Chapter 212
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AARON
The accusation in her voice-“What is going on? And who the hell is doing this, Aaron?”—was a scalpel cutting straight through the fragile control I’d been holding together. She wasn’t just asking for information; she was demanding an explanation for the sheer, unrelenting terror that had stalked our family for the past week- terror that had culminated in a violent ambush and the loss of our child.
I took a slow, measured breath and pulled my hands away from her. I needed to move-to put space between myself and her pain-because if I stayed locked in it, I’d lose the focus I needed to bring Iris back.
I crossed to the window. The blinds were drawn tight against the intrusive daylight, but a thin blade of light cut through, revealing faint dust motes drifting in the air.
Who the hell is doing this?
That was the question-the cold, rotting core of all this chaos. I was a man who had built an empire through ruthlessness and precision, who’d survived the shark tank of global business for two decades. I was Aaron Sinclair. People feared me, respected me, and-most importantly-they understood the rules of engagement.
But this? This wasn’t business. It wasn’t a hostile bid or some blackmail stunt. A planted scandal to humiliate me publicly was one thing. But an ambush—an attack that left my wife shot, my son traumatized, and my daughter stolen? That was something else entirely. This was personal. This was war.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, the words scraping out of my throat like gravel. I turned back to her. The sight of her-pale, bandaged, and broken-ignited a cold, steady fury that burned deeper than guilt ever could.
“But I will find out,” I vowed, my voice low and venomous. “Whoever took our princess, whoever laid a finger on my child, whoever put two bullets in your arm and made George believe this was his fault-they’re going to pay a price so steep it’ll make everything they’ve done look like a warm-up act p>
The world seemed to have forgotten who I was. They saw the headlines-the compromised businessman, the cheating husband. What they’d never seen was the man who would burn cities to protect what was his. The man who’d once nearly killed someone for looking at Venus the wrong way.
From scandal to abduction-every move so calculated, so exact. But I was ruthless. And ruthlessness always beats clever when you’ve got nothing left to lose. And I had lost everything the moment I saw George’s guilt- ridden face in that doorway.
I moved back to her bedside. My hands pressed against the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her gaze,
“Tell me everything, Venus,” I said, my tone firm but softening as she flinched. “How did you find yourself, George, and Sabine Jr. at the scene? You were bleeding out when we got there. How did you get out of the car p>
She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “The door. I forced the passenger door open for the twins… then mine. I told them to run to the trees. I had to get them out p>
Her good hand brushed her wounded arm instinctively. I pulled back, giving her space.
“When we arrived,” I said, forcing the words out evenly, “we got Rick’s distress call and mobilized immediately. Connor, Colton, and I went in with every available unit. But we were too late p>
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The memory burned like acid. “There was no sign of the attackers. No smoke trails. No tire marks. Just carnage. The rear vehicle was a fireball. Rick and the others-gone. The car you were in… twisted metal. You don’t want to know what it felt like, Venus, seeing that wreckage p>
I closed my eyes briefly, replaying the image: the smoke, the silence, the smell of blood and gasoline.
“Then we saw you-by the roadside, unconscious, bleeding out. Sabine Jr. was beside you, crying, covered in your blood. But the twins weren’t there. My heart stopped. The last time I felt that kind of fear was when Gerald took you p>
I forced the memory down. “We checked-Gerald’s still rotting in maximum security. No visitors. No assets. No reach. He’s out of the picture p>
I leaned forward, voice dropping to something dark and focused. “We got you and Sabine Jr. out first. Then I sent every man I had into those woods. It was chaos. A blind search. Then a few yards from the site, they found him. George. Unconscious near a fallen log. But Iris… she was gone p>
I paced to the foot of the bed, gripping the rail. “We brought George here. He was cleared by the doctors and woke up quickly. He told us what happened-that he saw them take Iris away p>
His descriptions were useless. Masked men. A black truck. Military precision. That stretch of road was a dead zone-no cameras, no witnesses. It was planned perfectly.
“The police investigated,” I said flatly, “but this isn’t their fight. It’s mine p>
I looked at her at the terror in her eyes, the strength still lingering beneath it. “It’s been three days. Connor, Colton and I haven’t slept. We’ve tapped every contact, every black-market network, every intel feed I can access. Nothing. No ransom. No demands. No notes. No mistakes p>
“They didn’t want money,” I said.
