Before I could answer—before I could examine too closely what my answer might have been—my tablet pinged with an alert. I pulled it from the pocket of my wheelchair, the screen illuminating with a security notification.
Someone had accessed Connor's old employment records at the bookstore. The digital trail led back to a private server registered to one of Harris's shell companies.
I felt my expression harden instantly, muscles tensing as the brief moment of vulnerability evaporated. This wasn't some abstract threat anymore. Harris was actively hunting Connor, methodically tracking down every piece of his past.
"We need to talk," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous register that made Connor's eyes widen further.
"That doesn't sound good," he said, setting the photograph back on the shelf. "Is this about the calls Michael mentioned?"
I gripped the tablet tighter, wishing I could shield him from what was coming. But Connor deserved the truth—the full truth about his mother, about Harris, about exactly what kind of danger was closing in around us.
"It's about why they're looking for you," I said, wheeling toward the door. "And what they'll do if they find you."
Connor followed, his earlier ease replaced with the wariness of someone who had learned early that bad news always arrived eventually. "Julian, you're scaring me."
"Good," I replied, not slowing. "You should be scared. But I promise you this—" I stopped abruptly, turning to face him. "They will not touch you again. Not while I'm breathing."
The fierce protectiveness in my voice surprised us both. In the boardroom, I was known for cold calculation, not emotional declarations. Yet here I was, making promises I had no logical reason to keep to a man I barely knew.
Except that wasn't true anymore, was it? In the span of days, Connor had become more than a stranger, more than a convenient legal arrangement. He'd become someone I was willing to fight for.
And fight I would.
I put off telling Connor what was going on until we ate dinner. I doubted he’d be able to eat anything once I him what I had discovered. I knew and I was having trouble.
I watched Connor from across the formal dining table, the elaborate meal between us barely touched. Crystal glasses caught and fractured the chandelier's light, casting prisms across the immaculate tablecloth.
The room felt too large suddenly, the twelve-foot table creating an unnecessary distance when what I wanted was to shield him from what I had to say, but Connor deserved the truth, however painful.
I took a slow sip of wine, collecting my thoughts, wondering if there was any gentle way to tell someone their family had sold them like property. There wasn't.
"You're being unusually quiet," Connor observed, his fork pushing around the perfectly seared scallop on his plate. "Whatever you need to say, just say it. I've survived this long by facing things head-on."
His directness, that refusal to hide behind social niceties, was one of the things that had drawn me to him from the beginning. It made what I had to do both easier and infinitely harder.
"What do you remember about the night we met?" I asked carefully, setting my wine glass down with precision.
Connor's expression softened slightly, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "I remember breaking into your hotel room. Being drugged. And..." he glanced away briefly, "what happened after."
"Before that," I pressed. "The family dinner. Your mother."
His face clouded. "Not much. It's hazy. I remember the restaurant, ordering drinks, and then everything gets... fragmented." His fingers tightened around his fork. "Why? What does this have to do with Harris looking for me?"
I took a deep breath. There was no way to soften this blow, no way to make it anything other than the horrific truth it was.
"Your parents didn't just drug you, Connor. They sold you. You told me about it that night and I’ve been looking into it ever since. Now, we have concrete evidence."
The words hung in the air between us, ugly and stark under the soft lighting of the dining room. I watched Connor's face closely, saw the moment incomprehension gave way to disbelief.
"Sold me? That's ridiculous. My parents are awful, sure, but they wouldn't—" He stopped, his mind clearly racing through memories, piecing together fragments that suddenly made terrible sense.
"To Alex Harris," I continued, my voice steady even as I felt a wave of rage at what had been done to him. "A pharmaceutical magnate with a sideline in human trafficking. He specializes in acquiring young men from families desperate enough or greedy enough to look the other way."
Connor's face drained of color so rapidly I was concerned he might faint. The fork he'd been holding clattered against fine china, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence that had fallen between us.
"You're saying my own mother..." he whispered, unable to finish the sentence. “And that was why Harris was there?”
"Yes, she sold you to him for a considerable sum of money, according to Michael's investigation. The dinner was arranged specifically to facilitate the exchange. The drug in your drink was meant to make you compliant, easy to transport."
