CHAPTER 0116
JULIAN’S POV
“I think from now on, when I tell you guys to come over, I’ll also need to tell you the outfit to wear,” I said, grabbing the tablet off the table with a sigh.
Ron and his team had shown up like they were about to storm a battlefield–not a great look for what we were about to do.
“Nah, I’m sure Olivia prefers guys who dress like us,” one of Ron’s men joked, flexing slightly in his vest like he thought he was modeling for a combat magazine.
I didn’t bother responding. I just shook my head and focused on the tablet screen. Their banter was irritating, but I had bigger things on my mind. I swiped through several folders until I found the file I was looking for. My fingers hovered over the screen for a second before I tapped it open.
“The last person you guys are supposed to get–her name is Emma Jackson. She’s the ring leader, and the most important out of all three of them,” I said, handing the tablet
over.
They passed it around, glancing at the image of Emma–wide eyes, calculated expression. She looked harmless
“She’s the most important? Why?” Ron asked, narrowing his eyes at her profile.
“Because Adrian Westwood has evidence–footage, to be exact–showing my sister Olivia pushing this woman into an oncoming vehicle,” I said flatly, letting the weight of that sentence hang in the air.
The room went quiet for a second.
“He has what?” Ron said, his tone shifting.
“He has a video. Looks convincing. Shows Olivia shoving Emma into traffic. According to the story they built, Emma died on impact. But obviously, that’s not true. She’s alive and in hiding. That’s why we don’t just need her confession–we need a damn video of her breathing and talking. That’s the only way to clear Olivia’s name.”
“Damn… he’s good,” one of the guys muttered from the back.
“Yeah,” I said, my jaw tightening. “He is. I hate to admit it, but he’s smart. Manipulative. And so far, he’s been one step ahead.”
I paused, letting that sit for a moment before I added, “But I’m done playing catch–up. It’s time I show him that I’m better–and am going to get her out of that mess she calls a marriage.”
Ron gave a single nod. “Understood.”
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“Good. Now back to your dressing,” I said, eyeing their tactical gear again. “You don’t actually expect to walk into a Catholic church dressed like that, do you?”
They looked down at their gear. Bulletproof vests, holsters, black gloves,
“What’s wrong with it?” Ron asked, genuinely confused.
“You’re going to the house of God, for crying out loud. Try to have some respect.” I walked over to a side wardrobe, rifling through a pile of spare clothes.
“Next time you come to my house, you’re not allowed to dress like you’re going to war,” I muttered, pulling out a few plain T–shirts.
I tossed one at each of them. “Here. Take off the gear, just wear this over your pants. The trousers are fine. Just… tone it down.”
They grumbled, but obeyed. A few minutes later, they looked more like a group of bodyguards than a private army. I glanced at Ron–he adjusted his shirt, still clearly missing the feel of his tactical vest.
We had this same issue the last time I at least thought they would know better now, but nope
I gave one last look at the screen before locking the tablet. Emma Jackson.
We were ready.
Without wasting another second, we headed outside, loaded into the vehicle, and left.
This time, we weren’t coming back without her.
The church wasn’t far, just a short drive, but the silence in the vehicle made it feel longer. Tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm. As we pulled up, the old Catholic church loomed ahead, its Gothic frame casting long, skeletal shadows across the pavement. The giant cross at the top reached toward the sky like a silent sentinel, and for a second, I found myself staring at it longer than necessary.
Ron stood beside me the moment we stepped out, eyes alert, taking in every inch of the surroundings like a man who’d done this more times than he could count. Two of his guys split off immediately to cover the exits–standard protocol, I guess. The remaining two flanked us, keeping a casual distance.
We approached the doors, tall, heavy, and worn by time. As I pushed one open, it creaked ominously, the sound echoing into the hollow silence inside. The interior was dimly lit, shafts of sunlight slicing through stained–glass windows, casting colored patterns across the pews and marble floor. The air smelled of incense and melted wax, soft and sacred, like a space untouched by the chaos outside.
Ron leaned closer. “You see her?”
My eyes scanned the pews, carefully filtering out every face. And then I saw her. Sitting alone on the far left row, head bowed, fingers laced together in prayer.
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I tapped Ron’s arm and subtly nodded in her direction. He followed my gaze and gave a slight nod of understanding. We didn’t rush–we walked slowly, respectfully, drawing as little attention as possible.
The church wasn’t full. Aside from the priest at the altar and a handful of scattered worshippers–maybe seven at most–it felt almost deserted. Our steps echoed softly as we slid into the pew directly behind hers.
She didn’t turn.
We waited, giving her time to finish. She seemed deep in thought, or maybe she was buying herself time–either way, it didn’t matter.
Once her hands finally dropped from her prayer position, I leaned forward slightly and spoke low enough that only she would hear.
“Emma Jackson.”
She turned slowly, her face betraying the calm her posture tried to maintain. -just for a second–before she masked it.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“No, you don’t,” I replied calmly, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone.” But I’m sure you know these two.”
I showed her the screen–Nick and Sandra, both bound and looking far less smug than they had been when they helped frame my sister. Her eyes widened just slightly before she quickly looked away.
“I’ve never seen them in my life,” she said flatly, but I caught the tightness in her voice and the tremble in her fingers. She was lying.
“There’s no point pretending,” I said. “I know Adrian Westwood hired you. I know what you did to frame Olivia. And I’ve got to say, you’re doing an impressive job staying‘ dead.”
Her mask cracked a bit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you people?”
“I’m the brother of the woman you framed,” I said, my tone turning sharp. “We have confessions from both Nick and Sandra. They’ve spilled everything. Adrian planned it. That you were the one in charge. All we need is your piece to complete the puzzle.”
She glanced toward the priest, as if silently hoping for divine intervention. But none was coming.
“So here’s the deal,” I continued. “You’re coming with us. You can cooperate, or you can make this difficult. Either way, you’re leaving with me. We’re going to fix what you broke.”
Ron shifted beside me, his body ready in case she made a run for it. But Emma didn’t move. She looked at me, defiance flickering behind her eyes, but I could also see fear.
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She was calculating her odds.
And I already knew–she had none.
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