CHAPTER 156: LOVE AND WAR

Lucy’s POV

Jack’s body went rigid beneath me, his eyes turning to ice as recognition dawned.

"Get off me." His voice sliced through the dim room, devoid of any warmth.

I didn’t move. Something about the vulnerability in his face-even as he rejected me-made me bold. He’d been drinking himself into oblivion over Anna Shaw again. The thought made my chest ache.

"Jack, please," I whispered, my fingers trembling as they reached for his face.

"Let me be here for you. I can help you forget her."

He recoiled from my touch as if burned, pushing himself up against the headboard.

"I said get off." The coldness in his tone cut deeper than any shouted insult could have.

My heart hammered against my ribs, desperation rising like floodwater.

Anna Shaw had everything-money, status, a thriving company, Marcus Murphy’s protection, and even Jack’s undying devotion. What did I have?

Nothing but the feelings threatening to burst from my chest.

"She doesn’t love you," I said, my voice catching. "She never did. But I Jack shoved me away with enough force that I nearly tumbled off the bed.

The physical rejection hurt less than the look of absolute disgust that flashed across his face.

"Out." One syllable, final as a door slamming shut.

He rose from the bed without another glance at me, striding toward his walk-in closet. The dim light from the bedside lamp caught his profile, highlighting the sharp jaw I longed to trace with my fingertips. He grabbed a bathrobe, his movements conveying complete indifference to my presence.

*If he’d just look at me—really look at me he’d see how much I care.*

A reckless courage overtook me then.

If words couldn’t reach him, perhaps... I stood on shaky legs, my fingers finding the zipper of my dress. The silky fabric pooled at my feet as I stepped out of it, heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode.

I stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, my body offered as final proof of my devotion. The shame burning my cheeks was nothing compared to the inferno of hope in my chest.

Jack paused. For one electric moment, his eyes swept over menot with desire, but with the detached assessment one might give a piece of furniture.

Then he simply walked past me into the bathroom and shut the door with a decisive click.

The sound echoed in the empty room, a perfect punctuation to my humiliation. I hugged my arms around my naked body, shivering despite the room’s warmth. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I scrambled to retrieve my dress, the fabric suddenly feeling like sandpaper against my skin.

*Even when I offered everything, he still chose her memory over my reality.*

I dressed with trembling hands and fled the room, each step on the plush carpet feeling like walking on broken glass.

Pax’s POV

I stood outside the bathroom door, mentally rehearsing what I’d say to him. George Simpson had been increasingly frustrated with his son’s behavior, and as usual, I was caught in the middle.

The shower finally stopped. I straightened my posture and adjusted my tie, bracing myself for another futile conversation. When the door swung open, Jack emerged with wet hair plastered to his forehead, clutching his bathrobe closed.

"Mr. Simpson, your father insists you come to the office today," I said, keeping my voice professionally neutral despite knowing the likely response.

Jack walked past me as if I were invisible, heading straight for the refrigerator. I followed him, watching as he grabbed a bottle of water and drank deeply.

"Mr. Simpson, forgive my bluntness, but your father only has one son— you." I couldn’t keep the genuine concern from my voice. "This feud between you two has gone on long enough. Simpson Group is facing challenges from all sides. Do you really not care at all?"

He lowered the bottle, fixing me with that cold, appraising stare that had become his default expression lately.

"Did he tell you to say that too?"

"No, these are my own sincere thoughts."

Jack’s lips curved into something too bitter to be called a smile. "Then let me share my sincere thoughts with you."

He gestured around the apartment with the water bottle, his index finger sweeping across the minimalist furniture that probably cost more than what I earned in a year.

"All of this, including Simpson Group -I don’t care about any of it."

His voice dropped lower.

"I have no interest."

"I don’t want it."

I stared at him, this privileged heir drinking water like it was the strongest whiskey, and felt a complex mixture of emotions churning in my gut. What kind of fool rejects the empire handed to him on a silver platter?

*What the hell is he thinking?* Does he believe his father’s money is somehow tainted? Or has he suddenly decided to play rebellious son at nearly thirty years old?

My throat tightened with unspoken judgments. Here I was, someone who’d sacrifice almost anything for financial security, watching this man toss away his birthright like yesterday’s trash.

For what? Some misguided hope that Anna Shaw would notice his dramatic stand against his father?

Did he honestly believe that drinking himself sick and refusing to work would somehow erase the fact that he was George Simpson’s son?

I’d offered my advice out of respect for our previous working relationship.

Since my words clearly meant nothing to him, I wouldn’t waste any more breath. I simply nodded, deciding to respect his decision while still finding it utterly incomprehensible.

Anna’s POV

The pristine array of baby items spread across the Shaw Estate’s sun-drenched terrace made my heart swell with anticipation. I carefully folded a cashmere onesie-ridiculously expensive for something that would inevitably be covered in spit-up and added it to the meticulously organized pile.

I smiled, snapping another photo of the miniature leather shoes Elizabeth had insisted were "absolutely necessary" despite my protests that newborns don’t exactly need footwear.

I sent the picture to Marcus, watching as the "delivered" notification appeared beneath it. That made five unanswered messages today.

"He’s probably tied up in meetings,"

Elizabeth offered, noticing my furrowed brow. "The time difference makes communication difficult."

I nodded, swallowing the irrational worry rising like bile in my throat.

Marcus always replied promptly about anything related to the twins. Always.

