Bound by Decree

The Weight of Inheritance

(Angela's POV)

The room felt suffocating. The corner camera blinked like a metronome. Detective Gibson's words hung like nooses.

"Then explain why she called me. Last night."

I stared at him.

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“No. No, that’s not possible. You’re trying to rattle me.”

“She said her name and said she had information about today’s attempt. Asked for you to be protected. Told me you’d deny her being alive.”

I shot to my feet. “We’re done.”

“You’re not under arrest—”

“But if this conversation is going to continue,” I snapped, “I want my lawyer. Now.”

Gibson frowned, frustrated, but he leaned back, hands raised in reluctant surrender. “Fine. We’ll pause here. You’re free to go.”

I didn’t thank him.

He watched me leave like he was studying every breath, every twitch—like I was a riddle he’d c***k by morning.

The corridor was just as bleak—flickering lights, scratched walls. I pushed through the heavy doors into the fading afternoon light, breathing like it was the first time in hours.

I sat on the top step, the cold stone seeping through my dress, and pulled out my phone. I dialed John, my driver. I’d sent him home hours ago, told him I’d call when I needed him to come.

The line picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Ma'am.”

“Come pick me up,” I said, voice low. “I’m outside the station.”

“Yes, Madam. I’m already on my way.”

I ended the call and rested the phone in my lap.

Then I just sat there. Still. Silent.

Gibson’s voice still echoed in my head, sharp and disbelieving.

It’s not possible, I told myself. I watched her die.

But my heartbeat faltered—slow, uneven, as if my body wasn’t sure how to carry the weight of what I’d just heard.

And then, without warning, the memory surfaced.

The hospital smelled of rubbing alcohol and something discomforting beneath it. My father and I stood at the foot of her bed. The machines surrounding her beeped softly, rhythmically—like the ticking of a time bomb, we both pretended we couldn't hear.

She looked so weak then.

The woman who once bent conversations to her will without raising her voice now lay silent, a fragile figure swallowed by hospital sheets. Her eyes, once quick and merciless in their honesty, barely flickered open.

She opened her eyes and found me first.

“Angela,” she breathed, voice shallow. “You’re here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, clutching her hand.

Her fingers were cold, and so frail I feared I’d break them just by holding on.

My father stood beside me, trying to be a wall. He didn't speak—just kept his other hand on her ankle, grounding her.

Her gaze slid to him.

“Brian,” she murmured. “Look at her. She’s going to be stronger than both of us.”

“Don’t say that,” I whispered.

Her eyes came back to me, clouded but still sharp in a way that cut. “Even silk threads can strangle, Angie. Don’t let anyone wrap you in promises without looking for the noose.”

I didn’t understand it then.

I do now.

The machine beeped faster. Then slower. Then—

Flat.

Just a long, final note. Like the end of a discussion.

Doctors swarmed. Words were said. My father’s arm came around me like iron. But nothing in the world could stop that sound from ringing in my ears.

She was gone.

At exactly 4:11 p.m.

A truck honked somewhere down the road and pulled me out of it.

I rubbed my palms down my thighs, suddenly cold.

What was Gibson trying to do in there?

Confuse me?

Manipulate me?

I wasn’t sure. But I knew one thing for certain:

I had watched my mother take her final breath.

Whatever games Gibson was playing, I wasn’t going to let him twist my grief into doubt.

Not now.

Not ever. I was halfway down the steps when John slid up to the curb, smooth and silent as always. The soft click of the unlocking door greeted me like a sigh. He stepped out without a word, opened the rear door, and waited.

I slid in, the leather cold against the back of my thighs, and barely had the door closed before he asked, “Ma’am, should I take you home?”

“No,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “Take me to No. 7 Marigo Street.”

John didn’t ask why. He never did. He just nodded once and eased the car back into the flow of traffic.

No. 7 Marigo Street.

Jonathan’s place. He and I had spoken briefly earlier—just enough to skim the surface. No depth, no comfort. He hadn’t come to the station like I’d hoped. Maybe he thought I needed space. Or maybe he was buried under another avalanche of court filings.

Jonathan was a renowned defense attorney—sharp, calculating, always in demand. His days were carved into courtroom slots and client meetings, stacked one after the other like dominoes waiting to fall. It wasn’t unusual for him to be unreachable, but today wasn’t usual.

Today, I needed him.

