Revenge Made Her Mine

Dangerous Delivery

Phoebe's POV

Moments later, I slipped my black helmet on and hopped onto the sleek black motorcycle sitting in the Hale driveway. The engine roared to life as I kicked off, already humming under my breath—time to get this delivery done.

——

Atticus and Patty finally crept outside once Phoebe disappeared from view. They unleashed a string of curses, but their anger was pointless now. She was long gone.

——

Phoebe's POV

My phone buzzed while I cruised down the street—Harold's file coming through. I tapped it open and nearly hit the brakes when his photo loaded.

Damn. The guy was stunning. Tall frame, shoulders that could fill a doorway, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Gold-rimmed glasses framed his eyes, but they couldn't hide the intensity lurking beneath. His mouth was set in a hard line—the kind of expression that screamed power and control.

I let out a low whistle. "Now we're talking," I murmured.

He looked dangerous in all the right ways. Cold, commanding—exactly what got my blood pumping.

Any doubts I'd had about taking this job evaporated the second I saw that face. I grinned, cranked the throttle, and shot forward.

Later, I rolled up to a sprawling mansion and brought my bike to a smooth stop beside a gleaming black SUV. My ride looked beat to hell next to it—scratched paint, worn leather—but I couldn't care less.

The moment I killed the engine, a tall figure in an expensive suit approached, flanked by a crew of bodyguards.

I pulled off my helmet and sized up Harold as he closed the distance. Christ, the photos didn't do him justice.

Staying seated with one boot planted on the ground, I met his stare head-on. "Harold?"

He seemed caught off guard that his courier was female, but he nodded curtly. "The medicine?"

I fished a small plastic baggie from my jacket and dangled it between two fingers. "The cash?"

The bag looked sketchy as hell—just two tiny black pills rattling around inside cheap plastic. Nothing impressive about it.

Harold's gaze dropped to my wrist, where a simple black hair tie caught his attention. Something about my casual confidence seemed to throw him off balance.

After several beats of silent assessment, something cold flickered behind those designer frames. He suddenly switched tactics. Instead of making the trade, he pulled out his phone and transferred half the payment. "Come with me. The rest gets paid after testing."

I glanced at his muscle, then back at him. The setup felt sketchy, but I wasn't about to back down.

After a brief pause, I tucked the pills away, swung off the bike, and followed him inside, hands buried in my jacket pockets.

The Bailey estate screamed old money and older power—the kind of family that'd been running Clearwater since before my grandparents were born. The mansion looked like something out of a history book, all grand architecture and intimidating presence. Multiple courtyards stretched out before us, but only one blazed with light. A cluster of worried-looking people had gathered near the entrance.

In families like this, genuine concern and calculated performance were impossible to tell apart.

When Harold walked in with me trailing behind, every conversation died. All eyes locked onto me—curious, suspicious, judgmental.

Most people would've wilted under that kind of scrutiny, surrounded by politicians and business moguls.

I just strolled into that courtyard like I owned it, matching Harold's pace step for step.

With Mitchell dying, the Bailey family was staring down a vicious power struggle. Bringing an outsider into the mix right now had everyone on edge.

But Harold's reputation for ruthless efficiency kept mouths shut. Nobody dared question him directly—they just followed us deeper into the estate.

Mitchell had served alongside President Yule back in the day. When health forced his retirement, the government had assigned their best military doctors to his care.

Those same doctors now stood around Mitchell's bed looking completely defeated. He'd slipped into another coma without warning—no symptoms, no signs.

His latest one, and each lasted longer than the previous. This time, he'd been under far longer than anyone considered safe. His vitals kept dropping. They'd almost called time of death twice already.

Word had leaked, and suddenly Bailey family members swarmed the house, dragging lawyers behind them and stirring up chaos. They'd crowded around Mitchell's bed like vultures, each one acting like they had final say.

Harold had finally lost his temper and sworn he'd found experimental treatment to get them out of the room.

So when he walked in now with me beside him, the medical team looked anxious. "Did you locate the medication?" one asked.

Harold stayed quiet and looked my way.

I held up the plastic bag without hesitation. The two black pills inside made a soft rattling sound as I passed it over.

The doctors stared at it like I'd handed them street drugs. The packaging looked cheap, and the contents didn't inspire confidence.

"Miss, has this undergone clinical testing?" one doctor asked nervously, refusing to take the bag. "What are the adverse effects? The active ingredients?"

"No trials," I said bluntly. "Side effect is sleepiness. Ingredients are need-to-know."

The doctors looked skeptical as hell. I ignored them and turned back to Harold. "You ordered one pill. I brought backup. Test it if you want—I'll give you some time.

"But I'm telling you now—these work. Combine them with acupuncture, and your grandfather wakes up soon.

"And you're running out of time. At his current rate, he's got very little time left. Better make your choice fast."

Before Harold or the medical team could respond, someone laughed mockingly behind us.

"What a joke. The country's top military doctors are stumped, and some random girl waltzes in claiming she has all the answers?"

"Harold, where did you even dig her up? Experimental drugs are dangerous enough. If something goes wrong—"

"Exactly. Mitchell's survived worse before. Let's stick with proven methods instead of gambling now."

"She's just a child. What could she possibly know about Mitchell's condition? Giving him very little time to live—please."

"And acupuncture? What kind of ancient nonsense is that? Isn't that Buck's specialty anyway? If he's not here, what's the point?"

As the murmuring continued, Harold slowly turned to face the crowd. His voice stayed level but carried unmistakable authority. "If you don't want to get thrown out again, shut your mouths."

Silence fell instantly. Then Harold turned back to me, his stare boring into mine. "You practice traditional medicine?" The question sounded more like a quiet command. His tone was ice-cold and impossible to argue with.

Something about that look made my skin prickle. I'd seen it before somewhere, though I couldn't place when or where. "Some," I replied.