Chapter 3 - THE TRAITOR INSIDE VOSS TOWER
We did not go to Chicago.
We went underground.
Literally.
The safe house sat beneath an abandoned textile warehouse outside Knoxville, hidden behind a freight elevator that required two codes and a palm scan.
I hated every second of it.
Gavin’s medic checked me first.
Blood pressure elevated.
Baby’s heartbeat strong.
No bleeding.
No contractions.
I nearly cried when the Doppler filled the small room with rapid beats.
Gavin stood outside the doorway.
He did not come in.
For that, I was grateful.
Afterward, I demanded answers.
“Who leaked my location?”
“We don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe Declan Voss doesn’t know which of his own men betrayed him?”
“We narrowed it to four.”
“Names.”
“No.”
“Then let me leave.”
“Absolutely not.”
I stared at him.
“You’re holding me prisoner.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“Those are not always different.”
His jaw tightened.
“Declan will be here soon.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
“No.”
“Amelia—”
“No.”
“I can’t stop him.”
“You work for him.”
“Exactly.”
I paced the room.
Fourteen weeks.
I had imagined seeing Declan again in a hundred different nightmares.
In some, he dragged me back to Chicago.
In others, he looked at my stomach and smiled because I had given him an heir.
In the worst ones, he looked at me like the baby changed nothing.
At 1:07 a.m., engines approached.
Gavin stood.
I stopped breathing.
Footsteps.
Doors.
Then silence.
Declan entered alone.
Black coat.
Black shirt.
No tie.
He looked thinner.
Harder.
There was a healing cut near his temple.
But his eyes went straight to my stomach.
He stopped.
I had never seen Declan Voss speechless.
Not once.
His face lost every trace of control.
“Amelia.”
I wrapped both arms around myself.
He took one step.
“Don’t.”
He stopped instantly.
That surprised me.
His eyes returned to my belly.
“How far?”
“Seventeen weeks.”
His jaw moved.
“That day.”
“Yes.”
“You were coming to tell me.”
“Yes.”
His face tightened.
Then he looked away.
The most feared man in Chicago pressed one hand against his mouth.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Finally he asked:
“Is the baby healthy?”
“So far.”
“Boy or girl?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He nodded.
Another silence.
Then I said, “Congratulations on your engagement.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“I never touched Savannah.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“The engagement is false.”
“Publicly looked real.”
“It needed to.”
“For your ledger.”
Gavin had clearly told him what I knew.
Declan looked furious.
“At the time, I believed it was the only way to prevent a war.”
“And ‘resolve me quietly’?”
His face changed.
“You heard that.”
“Enough.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“You heard part of it.”
“Which was enough for me to know what you thought I was.”
“A civilian.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning outside this world.”
“Meaning disposable.”
Declan crossed the room, then stopped several feet away.
“No.”
“You announced an engagement without warning me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You let me believe I meant nothing.”
“I made a mistake.”
The admission silenced me.
Declan rarely used that word.
“I thought if you knew, you’d refuse protection.”
“You were right.”
“I know.”
“Then you decided for me.”
“Yes.”
The word landed hard.
He did not excuse it.
“I was wrong.”
I hated how much I wanted to believe him.
Then Gavin entered.
“Boss.”
Declan turned.
“What?”
“We identified the leak.”
“Who?”
Gavin placed a phone on the table.
Security footage.
A man entering a restricted server room.
Declan went completely still.
I recognized him.
Patrick Voss.
Declan’s uncle.
“He accessed the hospital search and Gavin’s tracking logs,” the security chief said.
Declan’s expression became lethal.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Family?”
“His wife and son disappeared three hours ago.”
Declan swore.
Gavin continued.
“There’s more.”
He opened a message Patrick had sent before vanishing.
One sentence.
THE CHILD CHANGES SUCCESSION.
Declan looked at me.
I felt my stomach turn.
“What succession?”
Neither man answered quickly enough.
“Declan.”
He exhaled.
“My father’s trust.”
“What about it?”
“If I have a biological child, control of several Voss holdings transfers into a protected generational trust.”
“So?”
“So neither Patrick nor anyone else can seize those assets if something happens to me.”
I stared.
“How much?”
Declan hesitated.
“Enough.”
“How much?”
“Approximately four hundred million.”
My knees nearly weakened.
I laughed once, without humor.
“My unborn baby is worth four hundred million dollars to your family?”
“No.”
Declan stepped closer.
“To Patrick, the baby is standing between him and four hundred million dollars.”
Then Gavin’s phone buzzed.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward Declan.
A photograph.
Savannah Calloway lying on a concrete floor.
Hands bound.
Alive.
Beside her sat a newspaper dated that morning.
Text beneath:
May you like
BRING AMELIA BENNETT TO CHICAGO.
OR SAVANNAH DIES FIRST.
