Two-Day Time Lapse
The forty-eight hours leading up to Lyle's arrival were a period of crushing tension, defined by extreme security and absolute silence between Jackson and Belinda. The entire compound operated on a hyper-vigilant frequency, but the real war was being fought in the master suite.
Jackson's POV
I hadn't slept, eaten a full meal, or left the command room for more than necessary checks since the truth was revealed. The sheer audacity of her actions—the murder, the secrecy—was a constant, burning betrayal. Yet, the knowledge that she was carrying our child, my child, filled me with a terror so profound it forced a complete restructuring of my mind.
I moved with cold, mechanical efficiency. I ordered a specialized medical wing built into the vault itself, ensuring she would never be more than fifty feet from a fortified shelter. I tripled Ronda's rotation, turning her into a phantom of armed protection. Every single item of food entering the South Wing was subjected to a chemical assay. I did this all out of a desperate, furious love.
The moment the engagement ring arrived, delivered personally by a jet-lagged, silent Tyrone just before midnight, the weight of the gold box felt heavier than any weapon. I held it in my hand, staring at the brilliant, aggressive lines of the marquise cut. It was a symbol of my intent, a desperate attempt to bridge the canyon she had dug between us. It was a promise of a future I was still terrified of, yet now fiercely committed to.
Belinda and I did not speak of the pregnancy unless it was a medical or tactical necessity. There were no apologies, no reassurances. Only commands and compliance.
"Did you take the iron supplement, Love?" I would demand, my voice flat.
"Yes, Nunus. Rosline confirmed the levels," she would answer, her eyes averted.
I didn't trust her. I didn't trust myself not to hurt her with my fear. My only outlet was working on the fortress and waiting for the right moment to place the ring on her finger—a final, inescapable lock on our fate. I kept the ring hidden beneath a loose floor panel in the vault, knowing the proposal, when it came, would be less a question and more a solemn, unbreakable oath.
Belinda's POV
The fury in Jackson's eyes was a constant reminder of my guilt, but his absolute protective response was the confirmation of my success. He was furious, not because I'd killed his father, but because I hadn't allowed him to be my protector when I was vulnerable. He was angry because he loved me too much.
This knowledge was the only thing sustaining me through the constant fatigue and the relentless vigilance. I knew that speaking to him about anything personal would only reignite his rage. He saw me as a liability who had gone rogue, and I had to prove I was now the most compliant member of the operation.
I allowed Rosline to monitor me hourly. I ate the heavily-vetted food. I stayed in the South Wing. My compliance was my new strategy. I gave him complete, total control over my physical well-being to prove my respect for his love, even if he didn't respect my actions.
The tension in the master suite was a suffocating layer of silence. I missed his casual touch, his easy smile, the easy language of our bodies. Now, he would look at my stomach with an expression of profound, terrified contemplation, then immediately snap his focus back to his comms. He was mourning the loss of his simple, two-person future and facing down a future he was convinced would kill me.
I tried once to breach the silence, lying beside him in the huge bed.
"Lyle will be here soon," I murmured. "We need a cover story for the lockdown."
He didn't turn. "I have it covered. Love. Just focus on resting."
He wouldn't even discuss the lie with me. He was shutting me out of the planning, treating me like a precious, breakable vase. But I saw the fatigue on his face, the desperation in his tireless work. I knew he was suffering. And I knew the only way to heal him was to survive. I waited, praying my secret had bought us enough time before the network retaliated.
On the morning of the second day, a coded message from Tyrone confirmed the plane had landed.
The deception…that Jackson was a standard tech CEO and the compound was merely a high-security corporate retreat—was about to be put to the ultimate test. The fortress was locked down and ready, but the biggest threat now was maintaining the façade of a normal life.
The tension in the air as the helicopter touched down was suffocating. Lyle, the kind, oblivious doctor and lawyer who'd once invited me to his place in the country, and Eleanor, the fragile, beloved woman who treated me like a daughter, were stepping into a maximum-security war zone.
I stood beside Jackson at the top of the South Wing stairs. Jackson's hand rested on the small of my back, a silent, anchoring weight.
The moment Lyle and Eleanor stepped out of the private elevator, Jackson's demeanor snapped into place. The cold, furious stranger who policed my vitamin intake vanished.
"Mom," Jackson said, his voice warm and immediately genuine as he embraced Eleanor. "Lyle. Good to see you both."
Eleanor, looking frail but composed, offered me a faint, worried smile. "Belinda, dear. I wish the circumstances were happier. That dreadful house..."
Lyle, ever the professional, gave me a polite nod. "Belinda. Good to see you. Jackson tells me you've been managing the transition to the retreat."
Jackson tightened his hand on my back, a silent command for closeness, and kissed my temple…the easy, long, affectionate kiss of a devoted partner.
"Bel's been my rock," he announced, his gaze sweeping over his family. "She's been running the operational side of things here at the retreat. Couldn't have done the early restructuring without her."
For the next two hours, the performance was relentless. Jackson was attentive, funny, and utterly connected to me. He kept his arm around me, he gently steered conversations away from the "accident," and he made sure I was comfortable, cutting in when Lyle, out of old habit, began to question me about the compound's logistics. "Don't bother her with the details, Lyle. She's been overworking."
The worst was the moments we were alone. When Eleanor stepped away to rest, Jackson's arm dropped instantly. He walked away from me, his face reverting to a tight mask of cold fury.
"Go to the lounge," he clipped out, his voice low. "Don't sit on the edge of the chair. Look relaxed. And drink your water."
My heart ached with the whiplash. The casual warmth in public made the frigid rejection in private feel like a knife twist. I was frustrated by his control and heartbroken by the loss of his genuine presence. I was protecting us both, and all he offered me in return was a brilliant, public lie and a private, toxic silence. I longed for his real touch, even his angry one, over this cold, calculated affection.