Page 52 of His Verdict

It’s a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol. It looks heavy, solid, and utterly lethal in his hand. Time slows, warping around the object. The crackle of the fire, the hum of the air, my own frantic heartbeat—it all fades into a distant roar. All that exists is that gun.

"It's time you learned it again," Corvus says, his voice chillingly calm.

And he raises the pistol, aiming it directly at my chest.

A choked gasp escapes my throat. This is it. This is how it ends. A quiet office in the middle of nowhere. An old man's casual decision.

But before my mind can even fully process the reality of the black hole of the barrel pointed at my heart, Jasper moves.

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't think. It's a pure, violent reflex.

He shoves me behind him, a brutal, protective motion that sends me stumbling back. He plants himself between me and his father, his body a solid wall, a human shield. The air between father and son crackles with a murderous energy.

"Put it the fuck away," Jasper snarls.

Chapter 25

The world narrows to the space between me and Jasper, and the gun in his father’s hand. My entire existence has been condensed into this single, brutal fact: he is shielding me.

"Alistair," Jasper's voice cuts through the charged silence. It’s not a request; it’s a command, laced with the same feral authority he just used on his father.

The rail-thin butler materializes in the doorway as if summoned from the shadows themselves. His face is a perfect, placid mask, revealing nothing. He could be witnessing a business negotiation or a murder, and his expression would remain unchanged.

"Take Ms. Sutton to my rooms," Jasper orders, his gaze still locked on Corvus. "See that she is not disturbed."

"Yes, Mr. Jasper."

Alistair’s cool, dry hand touches my elbow. The contact is so unexpected, so devoid of emotion, that it’s what finally breaks my paralysis. He gently but firmly guides me out of the room. I stumble, my legs feeling like disconnected stilts. I don't look back. I can't. The image of the gun, of Jasper's defiant stance, is burned onto the backs of my eyelids.

The heavy office door clicks shut behind us, and the sound is as final as a tomb being sealed.

We walk back down the long, echoing hallway. The portraits of the long-dead Sinclairs seem to sneer at me now,their painted eyes filled with accusation and contempt. I am an impurity in their hallowed halls. The silence of the house is no longer just quiet; it’s a predatory stillness, waiting to devour any sound.

Will there be a gunshot?

The thought is a lightning strike in my brain. I strain my ears, listening for a shout, a struggle, a muffled pop. But there is nothing but the soft tread of Alistair’s shoes on the marble and the frantic, unsteady click of my own heels. My entire body is a listening device, every nerve ending straining for a signal of the violence I know is unfolding behind that closed door.

Alistair leads me up a grand, sweeping staircase, the dark wood so polished it gleams like oil. We traverse another hallway on the second floor, this one carpeted in a thick, blood-red runner that swallows the sound of our footsteps. He stops at a door at the far end of the wing, opens it, and gestures for me to enter.

"Mr. Jasper's suite," he says, his voice as dry as dust. "Please let me know if you require anything."

It’s an absurd offer of hospitality in the middle of a waking nightmare. I step inside without a word, and he pulls the door closed, the latch clicking with quiet, definitive finality. I am a prisoner.

The room—or rather, rooms, as it’s a full suite—is a reflection of the man himself. It is vast, minimalist, and brutally elegant. The color palette is a stark landscape of charcoal, black, and cream. A massive bed with a severe, dark wood headboard dominates the main room, its white duvet pulled taut with military precision. There are no personal photographs. Noclutter. No sign of a life lived, only a life controlled. A set of floor-to-ceiling windows offers a panoramic view of the desolate, endless fields under the gray, unforgiving sky.

I walk on unsteady legs to the center of the room, my arms wrapped around myself as if to hold my splintering psyche together. The silence here is different. It's deeper. More absolute.

Is it soundproof?

The thought sends a fresh wave of ice-cold dread through me. Of course it is. A house like this, a family like this—it would be built to contain its own screams. I could be a hundred feet away from a murder, and I would never hear a thing. The not-knowing is a unique and exquisite form of torture. I am suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated terror, with no information to ground me. Is Jasper alive? Is he fighting for me? Is he dead? Did he give in? Did he offer me up as a sacrifice to appease his father?

My mind conjures a dozen different scenarios, each more horrific than the last. I see Corvus pulling the trigger. I see Jasper's body slumping to the floor. I see his father handing the still-warm gun to Alistair, instructing him to "take care ofthat," and I know he means me.

I pace the length of the room like a caged animal. From the windows to the door, back and forth, a path of pure fear. An hour passes. Or maybe it’s a minute. Time has lost all meaning. It is measured only in the frantic thudding of my own heart. I press my ear against the thick, solid wood of the door, straining to hear something, anything. I hear nothing. Just the frantic, high-pitched ringing in my own ears.

I was called an asset. A whore. A liability.

And in that cold, cruel office, for the first time, I saw my own value through their eyes. I am not a person. I am a commodity. A thing to be acquired, used, and, when my utility wanes or my risk becomes too great, liquidated. Jasper didn't stand in front of me to protect Olivia Sutton, the woman. He stood in front of that gun to protect his property. A prized possession he was not yet ready to part with.