Chapter 177
The roar of London’s restless night pulsed around the wreckage, a chaotic symphony of honking horns, murmured shock, and the metallic groan of crushed steel. The black SUV lay twisted under the jaundiced glow of the streetlamps, its frame bent and broken like a wounded animal gasping for air. Smoke coiled from the crumpled hood, curling upward in ghostly tendrils that blurred the flashing red-and-blue of approaching sirens.
A crowd had gathered—faces half-lit by phone screens, eyes wide with morbid curiosity. Some whispered, others filmed, their breath frosting the cold night air as if documenting tragedy might somehow make them part of it. The word “accident” passed through their lips, quiet but uncertain. It didn’t feel accidental. Not to Henry Jackson.
Inside the wreck, the world had collapsed into a single heartbeat—his own—pounding violently against his ribs, fighting the weight of shock that pressed on his chest. His ears rang, his vision swam. The acrid scent of burnt rubber and the coppery tang of blood filled his lungs. When he lifted his head, the shattered windshield glittered with streetlight, a thousand shards reflecting fragments of his confusion.
Pain flared across his shoulder as he flexed his fingers, testing each limb with trembling determination. Nothing broken. Nothing missing. He was alive. The realization hit with the force of adrenaline—sharp, dizzying, almost holy. But that relief soured quickly. The other car—the gray sedan—was gone. No screech of retreating tires, no trace on the asphalt. Just the fading echo of something deliberate.
Henry’s kind, steady eyes—once the color of warm sky in sunlight—now burned with a dangerous clarity. Fury threaded through the pain, hot and focused. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the mangled passenger door open with a grunt, stumbling out into the cold. The night air hit him hard, biting against his sweat-soaked skin. Around him, the city carried on—unmoved, uncaring—its rhythm only briefly interrupted by his disaster.
But when he turned towards the driver’s seat, he almost had a heart attack.
“Matthew!” he called hoarsely, his voice cracking as he rounded the vehicle to the driver’s side. Matthew, the broad-shouldered bodyguard with his perpetual scowl and buzz cut, slumped against the steering wheel, blood trickling from a gash on his temple. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but his eyes fluttered open at Henry’s voice, a grimace twisting his rugged features.
“Boss… I’m alright,” Matthew grunted, his words slurred but defiant. “Just… winded. Ribs feel like hell, but I’ve had worse in the service p>
Theo, from the back, had already extricated himself, his concealed weapon holstered but his stance alert, scanning the shadows for threats. “He’s right, Henry. No broken bones that I can see—just bruises and that cut. Ambulance is en route. You okay p>
Henry nodded absently, his mind elsewhere—on Eliana, on the tracker that still pulsed on his phone, showing her location shifting erratically. “I’m fine. Just scratches. But Matthew p>
As if summoned by his concern, the ambulance screeched to a halt nearby, paramedics spilling out like guardian angels in high-vis vests. They moved with practiced urgency, assessing Matthew’s injuries: a mild concussion, bruised ribs, nothing life-threatening. “You’ll be sore for days, mate,” one paramedic said with a reassuring pat on Matthew’s shoulder as they loaded him onto a stretcher. “But hospital will sort you out. X-rays and observation overnight, to be safe p>
Henry watched them wheel Matthew away, the ambulance doors slamming shut with a finality that echoed his own mounting dread. Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll ride with him. You get to Eliana. Call if you need backup p>
“Go,” Henry replied, his voice tight. “And tell Matthew… thanks. For everything p>
As the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing against the brick facades of nearby buildings, Henry leaned against the SUV’s dented frame, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers. The screen was cracked from the impact, spiderwebbing across Eliana’s contact photo—a candid shot of her laughing in a park, her curly hair catching the sunlight. His thumb hovered over the call button, panic clawing at his throat. What if she didn’t answer? What if Mirabel’s claws had already sunk too deep?
He dialed, the ringtone echoing in his ear like a lifeline. Once. Twice. On the third ring, it connected, and her voice—soft, tremulous, laced with tears—flooded through the speaker.
“Henry? Oh, thank God it’s you p>
“Eliana,” he breathed, relief crashing over him like a wave, so intense it nearly buckled his knees. He sank onto the curb, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers. “Are you okay? I’ve been going out of my mind. Your text—Mirabel ambushing you? What happened? Where are you p>
There was a pause, broken only by her shaky inhale, as if she were gathering the fragments of her composure. When she spoke, her words tumbled out in a rush, each one laced with raw emotion that twisted Henry’s gut. “I’m… I’m okay now, Henry. But it was awful. Mirabel—she’s insane. We were at that restaurant, Le Jardin Secret, and she started saying all these things about being my mother, about wanting me back. But it was a trap. As soon as I tried to leave, her men grabbed me. They… they used chloroform or something, threw me in a van. I thought that was it—I thought I’d never see you or my father again p>
Henry’s free hand clenched into a fist, nails biting into his palm. The image of her—slender, vulnerable, her warm brown skin pale with fear—ignited a firestorm of protectiveness in him. “Kidnapped? Jesus, Eliana. How did you get away? Tell me everything p>
Her voice trembled, breaking on the edge of a sob. “Rafael… he was a step ahead. Somehow, he knew. He sent his men—this team of guys, like something out of an action film. They rammed the van, fought off the thugs, pulled me out. It was chaos, Henry—punches, shouting, someone even fired into the air. But they saved me. I’m at the hospital now, with Rafael. He’s right here, making sure I’m safe p>
The words hit him like a collision of lightning and thunder—relief first, sharp and blinding relief. She was alive. Breathing. Speaking. That alone sent a tremor of gratitude through Henry’s chest so strong he had to steady himself against the wall. But as her voice lingered in his ear, that joy twisted, warped by something darker simmering beneath it.
Rafael.
Of course. It had to be him again.
The name alone was enough to sour his relief. Henry could almost see him now—the calm, polished predator behind that charming smile. A man who always seemed to arrive just in time, spotless and composed, like a hero from a story carefully rewritten to erase the blood on his hands. To Eliana, he’d be the rescuer again, the dependable figure who always showed up when the world turned to fire.
How could Henry fight that kind of myth?
His jaw tightened, frustration sparking behind his eyes. Rafael had turned the night’s chaos into another performance, another page in the legend he was crafting around himself. And Eliana—sweet, trusting Eliana—was caught in the center of it, blind to the strings that guided her every move.
Convincing her now that Rafael was a dangerous man would be near impossible. Trying to pull her away from Rafael’s influence would be like dragging someone from quicksand—every effort would only draw her deeper into his grasp. And still, despite the anger boiling inside him, Henry couldn’t bring himself to hate her for it. Not when the sound of her voice still made his chest ache with relief.
To be continued p>