Chapter 9
The wait in the master study felt like an eternity. The room was lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, but the large windows ensured it remained bathed in the same bright, airy luminosity that defined the estate. Amabel sat on a plush leather sofa, still wrapped in Stellan’s dark suit jacket, sipping a cup of hot, sweetened tea that a terrified staff member had brought her.
Stellan paced the length of the room. His movements were controlled, but the underlying tension was palpable. He kept his phone gripped tightly in his tattooed hand, waiting for the call.
Amabel watched him. The fear that had paralyzed her for weeks was slowly dissolving, replaced by a strange, surreal awe. This man, a criminal mastermind feared by politicians and police alike, was tearing his own empire apart to rectify the wrong done to her.
"Why didn't you marry her?" Amabel asked quietly, breaking the silence. "Even before you knew about the baby. Celestine is beautiful. She comes from a powerful family. It made sense."
Stellan stopped pacing and looked at her. He leaned against the edge of his heavy wooden desk.
"In my world, Amabel, alliances are necessities, not choices," Stellan explained, his voice low and reflective. "Her family offered political cover. It was a transaction. But beauty and power do not equate to loyalty. I suspected she was cold, but I did not realize she was a monster."
He looked at her, his slate-grey eyes softening. "The night of the gala... when I found you in the library. I thought you were her. But you were different. You were gentle. You didn't demand anything. You simply existed in that moment with me. I spent months wondering why the woman I was engaged to felt so entirely different from the woman I held in the dark."
Amabel’s fair skin flushed a deep, rosy pink. She looked down at her tea. "I was terrified when the lights came on and I realized who you were. I ran before you could see my uniform."
"You ran well," Stellan murmured with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "But you cannot run anymore."
Before Amabel could respond, Stellan’s phone vibrated violently in his hand. He brought it to his ear instantly.
"Speak," Stellan commanded.
Amabel held her breath, her heart pounding against her ribs. She watched Stellan’s angular face for any sign of bad news.
"Are you certain?" Stellan asked, his voice tight. A long pause followed. Then, the tension in his shoulders dropped completely. A deep, heavy sigh of relief escaped his lips. "Bring him home."
He ended the call and looked at Amabel. The cold, intimidating Mafia boss was gone, replaced by a man looking at the mother of his child.
"They have him," Stellan said, his voice thick with emotion. "He is safe. He is sleeping in the back of the transport vehicle. They will be here in twenty minutes."
Amabel burst into tears, dropping her teacup onto the saucer with a clatter. She covered her face, sobbing with a joy so profound it physically ached.
May you like
Stellan crossed the room in three strides. He sat beside her on the leather sofa and pulled her into his chest. He didn't offer empty words of comfort; he simply held her, letting her cry into his crisp white dress shirt, his large hands resting protectively on her back.
For the first time in his life, Stellan Wycliffe felt that his empire, his wealth, and his power meant absolutely nothing compared to the fragile, beautiful reality of the family he was about to hold in his arms.
