Chapter 33
“What have you found out?” Rylan demanded, his voice cutting through the low hum of electronics as he strode into the basement area that now served as the nerve center for his security team.
Calling it a basement was a gross understatement. The space was a fully equipped security hub—rows of sleek desks, walls lined with massive screens showing live surveillance feeds, satellite maps, and scrolling lines of encrypted code. The faint scent of coffee hung in the cool, filtered air.
Though Rylan was further down the line of succession for the throne, his parents had insisted on this level of protection.
They’d reminded him—more than once—that political manipulation through kidnapping was still a credible threat for someone of his rank.
He’d argued at first. But in the end, love for them—and the knowledge that they were right—had made him agree.
Tom didn’t bother with greetings. At Rylan’s sharp question, he simply gestured toward one of the largest monitors, his expression tight. “The glitter bomb came from someone inside Natalie’s office. The receptionist—Melanie.”
“Melanie?” Rylan’s brow furrowed. “She seems so sweet. Why the hell would Melanie send Natalie a glitter bomb?”
Tom’s fingers moved across the keyboard, bringing up footage of Melanie chatting animatedly with another woman—Jenny.
“It’s not the harmless prank it looks like,” he said.
“Natalie’s the top designer at the firm, and both Melanie and Jenny want her spot.
We traced the glitter bomb purchase to Melanie’s personal credit card and confirmed it through the store’s internal database. ”
Rylan leaned in, his voice dropping into something colder. “Professional jealousy doesn’t explain trying to kill someone. Was she connected to the hit-and-run or the break-in?”
Tom shook his head once. “No. Her alibi’s airtight. The night of the parking garage incident, she was in a grocery store thirty minutes away. Time-stamped receipts match.”
“Fine,” Rylan muttered, dragging a hand over his jaw. “So Melanie is petty, but not a murderer. Who’s behind the real attacks? The break-in at Natalie’s house—was it connected?”
Tom’s mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Not even close. That was her neighbor—Kelly Ferguson. She used a spare key from under a flowerpot to let herself in yesterday.”
Rylan’s frown deepened. “Why the hell—”
“She’s a self-proclaimed interior design enthusiast,” Tom interrupted dryly. “Brought in fresh flowers, swapped out throw pillows. When the alarm we installed went off, the police got there before she could leave. Her statement? She thought Natalie’s place needed ‘a little brightening.’”
Rylan’s tone sharpened. “This happened yesterday, and I’m just hearing about it now?”
Tom didn’t miss a beat. “You were otherwise occupied.” His delivery was perfectly even, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
The memory hit instantly—Natalie, tangled in his sheets, their phones ignored for hours. Suddenly, a grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. “Fair enough.”
But the smile faded as fast as it came. “Focus on the real threats. Who tried to run her down?”
Tom clicked over to another camera feed.
“The driver from the crash—your instincts were right. This was personal. We finally were able to track him on street and traffic cams several streets away from the scene of the accident. And Natalie was right about the odd gait she mentioned. It wasn’t a woman. It was her boss, Henry.”
Rylan’s posture stiffened. “Henry? You’re telling me her boss tried to kill her?”
Tom nodded grimly. “Rental car traced to a shell company tied to him. Footage shows him ditching a blond wig two blocks from the crash site. We recovered it—DNA’s a match.”
Rylan’s fists curled on the counter, knuckles whitening. “So she’s still in danger.”
Tom’s scowl was dark enough to match his tone. “Would I let your future wife be in danger?”
The words hit Rylan like a blow. Future wife. He’d accepted that Natalie was the one, but he hadn’t put that word to the emotion. But hearing it out loud stirred something deeper, heavier—something that felt unshakably right.
“You haven’t proposed yet?” Tom’s voice carried an edge of incredulity. “Everyone on this team knew she’d be your wife the moment you met her.”
Rylan scanned the room, catching the subtle nods from his security team.
His mouth flattened into a hard line before he exhaled, tension loosening his shoulders.
“Hell,” he muttered, earning a ripple of low chuckles from the men.
The levity evaporated almost instantly. His voice dropped. “Where is she?”
Tom’s hand flicked toward a monitor. “At a client meeting. My people are posted outside the house.”
A cold twist coiled in Rylan’s gut. “New client?”
Tom gave a clipped nod. “We ran the client through the system—clean as a whistle. No flags.”
“Boss!” one of the guards barked, urgency cutting through the room. He jabbed a finger at the live feed.
Henry.
He was striding up the client’s walkway, jaw set, his movements sharp with purpose.
On-screen, Rylan’s men stepped down from their positions in front of the house in unison, forming a wall between Henry and the door.
The confrontation flared immediately—Henry’s face flushed, his mouth moving fast, his gestures growing sharper.
He shoved forward, trying to break through, but the guards stood like stone.
Tom leaned toward his mic, his tone steely. “Do not let him inside. That’s our guy.”