bChapter /bb208 /b

ADRIAN’S POV

I rolled from one side of the bed to the other, the sheets twisting around me like vines. Sleep refused to return, slipping further away each time I btried /bto sink back into it. There it was again that faint sound. A low, distant wail, as though the wind itself carried a message meant only for me.

For a moment, I wondered if it was just in my head. Maybe the remnants of some half–forgotten dream clinging to the edge of wakefulness. But no, it was real, persistent enough to tug me fully into the morning.

With a sigh, I sat up, pressing my palms against my face. A reminder that I hadn’t even started the day yet. The room was dim.

My gaze shifted to the clock on the nightstand. 10:39 a.m. No wonder sleep had abandoned me, my body wasn’t used to lying in bed thiste. Normally, by now, I’d be halfway through my morning routine–weights, treadmill, and a cold shower ito /isnap my mind into rity.

But that sound… Where the hell was iting from?

Pushing back the covers, I swung my legs onto the cold floor and stood. My bare feet padded quietly across the polished tiles as I walked toward the curtains, ready to pull them aside and peer out. Just as my fingers touched the heavy fabric, a soft knock came at the door.

The sound broke through the silence of the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

I turned, my brow furrowing, and crossed over to the door. As I opened it, the familiar scent of freshly cleaned hallways drifted in. Standing there was bone /bof the maids–small, timid, her uniform neatly pressed.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, dipping her head in a quick bow.

“Morning,” I replied, though my tone came out rough from sleep. “What’s that sound? And where’s iting from?”

“Sir… your attention is needed at the door,” she said, her gaze flickering nervously past my shoulder.

My brows drew together. The door? I wasn’t expecting anyone. None of my friends or associates would just stand outside, waiting.

“By who?” I asked, my voice sharpening slightly.

“Police officers, sir,i” /ishe replied.

For a split second, I almostughed. It felt absurd like some bad joke someone had decided to y to break the dullness of the morning. But her expression didn’t shift, no sign of amusement, no quiver of lips that betrayed a lie.

This wasn’t a prank.

I exhaled, my breath slow, measured. “Tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I instructed.

She nodded quickly, bowing once more before closing the door behind her.

Left alone, I ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake off thest traces of sleep. Police? At my door? For what? I’d stayed out of trouble–at leasttely.

I crossed over to the wall and grabbed the remote for the TV mounted opposite my bed. A single press brought it to life, the screen instantly showing the live feed from the front gate cameras.

And there they were.

Two officers, both dressed in in clothes but with the unmistakable glint of badges at their waists. One of them shifted impatiently, while the other reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. Their squad car sat by the curb, the red–and–blue lights still shing faintly in the morning haze that was the sound that had woken me.

A tight knot formed in my chest. The sirens, the sudden visit, the cigarette flickering between tense fingers… it all felt wrong. Police don’t usually show

bwed /b

up at your door without a reason.

My mind raced through recent days, searching for something anything that might have brought them here. Had someone filed a ramres dia, then an investigation I hadn’t heard about? But nothing fit.

With a quiet curse under my breath, I stepped toward the wardrobe. I grabbed a simple ck t–shirt and dark jeans, nothing too formalb, /bbut enough to look like I hadn’t just rolled out of bed. My hand hesitated over the cufflinks and watch I usually wore, but I left them. No need to appear too polished a might look defensive.

I could already smell the sharp, bitter sting of cigarettes drifting in from outside, long before I reached the door, it irritated my senses, clinging bstubbornly /bto the air and scratching at the back of my throat. The officers must have known they’d need to put it out, but it seemed they couldn’t help themselves, not even while standing on someone else’s front step.

I paused, rolling my shoulders once, then let a carefully practiced smile slip onto my face. It was the kind of smile I’d worn countiess times–a smile bthat /bsaid, I’m listening, even if I don’t care.

With a deep breath, I opened the door, the wood swinging inward on silent hinges. “Gentlemen,” I greeted smoothly. “I heard you wanted to speak to me?”

“Good morning, sir,” the taller of the two officers replied, dipping his head slightly. His voice had that official edge to it–firm, but forced to sound polite. “And you’re right, there’s an urgent situation that needs your attention.”

As he spoke, a fresh stream of smoke curled from his mouth, carried by the breeze straight toward my face. The acrid burn made my nose wrinkle, band /bb1 /binstinctively lifted my hand, waving it away as my patience thinned.

“Do you mind putting that away?” I said, my voice cool, though my jaw tightened slightly. “There’s no smoking in this house.”

The shorter officer immediately stubbed the cigarette out under his heel, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry about that, sir,” he muttered, not bquite /bmeeting my eyes. “Didn’t know.”

Theld back a sigh. Of course, they didn’t know. They had no idea about anything beyond the uniform they wore and the warrant they clutched.

“So as I was saying…” the taller officer continued, clearing his throat. “We received ba /blead that you may have been involved in a murder a few years ago, sir. We have a search warrant, and we’d appreciate your cooperation while we look for evidence on the premises.”

For half a second, silence stretched between us like a rope pulled tight, waiting to snap.

Then, without meaning to, a smallugh escaped my lips. Short, sharp, and cold. “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” I asked, tilting my head. “Me? Involved in a murder? You know, I always assumed your unit was buried under real work at the station. But toe all the way here and pull ba /bstunt like this…” I paused, shaking my head slightly. “It tells me you gentlemen must be more bored than I thought.”

“This isn’t ba /bjoke, sir,” the shorter officer said, his tone hardening a fraction.

I studied their faces–ione /icarefully neutral, the other flickering with something like irritation. They really meant it. They really believed they could walk into my house, wave around a few papers, and treat me ilike /isomemon suspect.

I exhaled through my nose, then lifted my arm, pointing calmly toward the gate. “Yeah, please,” I said. “The gate’s that way. You can see yourselves out. I have better things to do this morning than humor nonsense.”

My body was already half–turned, ready to head back inside, when I caught the rustle of paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the taller officer blift /bbthe /bdocument higher, holding it firmly where I couldn’t ignore it.

“We have orders, sir,” he repeated, the steel in his voice clearer now. “This isn’t ba /bjoke.”

My gaze fell on the paper. The official stampi. /iThe signatures. The crisp ck print using me, Adrian Westwood, bof /bbsomething /bI bhad /bbabsolutely /bbno /bbtime /bor patience to deal with.

For a moment, irritation shed hot and sharp in my chest–an urge to tear the damn paper apart and throw them both boff /bthe bproperty/b. bBut /bbyears /bbof /bboardrooms and legal threats had taught me to hold that instinct back.

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Instead, I drew in a slow breath, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose as though the entire conversation were bgiving /bme ba /bheadaches blind muttered finally, letting the words slip out like an exhale. “Go in and search. It’s not like you’re going to find anythingb” /b

AD