That's love.
Not possession. Not hunger. Love.
The kind that settles. The kind that stays. He doesn't look like a man who would disappear without a word two days later.
"What the hell happened?" I whisper.
To him. To us. The question hangs there, unanswered, and something inside me shifts. Love like that doesn't vanish. It feels like a hot poker enters me; it sears and burns, but without pain. A love like that doesn't stop.
It's interrupted.
Taken.
The ache in my chest sharpens as the implication lands, not grief, not yet, but the slow burn of realization. Whatever tore him out of my life didn't just steal time from me. It stole choice. It stole truth.
And now it's doing it again.
My breath steadies. My pulse slows. The pain hardens into something colder, more precise. Anger. Not wild. Not blind.
Purposeful.
Whoever thinks they can stand between my son and me—I don't care if it's Daddy, the Cartel, Massimo, or the devil himself—if they think locked doors and erased records and carefully applied leverage will stop me. They have no idea what's coming.
They want war?
They'll get it.
I shove the drawer closed and stand, the sound final, decisive. My thoughts fall into line the way they always used to when I stopped reacting and started planning. I need to put the past behind me, forget who Massimo used to be, who we used to be. I need to see him as a tool to get my son back. Nothing else. A tool that needs to be controlled. Just like I need to control Daddy.
I stare at the screen again, sink back into the chair. The login screen is mocking me. I could try Carter's access, but if I'mlocked out, he's locked out for certain. He's a liability now. A problem already contained, wherever they're holding him.
But there's one more thing. One thing I hope they've forgotten. Hell—I almost forgot it myself. Before I became Jenna Whitford, I was Jenna Kingsley. For reasons I never understood, the IT department at my father's office could never merge the accounts. They couldn't simply change the name. So they created a new login instead.
What if they never deleted the old one?
I turn back to the desk, the computer waiting patiently in front of me.
I type it in.
JennaKingsley
Followed by my password. For a half second, nothing happens. Then the screen refreshes. I'm in. I laugh, short, breathless, disbelieving. My hand curls into a fist before I can stop it, a stupid, triumphant gesture I haven't made in years. Yes. My fist pounds the air.
Finally, something goes my way.
It's ridiculous how good it feels. Vindication buzzes under my skin, adrenaline snaps my spine straight. I want to dig immediately, dive into the files I know are waiting in the cloud, years of archived correspondence and internal memos that were never meant to follow me into marriage and exile.
But instinct stops me. Always check the inbox first.
It floods in faster than my eyes can track. Subject lines blur together.
I'm so sorry.
Are you okay?
If there's anything I can do…
Hope this finds you well.