Her breath hitched. “Then what do they want p>
“They wanted her. They wanted to hurt us this way. They wanted to break us.” My voice dropped low, hard as flint. “And they’ve hurt us, yes. But they haven’t broken me. They’ve only told me exactly where to aim p>
She turned her face toward me – raw, glassy eyes that had the weight of a woman who’d been carrying fear and pain for far too long. “You’ll find her,” she whispered. It was more plea than order, fragile and fierce at once.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand the way a man clutches a lifeline. Her pulse fluttered under my fingertips like a small, frightened bird. “I’ll find her,” I said. “And whoever touched you – whoever thought they could take my child – they’ll understand what it means to cross us. This stopped being about business the second they touched my family. Now it’s about retribution and getting our daughter back p>
She tried to answer, lips moving, sound breaking into a ragged breath. Her eyelids drooped and then fluttered open again; exhaustion carved hollows under them. She was still awake, still fighting the pull, but the fight was leaving her by degrees. Every blink seemed longer than the last.
I watched the way the fight left her. It was the most intimate thing I’d ever seen – the surrender of a thousand small defenses she’d kept in reserve. It was also terrifying. She was too raw, too close to the edge.
“Venus,” I said softly. “You have to sleep. They need you better if you rest p>
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She barked a laugh that turned into a broken sob. “Sleep? And let them keep her?” Her eyes flashed open, pleading. “You can’t just… you can’t just let them p>
A nurse slipped into the doorway with the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen too much to be surprised by anything. She carried a small tray and a look that said she wouldn’t argue. The fluorescent light haloed her like a halo you never want to see.
“We can’t keep going like this,” I said, before the nurse could speak. “You need to rest. You’re burning every reserve you have. I’m sorry – I know you don’t want this, but you have to let us help p>
Venus’s fingers tightened around mine so hard I could feel the pressure through to my own skin. “No. I have to -” she started, but the words were thin threads.
I felt the tremor in her hand; it mirrored the tremor in my chest. There was no way to make this easy for her. There was only what had to be done.
“Venus,” I said, my voice carrying that measured cadence that had always made her listen. “Please. For the children. For me. Just sleep. Let us hold this for you for an hour p>
The nurse set the tray down with practiced calm. “This will help you rest,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Just breathe through it. We’ll monitor you p>
Venus’s jaw worked. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. The stubborn, defiant part of her flared one more time. “Don’t-don’t you dare-” she began, and then the oxygen in her chest left in a ragged sound.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and it felt like the smallest, clumsiest apology to offer to someone who’d just been ripped open and expected to stitch herself back together. I wanted to tell her everything I’d do, the steps I’d take, the people I’d break down until the name of the one who ordered this came loose. I wanted to roar that the earth would quake for anyone who’d touch her child. But the vow in my chest could survive without being voiced again. It would be acted on.
The nurse approached with the syringe as if approaching a sleeping animal – careful, resolute. Venus’s eyes found mine one last time; there was a plea there I didn’t have words for. I squeezed her hand like a promise.
She tried to turn her face away, to fight, but the energy had left her. The nurse administered the sedative with a steady hand. The effect was not immediate theatrics; it was an erasing of edges. The panic that had sharpened her features smoothed. Her eyelids fluttered. Her breath, which had been shallow and fast, lengthened and slowed.
“Find her,” she mumbled, the words slurred by the fog rolling over her. They were both a command and a benediction.
“I will,” I said, though I suspected the word would not satisfy her- nor did it need to. I pressed my forehead to hers, feeling the heat of her skin cool under the sterile air. The drip at her arm twitched as the nurse made sure the line was secure. Machines clicked and monitored in a chorus that was both clinical and compassionate.
She fought against the sleep a little longer, one hand going to my shirt as if to anchor herself to me, as if my skin were the last thread to the world she wasn’t ready to leave. I kept my hand around hers and let her find it, let her rest in the fact that I was there, that my presence was real and not a phantom of fear.
As the sedative edged the panic from her eyes, her grip loosened. Her breaths came slower. Her lips shaped the name one more time – a whisper, barely there, the way you say a prayer in the dark – “Find her p>
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The nurse gave me a small, apologetic look, the one that asks permission without needing it. She drew the curtains close and dimmed the lamp, and the fluorescent light softened to a glow. The room settled. Outside the door, the hospital continued its quiet, measured ballet of care. Inside, a small, fragile peace fell.
I will find her.
And once I do, they will learn what it means to have crossed Aaron Sinclair.
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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.