Chapter 216
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CMWMBB 18
VENUS
I woke to the soft hum of machines and the faint antiseptic chill that seeped into every inch of the hospital room. For a moment, I didn’t move. I just stared at the ceiling – too white, too bright, too empty – and tried to make sense of the pounding behind my eyes.
My body felt heavy, thick with the sedative Aaron had insisted on. I remembered fighting it, begging him not to let them put me under. I remembered his voice – low, apologetic, breaking somewhere around the edges as the world blurred and dissolved.
Now, the world was painfully sharp again.
A soft snore drew my eyes sideways.
Sabine sat hunched in the chair beside my bed, her head resting awkwardly on her folded arms. Her curls spilled over her elbows, rising and falling with her breaths. She must have fought sleep until her body gave out. Her hand was still on the side of my mattress, like she’d been holding it.
But Aaron wasn’t here.
The space he’d occupied last night – the shadow in the corner, the anchor when everything inside me cracked open was empty. No jacket draped over the chair. No half-drunk cup of coffee on the table. Not even the
distant echo of his footsteps in the hallway.
He was gone.
Of course he was. His daughter was missing.
But even as I tried to reason with myself, the hollowness in my chest deepened.
I swallowed hard and stared back up at the ceiling.
The men who took Iris.
The gunshot.
George’s trembling voice.
And Gerald Marlowe.
My stomach twisted.
Aaron said Gerald wasn’t involved. He’d dismissed the possibility last time with a certainty that felt too quick, too emotional, too… personal. He said Gerald was still in confinement. But I couldn’t trust that. Not when Iris was out there in the hands of men who had already proved they didn’t care about human life.
Gerald wasn’t a loose end I could ignore just because Aaron couldn’t tolerate the idea.
I drew a long, shaky breath.
I had to see him myself.
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The decision clicked into place with frightening clarity.
I pushed the blanket off me and swung my legs over the bed. Pain shot up my side, hot and sharp, but I bit down on the sound threatening to escape. I tested my weight on my good leg, then the injured one. The ache pulsed, but it didn’t drop me.
Good enough.
I glanced at Sabine.
Still asleep.
Exhausted.
Still loyal.
She would stop me if she woke – with kindness, with force, with tears. I didn’t want to make her choose.
I leaned forward and grabbed the small black bag someone had left beside the bed – Gianna, probably — and rifled through it. My heart stuttered.
A dress. A new clean simple and soft fabric, nothing flashy enough to draw attention.
Perfect.
The IV line I’d torn out last night lay coiled like a dead snake on the floor. I stepped over it and made my way to the small bathroom. My fingers trembled as I peeled off the hospital gown and slipped into the dress, wincing at the tug in my ribs.
I caught my reflection.
Pale. Bruised. Dark circles smudged under my eyes. My hair, despite Sabine’s obvious attempts to care for me, still looked as though I’d crawled out of a storm.
But my eyes…
They were steady.
Sharp.
Alive with one truth:
Iris needs me.
I cracked the bathroom door open and peered at Sabine again. Still sleeping.
Good.
I grabbed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and crept to the door. Every step felt like walking through water – slow, heavy, thick with pain – but I didn’t stop. Not even when my legs trembled. 1
I eased the door open.
The hallway was quiet.
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Two nurses spoke in hushed tones at the far end, their backs turned. A doctor scribbled on a chart, not even looking up. I tugged my hair forward to hide the bandage near my temple, angled my body away from the nearest camera, and walked – soft, steady steps toward the elevator.
Don’t look at anyone.
Don’t draw attention.
Don’t think.
Just move.
The elevator dinged softly. I stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. My pulse pounded with every descending floor. By the time the doors slid open, my palms were slick with sweat.
The lobby was a maze of bodies — visitors, doctors, orderlies, guards – but none of them looked twice at me as I kept my head down and walked straight out through the sliding doors.
The cold morning air slapped me across the face.
I froze.
The world felt too big out here.
And then a harsher realization hit me:
I’d left my phone upstairs. (1
I closed my eyes.
Damn it.