I needed Jonathan to anchor me. To remind me that beneath the chaos, beneath the headlines and the blood and the cold questions in that station—I was still me. That not everything in my life was getting out of control.

While the city blurred past the car window, my phone buzzed. I expected another news alert, maybe a missed call from one of the board members. But it was a message from William.

“Hey. Figured you’d want to know—I just got out of surgery. The bullet didn’t go deep, missed anything major. They pulled out the fragments from my upper arm. Clean entry, clean exit. I’ll be fine. Doctors said I was lucky. I’m headed back to my home. Thought you should hear it from me.”

I stared at the screen, rereading it twice.

The surgery must’ve been a minor procedure. Localized, probably done within the hour. The kind of wound that stings but doesn’t bury you.

Still, it was strange. His tone—calm, almost casual. Like he was sending a business update, not informing the woman supposedly bound to him by inheritance that he’d just been shot.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to Jonathan’s place—a sleek townhouse that always looked too quiet to be called home.

I stepped out, heels hitting pavement like punctuation.

Walked up to the door.

Knocked.

From inside, I heard it. A voice. Singing.

"You and me, we’ll rewrite the stars..."

My chest tightened.

The door opened.

She was blonde. Young. Barefoot. The kind of girl who looked like she didn’t even know how to try too hard—didn’t have to. One of Jonathan’s crisp white shirts hung loose on her frame, sleeves rolled, collar open like it belonged to her.

She cracked the door open with a curious tilt of her head, chewing on something—gum maybe—and blinked like she was trying to place me.

“Hey... Can I help you?”

I froze.

“I…” I cleared my throat. My voice betrayed me. “Is Jonathan home?”

She frowned a little, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. No—he’s not here. He left earlier in the morning. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”

Her tone wasn’t apologetic. Just casually informative, like I’d knocked on the wrong apartment for a study group.

And maybe I had.

I glanced past her shoulder. No movement inside. No briefcase by the couch. No jazz humming from his stereo like he usually left it. But there were two half-empty glasses on the parlor table.

My eyes dropped again to the shirt—the way it slipped down her shoulder like it was used to her frame.

Right.

I wasn’t here for this.

“I must have the wrong address,” I said, forcing a neutral smile, the kind that hides cracks.

She tilted her head. “You sure? You looked like you knew him.”

“I’m sure,” I replied quickly, already stepping back.

The door eased shut behind me with an almost polite click.

Back in the car, silence stretched between John and me. I didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. The expression on my face said enough.

I was swallowed by my thoughts. Maybe she was just a friend. Maybe not. But today—of all days—Jonathan hadn’t shown up. Not when I needed him most.

I had texted him, told him exactly where I was, what had happened. No response. No missed calls.

And now, some girl—barefoot, at ease, dressed in one of his shirts like she lived there—had answered his door while I stood outside like an outcast.

As we pulled away, I stared out the window, my jaw clenched tight. Then my phone vibrated again—a strange number.

I tapped the screen.

“Angela, it’s me. Your mother. I’m sorry, but I have to cut to the chase.

You have to marry William Briggs. They will kill you if you don’t. This isn’t just about inheritance anymore. It’s about staying alive.

You were told you had a couple of days—but that’s not true. A deal will be signed, probably tomorrow evening, by your uncle. If that goes through, Kings Enterprises will bleed. The stock will tank, and you’ll lose any control left.

You have to marry William before the deal is signed. Before tomorrow evening. That’s the only leverage we have left. The only thing that can stop this.

I promise I’ll explain everything—what really happened. I’m sorry you had to grieve me while I was still alive. I wanted to reach you sooner, but I’m not safe yet. I still can’t be seen. Not by them.

But I warned you once—and I’ll say it again: Even silk threads can strangle. Don’t underestimate what looks soft. It can cause harm as well.

I stared at the screen. That phrase.

Even silk threads can strangle. Her warning. Her code. A truth I’d buried with her.

No one else could’ve known.

My fingers trembled around the phone.

From the front seat, John glanced at me through the mirror. “Ma’am?” he asked, voice low. “Is everything alright?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the screen.

If the message was real, then I had no choice but to trust what it meant.

I looked up, my voice quiet but sure.

“John… take me to William Briggs' mansion. I need to speak with him.”

If I was going to survive this—

I’d have to say yes.

Before the clock ran out.