My Husband Planned My Kidnapping and Father’s Murder

Deacon didn’t scream. He didn’t throw the tablet across the room. He just sat there in the hermetically sealed silence of his corner office, watching the footage of my father’s murder for the third time. The only sound was the hum of the hard drive and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the mahogany desk—a staccato beat that accelerated with his rising fury.

When the video ended—when Hayden crushed the pills into the carpet—Deacon finally looked up. His face, usually a mask of legal composure, was unrecognizable. Veins corded along his neck, and his eyes, a warm hazel I’d known since kindergarten, were now dark with a violence I’d never seen directed at anyone but a prosecutor.

"I’ll kill him," Deacon said. His voice wasn't loud. It was a low, vibrating growl that seemed to shake the glass walls. "I will bury him under the jail, Lilian. Tonight."

He reached for his phone, but I placed my hand over his. My skin looked pale and fragile against his tailored suit cuff, but my grip was iron.

"No," I said.

Deacon froze. "Lilian, he killed Marcus. He had you kidnapped. This isn't a lawsuit; this is a homicide investigation."

"If we arrest him now, he gets a lawyer. He gets bail. He spins a story about a grieving son-in-law and a tragic accident." I leaned forward, the smell of Deacon’s espresso mixing with the cold sterility of the air conditioning. "I don't want him in a cell. Not yet. I want him to lose the company. I want him to lose his reputation. I want him to wake up one morning and realize he is back in the gutter where I found him, with absolutely nothing."

Deacon stared at me, searching for the girl who used to cry over injured birds. She wasn't there. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, shifting the air between us. He wasn't looking at a victim anymore; he was looking at a co-conspirator.

Slowly, he set the phone down. "Scorched earth."

"Ashes," I corrected. "I want ashes."

***

The elevator ride to the forty-second floor of Spencer Group headquarters felt like stepping into a coffin. The steel doors slid shut, sealing me in with the recycled air and the ghost of my father’s presence.

Then the doors opened on the thirtieth floor, and Carla Peterson stepped in.

She wore a sheath dress that cost more than her annual salary used to be, the fabric straining slightly against her midsection. When she saw me, her eyes widened—not with fear, but with the thrill of a predator spotting wounded prey.

"Lilian," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetener. "We didn't expect you back so soon. After everything... are you sure you're up for this?"

She didn't press the button for her floor. She just stood there, watching me, her hand drifting subconsciously to her stomach. A protective, possessive gesture.

"Work is a distraction," I said, keeping my face blank. My fingernails dug crescents into my palms. "My father would have wanted me here."

"Of course." Carla smirked, checking her reflection in the polished brass paneling. "Hayden has been working so hard to fill the void. He’s really stepped up."

She stepped off on the executive floor before I could reply. Ten minutes later, I bypassed the firewall on my father’s terminal and accessed the HR logs. My breath hitched.

*Effective Yesterday: Carla Peterson promoted to Vice President of Operations.*

Hayden hadn't just given her a title; he was handing her the keys to the kingdom. And judging by the prenatal vitamins I’d spotted peeking out of her purse in the elevator, he was building a dynasty.

***

The charity gala that evening was a sensory assault. Camera flashes blinded me like lightning strikes, and the murmur of the elite crowd sounded like the ocean roaring in my ears. Hayden kept his hand on the small of my back—a brand of ownership disguised as affection.

"Smile, darling," he whispered against my ear, his breath hot. "The board needs to see you strong."

I bared my teeth in something resembling a smile. As soon as he was distracted by a senator, I slipped away to the ladies' room, needing to wash the feeling of his touch from my skin.

The heavy door hadn't even latched behind me when Carla pushed it open. She was drunk—on champagne and power. She leaned against the marble sink, blocking my exit.

"You look tired, Lilian," she said, reapplying a shade of lipstick that looked like fresh blood. "Maybe you should go home. Rest up."

"I'm fine, Carla."

"Are you?" She turned, dropping the facade. Her eyes were hard, glittering with malice. "Because frankly, you're in the way. Hayden is too polite to say it, but we all know the truth. You couldn't give him what he needed."

She placed both hands on her stomach, smoothing the silk over the slight bump. "He's going to need an heir for the empire he’s building. A real partner."

My hand was already inside my clutch, thumb hovering over the record button on my phone. I pressed it.

"Is that a threat, Carla?"

She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "It's advice. Step aside gracefully, Lilian. Accidents happen so easily these days. You of all people should know that."

The recording saved with a silent tap. I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw not a rival, but a woman walking blindly off a cliff.

I stepped closer, invading her space until her smirk faltered. "Be careful what you wish for, Carla," I said, my voice ice-cold and steady. "The higher you climb, the more fatal the drop."

I left her standing there in the silence of the tiled room, the echo of my heels sounding like a gavel coming down.