Chapter 3 - The Weight of Seven Weeks
The room was bathed in the soft, blue-tinted glow of nighttime Chicago filtering through the blinds.
Chloe lay against the propped-up hospital pillows, her face pale, her breathing deep and rhythmic under the influence of intravenous sedatives. An IV line ran into the back of her hand, and a fetal monitor beeped softly in the corner, a steady, comforting reminder that beneath the heavy hospital blankets, her belly still held the life they had created together.
Arthur sat in the hard-backed chair beside her bed, his large hand gently closed over her fingers.
He remembered the night he had walked away from her apartment seven weeks ago.
It hadn't been a choice born of cruelty; it had been an ultimatum written in blood. A intercepted intelligence report from federal informants had revealed that Malcolm Croft had put a contract out on anyone connected to Arthur’s personal life. To save Henderson’s Diner, to save her brother Leo—no, her brother Toby, he reminded himself—Arthur had walked out of her life without a word, proposing to Vivien Croft the very next morning to consolidate the syndicate’s defensive lines.
He had convinced himself he was protecting her by keeping her as far away from his war as humanly possible.
Instead, it had brought the war straight to her doorstep.
Chloe stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She blinked against the dim light, disoriented, her gaze drifting around the sterile white room until she found him sitting beside her.
Her fingers twitched inside his grip.
“Arthur...” her voice was a dry rasp.
“I’m here,” he said instantly, leaning forward, pressing his forehead gently against her knuckles. “I’m right here, Chloe. You’re safe.”
She tried to pull her hand away, a flash of fear crossing her tired eyes. “The... the wedding... you were supposed to—”
“The wedding is over,” Arthur interrupted firmly. “It’s finished. There is no wedding.”
Chloe stared at him, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, spilling over her lashes to track down her cheeks. “They knew, Arthur. The Crofts... they figured out where I was living after you left. A man came to the diner three days ago. He didn't threaten me. He just left a bottle of vintage wine labeled A Gift from the Romano-Croft Alliance on the counter with a note saying it was for the bride-to-be to sample before the ceremony.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. “You thought it was from me?”
“I thought it was a wedding gesture,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Then I saw the news broadcast this morning showing the cathedral doors open, and... and something felt wrong. I don't know why, but I grabbed a cab. I needed to stop you. I couldn't let you drink it.”
She had risked her life—and their child's life—to save him from a poisoned cup.
Arthur slid from the chair, dropping to one knee beside the mattress, wrapping both arms gently around her waist, careful of the swollen curve beneath her gown. He pressed his face against her shoulder, his broad shoulders trembling slightly with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel.
“You idiot,” he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You absolute idiot. You could have died.”
“I couldn't let them kill you,” she whispered, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. “Even after you walked away... even after you left me alone... I couldn't watch you die.”
“I never wanted to leave you, Chloe,” Arthur murmured against her skin. “I was trying to keep you safe from a world you didn't ask to be part of.”
“Well,” she tried to offer a weak, watery smile, “your world has terrible reception, and the security is garbage.”
Arthur let out a low, ragged chuckle, kissing her temple. But the laughter died away as the door behind them clicked open.
Leo Barnes stood in the doorway, his expression grim.
“Boss,” Leo said quietly. “You need to see this. We just decrypted the phone of the Croft guard who delivered that wine to the diner.”
May you like
Arthur stood up slowly, gently releasing Chloe’s hand, his eyes turning hard as obsidian. “What did you find?”
“It wasn't Malcolm who ordered the hit,” Leo said, stepping into the light. “It was Vivien.”
