Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT MY WORLD ALMOST ENDED

I had faced bullets.

I had faced enemies.

I had watched men beg for mercy.

But nothing terrified me like hearing my child’s medical alarm.

I reached the room in seconds.

“Move!”

Doctors rushed around the beds.

Blythe was struggling to breathe.

Jonah was crying.

“Daddy!”

I grabbed his hand.

“I’m here.”

“Something’s wrong with her.”

His voice broke.

I looked at Dr. Yates.

“What happened?”

He checked the monitors.

“I don’t know.”

That answer made me furious.

“You don’t know?”

“Lawson, I’m trying.”

“Then try harder.”

Blythe’s eyes opened slightly.

“Daddy…”

I moved closer.

“I’m right here.”

She looked scared.

“Someone came into my room.”

Everything stopped.

I looked at Prescott.

“Who?”

Blythe’s lips trembled.

“I couldn’t see his face.”

My chest tightened.

“But he said something.”

“What?”

She looked at me.

“He said…”

Her voice became weaker.

“He said Mommy was sorry.”

The entire room went silent.

I felt like the ground disappeared beneath me.

Because whoever entered my daughter’s room wasn’t just threatening me.

They were using Genevieve.

They were trying to break my children emotionally.

Dr. Yates adjusted Blythe’s medication.

After several minutes, her breathing stabilized.

But I didn’t feel relief.

I felt anger.

Pure anger.

Someone had crossed the final line.

They had touched my children.

Later that night, I stood alone in the security room.

Every camera feed covered the mansion.

Every entrance.

Every hallway.

Every blind spot.

I replayed the footage again and again.

Nothing.

No intruder.

No movement.

No explanation.

Then Clara entered.

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

I didn’t turn around.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re searching for someone who broke into your home.”

She stepped closer.

“But what if they never had to break in?”

I slowly looked at her.

“What are you saying?”

Clara pointed at the screen.

“The person who did this already belongs here.”

My expression hardened.

“You’re saying someone inside my house is working against me.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

She hesitated.

Then she whispered:

“Someone who knew Genevieve’s schedule.”

My blood ran cold.

Because only one person knew every detail.

Every appointment.

Every meeting.

Every private conversation.

I turned toward the door.

“Bring Odette to me.”

Prescott’s voice came through the speaker.

“Lawson.”

“What?”

A pause.

Then:

“Odette isn’t answering.”

I froze.

“Find her.”

“Already did.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Where is she?”

Prescott’s voice became quiet.

“She left a message.”

“What message?”

Silence.

Then he said:

“She wrote that she was sorry she couldn’t protect Genevieve.”

My stomach dropped.

Because if Odette knew the truth…

then she wasn’t just a servant.

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