I force it down. Search for the calm she needs from me right now. Not that anything of what I’m feeling could be confused with calm, but for Amelia, I keep my voice as controlled as possible when I ask, “Did he touch you?”
Every muscle in my body tenses waiting for her answer.
“No.” A ragged breath catches in her throat. “God...I let him get in my head. I couldn’t stop it.” A sob tears from her. “He always gets in my head. Even now. Even when I know better.” Her voice cracks, like she hates that part of herself the most.
I drop to my knees in front of her even though I don’t kneel for anyone.
For Amelia ? I’ll kneel every damn time.
Today, she’s been stripped raw by a man who made her doubt her own worth, and I need her to know I will never tower over her. I will not be another man who makes her shrink.
I gently take her hands into mine, even as I feel the rage coiling tighter and tighter inside me. A storm waiting to break.
“Amelia, listen to me,” I say, voice rough. “You didn’t do a single fucking thing wrong. That man is a coward, a liar, and a manipulative prick who only knows how to control through fear. He doesn’t get to use your daughter against you. He doesn’t get to touch your peace. And he sure as fuck doesn’t get to touch your mind.”
She nods, eyes glued to mine, still panicked. But I see the breaths she’s now taking, the full fight-or-flight aftershock starting to ease.
“I’ve got you, Princess. You’re safe. He’s not gonna win this because I won’t fucking let him.”
Once her panic’s not choking her anymore, and she’s okay, I shift my focus to what needs to happen next. I get her home and stay for as long as she lets me. Which is no more than an hour because she’s worried she’s interrupted my work. But I dedicate every second of that hour to ensuring she’s grounded, safe, and not carrying this alone. That she knows she’s not irrational. That she knows she’s not overreacting.
Because fuck that.
I saw her face when she walked into my office. I saw what that asshole did to her.
And I need her to know I’m with her. And I’m not going anywhere.
After she forces me to leave, I get in my car and slam my door harder than necessary. My jaw’s clenched so tight it aches. My neck feels like fucking steel cable. I’ve been holding my shit together for two hours—steady voice, calm hands, keeping my fury on a leash so Amelia would feel safe.
But now?
Now that she’s out of my sight, safe in her home?
I can’t hold it back a second fucking longer.
I yank my phone from my pocket and call Jason.
“Forget everything else. I want your full attention on finding out who the fuck is behind the shit being posted about me online,” I grind out. “You said clean hands, dirty trail. I want the fucking trail. Mapped. Memorized. Burned into your brain. And I want the bastard at the end of it gift-fucking-wrapped with a bow.”
I’ve hit my fuck-this-line-in-the-sand point, and I don’t care how deep this goes—I want every digital fingerprint, every breadcrumb, every goddamn metaphoric drop of piss they left behind. And I want to burn them with it.
“Trail’s still dirty,” Jason says. “The bastard’s clean.”
“Then we scrub until we hit blood,” I growl. “Start digging.”
Fuck .
“And Jason? I don’t give a fuck what it costs. Pull your whole team in. Work around the clock. Bring in outside help if you have to. Just get this shit done, and get it done fast.”
I end the call and stare out the window of the car, breath tight in my chest, pulse a fucking war drum in my ears. I didn’t take the bad press seriously enough. Thought it was just noise. Nothing that could touch me.
That was my first mistake.
Because now it’s fucked with my company.
But more than that—it touched Amelia.
It was used to shake her, to make her question herself.
That’s the line in the sand. The last fucking line.
And whoever crossed it is about to learn what I do to people who aim for what’s mine.
My second mistake?
Not making sure James Kensington stayed the fuck away after the first time I saw Amelia flinch at his name.
I swipe open the secure folder on my phone. The one I built the day I realized he might become a problem worth solving.
Photos. Documents. Financials. Quiet witnesses. The kind of rot you only find if you know where to look.
I’ve held back. Waited. Given him chances he didn’t deserve.
For her.
But today, he made it war.
And I don’t lose wars.