---

By midnight, the unease had crystallized into something sharper. I lay in bed, the glow of my phone illuminating my face as I tried calling him again. Straight to voicemail. My fingers typed another message-casual, not revealing the anxiety gnawing at my insides.

Rachel appeared with warm milk, concern etching lines around her eyes.

"Ms. Shaw, you need rest. Doctor’s orders."

"I can’t reach Marcus," I admitted, setting the phone aside. "It’s... unusual."

"Mr. Murphy is the most capable man I know," Rachel reassured me.

"Whatever’s happening, he can handle it."

Her words didn’t dispel the dread coiling in my stomach like a venomous snake. When sleep finally claimed me, it dragged me into nightmares where my father’s face morphed into Marcus’s, both disappearing into darkness as I screamed silently, unable to reach them.

I bolted upright at 3:17 AM, nightgown clinging to my sweat-soaked skin, heart hammering against my ribs. The twins reacted immediately, tumbling and kicking as if sharing my distress. I stroked my swollen belly, whispering soothing nonsense while desperately trying to banish the remnants of terror.

My phone lit up. I grabbed it like a lifeline.

"Hello?" My voice emerged strained and raw.

"It’s me." Marcus’s deep timbre washed over me like a balm. "Just saw your messages. Did I wake you?"

The tension melted from my shoulders. "I was already awake. What happened?"

"Some unexpected complications.

Nothing to worry about now." His tone lightened slightly. "Were you scared?"

"Not scared. Concerned." The lie slipped out easily.

"Let me video call you," he said, apparently seeing through my pretense.

His face appeared on screen, shadowed by hotel lighting but unmistakably whole and unharmed. Exhaustion lined his eyes, but they softened immediately upon seeing me.

"How are children behaving today?" he asked, his gaze dropping to my rounded abdomen.

"Active. They were practically doing somersaults during our afternoon sunbathing session." I ran my palm over a particularly forceful kick.

"I’ve sent some things for them," he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"They should arrive soon."

"We already have everything they could possibly need," I protested, drinking in the sight of him. "Stop buying things."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You have everything you need?"

Without hesitation, I replied, "Except you."

The raw honesty surprised even me.

Something darkened in his eyes, intense and possessive.

"I’ll be there," he promised, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Marcus’s POV

I barely flinched as Peter pressed the alcohol-soaked gauze against my shoulder wound. The sharp sting felt distant, almost belonging to someone else. My mind was consumed by thoughts of the Jones family.

"Mr. Murphy, if you continue to throw yourself into danger like this, I’ll have no choice but to report to Ms. Shaw." Peter’s voice carried genuine concern beneath its professional veneer.

I shrugged on my shirt, ignoring the protest from my injured shoulder. "It’s just a flesh wound. What’s the situation with the Jones family?"

Peter hesitated, his fingers pausing over the first aid kit. When he finally spoke, his words sliced through me like an ice blade.

"The Jones parents are dead. Oliver and Steven are missing."

My chest tightened as if crushed beneath an invisible boulder. Guilt and rage collided inside me, leaving me momentarily speechless. When I found my voice again, it emerged low and resolute.

"Send out search teams. Find them— immediately."

"They targeted the Jones family because they couldn’t get to me directly" I said, buttoning my shirt with mechanical precision. "Doyle knows attacking me would trigger too many safeguards, so he went after those close to me instead."

Images of the Jones couple locked in an airtight room, slowly suffocating, invaded my mind. My fingers froze on the last button.

Peter frowned, glancing at his tablet.

"Doyle’s men also took the bodies.

Why hasn’t Oliver contacted us?"

I understood Oliver’s mindset better than most. "He’s protecting us-and himself. If he’s gone dark, it means he and Steven are in unprecedented danger."

I reached for my gloves, sliding them over my hands with deliberate care.

My expression hardened into something I rarely allowed others to see.

"Doyle will use the parents’ bodies to draw Oliver out. We need to recover them first."

In the car speeding toward our destination, Peter’s phone chimed. His face drained of color as he read the message.

"Mr. Murphy, you were right. Doyle has... hung the Jones parents’ bodies from the lighthouse at Taranis Bay." His voice trembled slightly. "The bastard."

I said nothing, but fury blazed through me like wildfire.

The windshield exploded without warning. Our driver slumped forward, blood splattering across the dashboard.

Peter yanked me down as bullets riddled the vehicle.

"Fall back!" I commanded the security team through my earpiece. "Maintain distance!"

After the shooting stopped, a man approached our damaged convoy, swagger evident in his stride.

"My boss wants you to come alone, Mr. Murphy," he announced, eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure.

"Otherwise, he’ll light the fire."

Peter leaned forward, knuckles white against the seat. "What fire?"

The messenger’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "The bodies are already soaked in gasoline. One match, and... well, it’ll be quite a spectacle."

My stomach churned at the thought, but my face revealed nothing.

"Mr. Murphy, you can’t go," Peter insisted once the messenger left. "It’s obviously a trap."

"I know it’s a trap." I straightened my tie, a gesture of normalcy in this nightmare scenario.

How could I explain that some promises transcend self-preservation?

That friendship sometimes demands walking knowingly into death? With Anna carrying our twins, I had more reason than ever to stay alive, yet I couldn’t abandon my principles.

"Delay as long as possible. Make sure Torres’ team succeeds." I gripped Peter’s shoulder. "If Oliver shows up, keep him away."

Peter’s eyes filled with desperate concern. I forced a half-smile.

"Don’t look so grim. I’m more afraid of dying now than I’ve ever been."