Chapter 408
[ 475 words ]
Chapter 408:
For the first time, a crack appeared in Donovan Sinclair’s composed facade. He looked from Caroline’s defiant face to the large, formidable man standing beside her, then back again.
Caroline didn’t give him a moment to recover. She squeezed Jarrod’s hand. “Let’s go.”
They walked straight past the stunned man. As they passed, Jarrod’s cold, possessive gaze met Donovan Sinclair’s, a silent, alpha-male clash that was over in a second.
Donovan Sinclair stood alone in the middle of the hallway, watching them go, his face a mask of thunderous, impotent fury.
Donovan watched their retreating backs, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The shock of seeing his daughter married to a man like that—a man whose background was shrouded in tactical ambiguity—quickly morphed into a cold, calculated rage. He pulled a sleek, black phone from his pocket and dialed a number from memory.
“Find out everything you can about the man my daughter married,” he commanded without preamble, his voice low and dangerous. “I want his entire life on my desk by tomorrow. From his military service record to his current associations. Nothing is too insignificant.”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply. In his world, there was no man in Washington whose secrets he couldn’t unearth.
𝘕e𝗐 c𝗵a𝗽𝗍𝘦𝗿ѕ е𝘷𝗲r𝗒 𝘸eе𝘬 𝗼𝘯 𝗀𝖺𝘭ո𝘰𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗌.𝖼𝘰𝘮
Later that evening, after a long, emotionally draining afternoon spent at the surgical ward observing Donovan Sinclair’s post-operative vitals, Jarrod and Caroline returned to the small apartment. The air was thick with unspoken tension from the encounter with Donovan Sinclair. To break it, and to show her gratitude for his silent intervention regarding the medical debt, Caroline decided to cook.
She found a small apron and set to work in the tiny, functional kitchenette. She was going to make roasted chicken, the way her father—Walter—had always made it. It was the ultimate comfort food, a taste of a happier, simpler time.
Jarrod didn’t offer to help. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her move around the small space with a quiet intensity. He was cautious, keeping his left hand—still heavily bandaged and throbbing from his recent injuries—tucked safely away from his active movements, his right arm remaining braced in its restrictive splint. Despite the physical toll he was clearly suppressing, he observed this small act of domesticity with a rare, peaceful softness, as if he had found a comfort he’d never known.
The apartment began to fill with the warm, savory aroma of garlic, lemon, and rosemary. As the scent grew stronger, Caroline’s movements began to slow. That smell. It was the exact smell of every Sunday dinner of her childhood.
A sudden, vivid memory ambushed her. Her father, Walter, standing in their kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, humming off-key as he basted the chicken. The warm glow of the dining room light. The sound of her mother’s laughter before the tragedy took it all away.
.
.
.
If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc..), Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.