For a moment, I almost turned back. Almost surrendered to the exhaustion pulling at my bones. Almost let myself be dragged back into that room, strapped to that bed, helpless and waiting for news I might not survive.
But no.
No.
Iris was out there.
I couldn’t wait,
I stepped to the curb, lifted my hand, and flagged down a taxi.
The car stopped, brakes screeching lightly. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror as I buckled in, his eyes scanning the bruise on my collarbone, the dried blood under my fingernails. Thank God the dress had sleeves.
“You okay, ma’am p>
No.
“The Federal detention center, please,” I said instead.
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His eyebrows shot up. “You sure p>
“Yes p>
He hesitated.
I didn’t.
“Drive p>
The car pulled forward.
The city blurred past my window, but nothing about it felt familiar. Not today. Not with my daughter gone. Every traffic light felt too slow. Every person walking by felt like an obstacle. Every passing second was a second Iris was alone.
By the time we reached the detention center- the imposing concrete compound with razor wire along its walls and guards stationed at the gate – my heart was swelling against my ribs.
I paid the fare and stepped out.
The cold bit through the thin dress, but I ignored it. The wind whipped against my hair as I walked toward the entrance. A guard behind bulletproof glass scanned me from head to toe.
“Purpose of visit p>
“I need to see Gerald Marlowe p>
His eyebrows narrowed. He tapped something into the system.
“You’re not on the scheduled list p>
“It’s urgent p>
“It’s always urgent,” he muttered under his breath before buzzing me through.
Inside, another officer directed me to the registration counter. My name, ID check, brief metal detector scan, signature on a waiver. The motions blurred together, my mind too focused on the man I was about to face.
Gerald.
The man who once wanted me dead.
The man who had been obsessed with me.
The man who threatened every part of my life.
The man who shot my husband thrice.
They stamped my visitor badge and clipped it onto my dress.
“Follow me,” the officer said.
I did.
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We passed through two locked gates, each one opening with a heavy buzz and an echoing clank. The halls echoed with boots, metal doors slamming, and voices – some yelling, some laughing, some dead silent.
The officer led me toward the visitation wing.
We were halfway down the corridor when another guard suddenly halted us.
His gaze snapped to my face, recognition flickering instantly.
“Wait p>
My blood chilled.
He stepped closer.
“You’re Mrs. Sinclair p>
It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed hard. “Yes p>
His eyes darted to the officer escorting me. “Does Aaron know she’s here p>
Aaron.
First name basis.
My stomach flipped.
I straightened. “No. And it should stay that way p>
The guard’s jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might turn me around, drag me out, or worse- call
Aaron.
But then he exhaled, almost reluctantly.
“Follow me p>
He led us down a narrower hallway – quieter, colder. He unlocked a door and ushered me inside a small waiting
room.
It wasn’t the typical visitation booth. No glass. No phones. Just a metal table, two chairs, and walls that smelled faintly of bleach.
“Wait here,” he said.
The door shut with a heavy thud.
I sat.
My hands trembled as I clasped them together. The pain in my ribs sharpened every time I breathed too deeply. My thoughts tangled into a thousand jagged edges – Iris’s name at the center of each one.
Minutes crawled by.
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7
Five.
Seven.
Ten.
Then the door opened.
Two guards entered, escorting a prisoner between them – wrists cuffed, ankles shackled, the chains clinking with each step.
Gerald Marlowe.
His eyes lifted.
And the moment he saw me, he froze.
The guards forced him forward to the table.
He sat.
The door slammed shut behind them.
And suddenly…
It was just us.
Face to face.
Breath to breath.
A predator and a mother.
A history between us stained with blood and betrayal.
His lips parted slowly, like he wasn’t sure the image in front of him was real.
“Venus,” he whispered.
And the world held its breath.
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Ruby Walker
Ruby Walker is a rising voice in the world of romance and spicy fiction. With a gift for weaving deep emotions, sizzling chemistry, and unexpected twists, her stories are a blend of passion and drama that captivate readers from start to finish. Ruby’s writing style is bold and irresistible—perfect for those who crave intense, addictive love stories.