Bound by Decree

The Road to Marigo Street

(Angela's POV)

I shifted in the leather seat of the Lexus, fingers knotted in my lap, thoughts scattering like sparks. I kept rehearsing what I might say to Jonathan—how to begin, what truths to bury, and whether he’d even let me finish.

But my mind kept veering back to Silas.

I knew better than to expect quiet from him, not after the whirlwind marriage to William Briggs. And certainly not after I crashed that boardroom meeting and tore apart the backdoor deal he thought he could slide through unnoticed.

His silence wasn’t an oversight—it was calculated. I could almost hear the gears turning behind the scenes, the whispers in boardroom corners, the desperate grasp at whatever power he believed I’d stolen. But what he didn’t see coming was that I hadn’t just walked in with a marriage ring—I walked in with a resolute heart.

Still, I couldn’t let myself focus on him. Not now.

There was a bigger confrontation ahead, and Jonathan’s name was written all over it.

And as for the shooting—and the message signed in my mother’s words, the woman I watched die three years ago—I hadn’t let myself unpack any of it. Not yet. Maybe I should have. But fear wasn’t something I learned to nurture. My father raised me to stand firm. In business. In loss. Even with a bullet whistling past my future.

I didn’t know who pulled the trigger yesterday. Or how my mother’s words had returned from a grave I’d stood beside. But I did know this: I wasn’t going to be another casualty. Not a victim. Not a name in the wrong headlines.

Not me. Not now.

Cautious, yes. But not paranoid.

From the driver’s seat, John’s eyes met mine briefly in the rearview mirror, concern softening his features.

“You seem troubled, Miss Kings?” John only ever used Miss Kings instead of ma’am when he wanted to speak to me on a more personal level. It was his way of gently opening the door to conversation—part driver, part old friend, always careful not to overstep.

His voice was calm, low, the kind you don’t realize you’ve been waiting to hear until it pulls you out of yourself.

I tried to offer a polite nod. "I'm fine, John."

He didn’t buy it. "You’ve had that worried look since you stepped in. Looks too much like your late father when something was seeping through his mind."

That pulled a small breath from me. "You always did read us well."

"Hard not to," he chuckled. "Spent over a decade driving your father around. He had a tell, you know. When he was furious but pretending not to be, he’d run his thumb along the leather armrest. Wore out three interiors that way."

I gave a faint smile. "I remember."

He nodded, turning the wheel carefully. "Miss him a lot these days. We didn't always see eye to eye, but he had a way of making you feel like the world could still be put in order. Even if he had to do it with bare knuckles."

Silence fell for a moment. It wasn’t awkward—just heavy with shared stories.

Then he asked, gently, "You wanna talk about what’s got you looking like the city just came crashing on you?"

I hesitated, watching the world roll past through tinted glass. Then, he tapped the screen of the console, and soft jazz filtered into the car, the kind my father liked.

"Come on," John said with a grin. "That music doesn’t open mouths like it used to?"

I let out a soft laugh, surprising even myself. "It’s Jonathan."

"Ah," he said, understanding immediately.

"You already know that’s where we’re headed. He hasn’t called… I don’t even know if he’s seen the news."

"He’s probably seen it," John said quietly. "At this point, anyone with a screen has."

I nodded, my throat tightening.

"Yeah… I just hope it’s not too late to explain."

"That’s what you’re counting on," he said, his voice steady.

"Exactly," I murmured.

John was quiet for a beat, then turned his head slightly. "You want me to stop by and get your usual breakfast snack from Yummy-bite pastries?"

I shook my head. "Not today. I can’t eat. I just need to get to Marigo Street. I need to talk to him."

"Understood."

The rest of the ride passed with that familiar quiet comfort John had gained mastery in providing. It felt shorter somehow, maybe because my mind was too busy rehearsing conversations that didn’t yet exist. Words I might say. Apologies I might give. Wounds I might open wider just to show him the truth.

Finally, the Lexus slowed and turned into the long drive of No. 7 Marigo Street.

I took a breath and stepped out.

The air was warm, but my body felt numb. I walked slowly up the path and knocked on the door.

It swung open quicker than I predicted.

Jonathan stood there. His face was unreadable. He looked tired—not the charming, smooth Jonathan I’d always known, but someone who probably had been up all night.

His voice was low. "Angela."

"Can I come in?" I asked.

He stepped aside, and I walked into the familiar hallway.

"I assume you’re here to explain," he said as he closed the door.

"Yes."

"Because I’ve seen the news. The marriage. William Briggs. Angela, I—"

"Jonathan, please. Just hear me out."

He leaned against the entryway table, arms crossed. "I'm listening."

“I didn’t plan any of this. You have to believe me,” I said, my voice low but urgent. “I told you yesterday about the clause in my father’s will. The marriage clause. I had to marry William or risk losing my inheritance. My uncle was already circling, making moves before the dust even settled. I didn’t have time.”

Jonathan shook his head slowly, the pain in his eyes cutting deeper than his words.

“You could’ve waited, Angela,” he said quietly. “You should’ve given me a little more time. A little more trust.”

“I tried,” I said, the words trembling out. “I came here, Jonathan. After I had left the station. I stood right at your door. And I saw a blonde woman inside. I thought…” I trailed off, shame tightening in my chest.

His brows lifted, confusion flickering briefly before sharpening into disbelief.

“My cousin,” he said slowly. “She flew in a couple of days ago—had a few things to pick up from the house. She mentioned someone stopped by, but she didn’t realize it was you.”

"You didn’t call," I said quietly. "Not while I was in the station. Not all night."

“I had a client emergency,” he said. “Right after we spoke, I got dragged back into court. I was stuck there the whole day. I only sent that message when I got out.”

“You could’ve called. Even after,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d even answer,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

A long silence stretched between us.

He finally stepped forward, just a little. “You made a choice, Angela. Maybe not out of love. Maybe not for him. But a choice all the same.”

“I didn’t choose him over you,” I said, voice raw. “I just bought some more time.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The hurt was still written in the tension across his chin, in the way his eyes wouldn’t stay on mine for more than a second.

“I just... I didn’t want you to hear it from a screen,” I said. “I owed you more than that.”

He turned, walking slowly down the hallway. Then stopped. His back still to me.

“You and I,” he began, then hesitated. “We’re not... undone. But this changes things, Angela. You know that.”

I closed my eyes, fighting the sting. “Yes.”

He faced me again. “You want to fix this?”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Then don’t come back here with apologies.” His gaze met mine fully now, steady and sharp. “Come back with something real.”

And just like that, he walked into the next room.

He didn’t close the door.

And somehow, in the quiet that followed, I understood the message—

He hadn’t shut me out.

But the next move was now mine to make.