The morning sun filtered through the tall glass windows of the Donovan estate, casting a golden hue across the marble floors. Everything looked pristine. Polished. Silent. Just the way Bekett liked it.
Geraldine sat at the edge of the long dining table, her manicured fingers curled around a porcelain coffee cup. The silence in the room was thick—sterile, like a museum. She had grown used to this quiet, learned to breathe in it. But it didn't stop her from missing the chaos. The laughter. The warmth.
Reena's soft footsteps came down the stairs first, her twelve-year-old face still flushed from sleep, curls bouncing with each step. "Mom, is Dad here?"
"No, baby. He left before dawn," Geraldine replied, brushing a strand of hair behind Reena's ear. She didn't ask where Bekett had gone. She never did anymore.
"Lovia's still getting dressed," Reena said as she plopped down on the seat next to her. "She's mad about the uniform. Again."
Geraldine managed a smile. "I'll talk to her." She reached for the phone. No messages from Bekett. Not even a missed call.
By the time Lovia stormed into the room with her shirt half-tucked and lips pursed in protest, Geraldine had already packed their lunches. Lovia, at ten, had her father's eyes—cold, calculating, and too sharp for a child. Geraldine often wondered if that was nature or nurture.
"Reena's shirt fits better," Lovia muttered, pulling at her sleeves.
"They're the same size," Reena rolled her eyes.
"They're not the same. Nothing's ever the same for me."
Geraldine didn't argue. She knelt and straightened Lovia's collar, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You're perfect, okay? Now grab your bags. We're already late."
The drive to their elite private school was as uneventful as always. Security gates. Polished bricks. Rows of parents pretending their lives weren't in ruins under their designer sunglasses. Geraldine waited until the girls were inside before pulling out her phone again.
Still no message.
She sighed and adjusted the sunglasses on her face, then drove toward Bekett's office. She hadn't been invited—she never was—but she had questions. And for once, she didn't feel like waiting for his carefully crafted lies.
Bekett Donovan & Co. was more fortress than office, with black cars lining the lot and security detail that looked more military than corporate. But that was Bekett. Control freak. Obsessive. Calculated.
Geraldine walked in, her heels echoing sharply against the marble. The receptionist—a young, nervous girl who clearly hadn't been there long—stood quickly.
"Mrs. Donovan. I—uh—I didn't know you were coming."
"I didn't, either," Geraldine said calmly. "Is Bekett in?"
"Um, no. He left with Mr. Lachlan about an hour ago."
Geraldine's stomach dropped.
"Lachlan?"
The girl nodded. "He was here most of last night."
Her face didn't change, but inside, something curled. Tight and dark.
"I'll wait in his office."
The receptionist hesitated. "I don't think he—"
"I'm not asking," Geraldine said, voice sharper now. She pushed past her, heels clicking like a warning.
Bekett's office was darker than usual. No lights, no movement. Just the lingering scent of his cologne and cigar smoke that hadn't faded. She walked to his desk and stared at the photo frame—one of their wedding pictures. She was smiling. Bekett wasn't.
It had been an arranged marriage. Her father's idea of a business merger sealed with a diamond ring. Back then, she was twenty-one, foolish, and desperate to make the best of it. She thought maybe if she loved him hard enough, he'd soften.
Instead, he hardened.
She opened one of his desk drawers. Paperwork. Files. A USB drive tucked inside a folder labeled "Redwood."
Geraldine paused.
She'd heard the name before. In late-night calls. On whispered lips. Her fingers closed around the drive.
"Looking for something, Mrs. Donovan?"
She spun, heart lurching.
Lachlan stood in the doorway, a slow smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. His suit was dark, perfectly fitted, and he looked like sin in human form. Dangerous. Beautiful. Untrustworthy.
"Funny, you don't work here," Geraldine said, slipping the drive into her coat pocket without breaking eye contact.
Lachlan's eyes flicked to her hand—he'd seen—but he didn't comment.
"I'm your husband's business partner," he said casually. "And sometimes… his keeper."
"Keeper? Is that what you call it when you make late-night visits and disappear before sunrise?"
Lachlan took a step inside. "You're sharper than you look."
"And you're exactly what you look like." Her gaze was steel. "What's Redwood?"
He tilted his head, amused. "That depends. How badly do you want to know?"
Geraldine narrowed her eyes. "Enough to burn it all down."
For the first time, Lachlan's smile faded, just slightly. He studied her, and something shifted in his expression—curiosity, maybe. Respect.
"You should be careful, Geraldine," he said. "Your husband plays games with blood. And not everyone survives."
"Good," she whispered. "Let him bleed."
By the time she returned to the estate, the silence had turned into a storm. Her chest felt heavy, and every corner of the house reminded her of the cage she lived in. The expensive prison where her name was only useful when it served him.
But that drive… the one marked Redwood… it pulsed in her coat pocket like a live wire.
That night, after tucking in the girls, she locked her bedroom door and plugged the USB into her laptop.
One file. A single video.
She hit play.
Bekett appeared on screen—standing in a warehouse, surrounded by men. Armed. One of them was kneeling, bloodied. Geraldine's breath caught when she realized who it was.
Her father.