The next morning was filled with love and light. Sunlight streamed into the dining room, cutting through the fortified silence of the compound. Rosline, Ronda, Tyrone, Jay, and I were all gathered for breakfast. Jackson was attentive, pouring my apple juice and making sure I was comfortable, his entire demeanor radiating a quiet, possessive joy.
The mood was broken when Tyrone cleared his throat. He looked nervous, catching Ronda's eye.
"Jay, Belinda," Tyrone started, standing up. "Ronda and I... we have something to tell you."
Ronda stood up beside him, her usual composure mixed with a rare, genuine softness. "We are together. Officially."
A beat of surprised silence, and then Rosline cheered, throwing her arms around Ronda. "Finally! I told you two to get it over with!"
Jackson simply grinned, extending a hand to Tyrone. "About time. I was getting tired of watching the eye contact warfare during dinner."
I smiled genuinely, feeling a warmth spread through me. "It's wonderful. Welcome to the chaos."
The table erupted into lighthearted conversation about their clandestine pool kisses and late-night debriefs.
Then, the mood shifted. I picked up a piece of perfectly toasted bread, but hesitated, wrinkling my nose.
"Do you smell that?" I asked, pushing the plate away. "The air quality in here is terrible today. It smells… metallic. And stale. Can someone open a window?"
Jackson, who had been in the middle of a joke, stopped. His eyes, already on high alert, sharpened on me.
"Love, we're in a sealed compound," he said, the lightness gone from his tone. "And Tyrone just ran a full atmospheric sweep yesterday. There is no metallic smell. You complained about the coffee, now the air. What is it with the overly sensitive senses lately?"
I froze, realizing I had just given away another clue.
Before I could construct a plausible excuse, Rosline jumped in, smoothly defending the secret.
"It's the cortisol crash, Jackson," Rosline interjected, not missing a beat. " It's a classic fatigue response. Your system is confusing a slight temperature shift in the ventilation with a 'metallic' smell. She needs more of Ronda's green optimisation drink and less stress."
Jackson watched me, his gaze lingering, clearly still suspicious, but Rosline's explanation was grounded in science he couldn't immediately argue. He gave a reluctant nod.
"Fine. More green sludge. Tyrone, ensure the atmospheric reading is pushed to the highest filtration level," he instructed, but the question remained burning in his eyes: What are you STILL hiding?
The conversation, the smiles, the laughter—it was all a brutal performance. Jackson's confession had only sharpened my resolve. His fear of losing me had solidified the need for my secrecy. His father was the true, existential threat, and I needed to remove that threat immediately, completely, and without his knowledge. Jackson could not be implicated, and he could not be burdened by my choice.
I'm going to protect him the same way he protected me.
Later that afternoon, I was alone in the comms room, having sent Rosline on a decoy mission. I initiated a secure, encrypted ping, linking me to the only asset capable of executing the precise, devastating action I needed.
The screen flickered, displaying the codename: Lola.
"Lola, I have a mission," I stated, my voice cold and steady, the familiar armor finally sliding back into place. "Target: The General. Jackson's father."
"Address?" Lola's voice was distorted, business-like.
"The manor house. Residential target. I want it done within 48 hours. I need absolute certainty he is within the structure when it happens."
I paused, gripping the edge of the console. This was the point of no return. My motive was clear and fueled by the rage of my love: his selfishness. He had knowingly endangered Jackson's mother not once, but twice, to satisfy his ego. He had created the very wound Jackson carried.
"Lola, listen closely," I commanded. "This is critical: Tyrone's surveillance indicates that the rest of his immediate family—Jackson's brother and mother—are not on the property. You are to confirm this before execution. If there is any indication of collateral family presence, you abort. I want only the associate and the structure removed."
"Understood. A clean, targeted demolition. Execution confirmed."
I cut the link, sitting back in the dark silence of the room. The decision was final. I had just ordered a murder, not for myself, but for the man I loved, to free him from the past and protect the future he didn't even know he had. The price of his safety was another secret, deeper and darker than the pregnancy itself.
Suddenly I didn't care about the takeover. All I needed was right in this compound and nothing else mattered.
Jackson's POV
The morning's confessions and the ensuing chaos of Ronda and Tyrone's happy news had done little to soothe the persistent tension beneath my skin. The moment Belinda complained about the air quality, the alarm bells had screamed again. Rosline's explanation was sound—cortisol and fatigue causing hyper-sensitivity—but the sheer intensity of her reaction felt like a tactical evasion. She was hiding pain, and now she was lying about a physical symptom.
I was in the secure vault with Tyrone, reviewing the latest financials, but my mind kept drifting to the pink lilies on my nightstand. The lilies were the truth…the secrecy was the lie.
Why do we keep hiding things from each other? It's like we both want to protect each other so much we sacrifice ourselves in the process each time.
"We need a new plan for my father," I stated, tapping the holographic map of the Eastern Cape coast. "We need to hit him where he's comfortable, where he thinks I won't go."
Tyrone adjusted his headset, his focus now split between his duties and the quiet elation of his new relationship with Ronda. "Agreed. His digital fortress is too sound for a quick strike. We've got nothing on him leaving that primary residence, either. He's hunkered down, waiting for our move."
I leaned back, massaging the bridge of my nose. "He's waiting for my move, but he's forgotten about hers. Bel's right—she's the one he's watching. He'll make a personal move, something designed to break my focus."
A moment later, a small, coded notification flashed on my private comms overlay. It wasn't an alarm, just a signal from an asset I hadn't activated in months. It was a location ping and a terse message: "Initiating requested cleanup. Confirming zero collateral."
I stared at the screen, a cold dread washing over me. I hadn't initiated anything. The request was old, buried deep in our command server from a crisis years ago. The asset was active, receiving instructions from... somewhere.
"Tyrone," I said, my voice dangerously level. "Run a trace on all external communications logs for the last hour. Focus on any encrypted, one-time pings. And don't breathe a word to anyone, not even Ronda."