Page 56 of The Marriage Compromise

"Come here," he said, tugging me down.

I went willingly, awkwardly kneeling beside his wheelchair to bring myself to his eye level. It wasn't graceful—nothing about our situation was—but when Julian's arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest, the awkwardness didn't matter.

I buried my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent that had become familiar in such a short time. His expensive cologne, the subtle smell of leather from his wheelchair, and something else that was uniquely Julian. His hand stroked my hair, gentle and soothing.

"I won't let him near you," Julian murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "I won't let you become another name on his list."

I believed him. Despite the absurdity of our situation—married strangers hiding from a pharmaceutical magnate with a sideline in human trafficking—I trusted Julian's promise with a certainty that should have been impossible after knowing him for less than a week.

"I know," I whispered against his neck, feeling his pulse strong and steady beneath my lips. "I trust you."

I felt rather than saw his smile as he pressed a kiss to my temple. "Good. Now—"

The bathroom door burst open without warning, Delancy standing in the doorway with a laptop clutched in his hands. His eyes widened slightly as he took in our position—me kneeling beside Julian's wheelchair, Julian's arms around me—but he didn't comment on it.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, not sounding particularly sorry. "But we've got something—evidence of Harris drugging and trafficking at least three other men. It's all here, financial records, surveillance photos, everything we need."

Julian's posture changed instantly, his body going rigid with protective fury as he released me. The transition from tendercomforter to commanding CEO happened so quickly I almost got whiplash watching it.

"Show me," he demanded, already wheeling himself toward the door.

I stood slowly, legs stiff from kneeling on the tile floor. The moment of intimacy was over, replaced by the harsh reality of why we were all here. Harris was still out there. Men like me were still in danger.

And Julian was preparing to go to war.

We gathered in the main room around Delancy's laptop, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I hung back from the group, arms crossed over my chest like I could physically hold myself together.

The enormity of what I'd just learned in the bathroom still echoed in my mind—seven men, all gone, all forgotten. Seven lives snuffed out after Harris was done with them. Seven versions of what could have been my fate.

Delancy placed his laptop on the central table, his usually impassive face showing actual emotion as he opened files with quick, precise clicks. "This wasn't easy to get," he said, his voice tight. "Harris has better security than most government agencies."

The screen filled with spreadsheets, financial records with dates, amounts, and clinical notations that made my stomach turn. Each entry represented a person—someone who had been bought and sold like merchandise.

"These are payment records," Delancy explained, scrolling through the document. "Each transaction corresponds to what Harris calls an 'acquisition.' Names are coded, but the patterns are consistent."

Jake leaned in, his normally carefree expression hardened into something I barely recognized. "And you're certain these match the missing persons cases?"

"Dates align perfectly," Delancy confirmed, switching to another screen. "But that's not all."

The spreadsheet disappeared, replaced by surveillance photos that made my breath catch. Young men—all vaguely similar in build and coloring to me—being escorted into various properties. In each photo, the men appeared disoriented, supported by handlers on either side, drugged, just like I had been.

"Jesus," someone whispered.

I felt bile rise in my throat as I looked at these strangers who shared my fate but not my luck. One photo in particular caught my attention—a sandy-haired young man whose head lolled to one side as two larger men guided him through a garden gate. His unfocused eyes stared directly at the camera, vacant and lost.

That could have been me.

"The properties are all registered to shell companies," Delancy continued, his voice fading into background noise as I struggled to process the images. "But we've traced ownership back to Harris through at least three layers of corporate entities."

Julian positioned his wheelchair at the head of the group, his back straight, shoulders squared. He'd transitioned fully into the commanding CEO I'd glimpsed in moments throughout our short time together—a man accustomed to taking control in crisis.

"Locations?" he asked, his voice calm but with an edge of steel beneath.

"Three primary sites," Delancy replied, pulling up a map marked with red dots. "Two in the city, one upstate near the pharmaceutical testing facility."

Julian nodded, eyes scanning the information with methodical precision. "Security protocols?"

"Heavy at all locations. Private guards, electronic surveillance, biometric access."