Bound by Decree

Fallout

(Angela’s POV)

The morning light crept across the sitting room’s marble floors like guilt on tiptoe.

I woke slowly on the couch, head heavy, mouth dry. My body felt stiff and cold, weighed down by the exhaustion of everything I had endured in the last twenty-four hours. Or perhaps it was just the scotch—I hadn’t touched liquor in years.

A soft buzzing drew my attention. My phone lay on the floor beside the couch, facedown. It must have slipped from my hand when I passed out last night. I reached for it with sluggish fingers and blinked at the screen.

Eleven unread messages.

Most were from colleagues. A few from unfamiliar numbers likely belonging to press contacts or concerned board members trying to "check in." But three were from Rose.

My chest tightened.

ROSE:

Angie, WHAT??

ROSE:

Just saw your invite. Marriage? To William Briggs??? In less than 24 hours? What about Jonathan? What the hell is going on? I leave for one weekend, and the world seems to be falling apart?

ROSE:

Call me. Please. I’m freaking out.

I rubbed my temple and typed back slowly, my fingers a bit clumsy.

ME:

Hey Rosie. I know this looks crazy. I promise I’ll explain everything in detail when you’re back. The marriage... the reason why it happened the way it did... it was all urgent. I don’t think there was much I could have done differently. Just get home safe, okay? See you.

I hit send and leaned back.

Of all people, Rose would understand. But not over a text or a call. Not yet. Not until I could look her in the eyes and tell her that everything I’d built was almost torn away from me. That my uncle had been circling like a vulture, that the board had already begun picking at the dead remains.

That my father had left an explosive disguised as a marriage clause.

And then there was Jonathan.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over his contact. My heart thrummed unsteadily.

How was I supposed to explain this to him? How did I even begin to tell the man I’d loved for years that I was now someone else’s wife? That I hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t fought harder to preserve what we had?

I prayed—quietly, desperately—that he hadn’t heard yet. That maybe, just maybe, the news hadn’t reached him.

But even I knew that was wishful thinking. Nothing stayed quiet in this city—not even the secrets buried in the dead of night.

With a breath, I tossed the phone beside me and stood, stretching the ache from my limbs. I crossed the sitting room and turned on the OLED screen mounted above the sleek fireplace. The news flickered to life.

BREAKING NEWS: SHOOTING AT KINGS TOWER — EXECUTIVE IN STABLE CONDITION

A sharp pang twisted in my chest as my name and William’s scrolled across the bottom of the screen in bold, white type. Images flashed: the steps of Kings Tower. Police cordons. A gurney. My face, blurred slightly but unmistakable, as I knelt beside him, blood staining my hands.

I muted the volume. My pulse was too loud already.

A news ticker rolled beneath the anchor’s perfect teeth:

Sources say Miss Angela Kings married William Briggs in a private ceremony a couple of hours after the attack. Speculations rise about motives and corporate implications.

I stared at the screen, jaw tightening. They hadn’t wasted a second, had they?

Now, there was every chance Jonathan already knew about the marriage.

But if he did, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he come over to my place—anything—to ask if it was true or just another rumor spinning out of control?

The phone buzzed again. Another message. I didn’t check.

Instead, I picked it up and called John, my driver. His voice came on with practiced calm.

"Yes, Miss Kings?"

"Pick me up in thirty-five minutes. The Lexus."

"Right away, ma'am."

I ended the call and walked to my bedroom.

The silence in the apartment was heavy. Thick enough to cut through. I undressed without looking in the mirror and stepped into the bathroom, letting the hot water scald away the fog that had settled in my mind.

After stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a soft gold towel and made my way to the closet, steam trailing behind me like a fading veil.

I selected a sharp navy-blue blouse and high-waisted trousers—authority clothes. Clothes that made a statement. Clothes that reminded the world who I was.

I spritzed perfume behind each ear, the expensive kind my father used to raise a brow at. "Smells like courage," he’d once said.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and dialed one of my executive leads.

“Kate, I need a quick update on the investor call that was moved to this afternoon. Push it to four if you have to. And have the comms team scrub last night’s PR mentions—nothing public yet. Just monitor everything, quietly.”

Her voice came through, crisp and composed, already shifting into motion.

That calm efficiency steadied me. For a fleeting moment, it felt like control was mine again.

A soft honk cut through the quiet. John was outside.

I slipped into my coat, fastened the last button, and stepped into my heels. As I walked toward the front door, I turned off the TV with a quiet click, the screen fading to black just as I stepped out into the day.

Outside, the sun’s rays cast beautiful lines through the morning haze. John stood beside the Lexus, the passenger door already open.

I stepped inside without a word.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I stared straight ahead.

The world hadn’t stopped spinning. Not for me. Not for truth. Not for what probably lay ahead.

And certainly not for grief.

I exhaled slowly, then spoke, my voice low but steady.

“John… take me back to the same place you drove me yesterday.”

A beat passed.

“No. 7 Marigo Street.”