Bound by Decree

The Call That Shouldn’t Exist

(Angela’s POV)

"He's still breathing!"

"Call an ambulance—now!"

My voice rang louder than I meant it to. I was still on my knees beside William, pressing trembling hands against his shoulder. Blood slicked my palms, warm and terrifying.

“Stay with me, William! Don’t close your damn eyes—look at me!”

His eyelids fluttered. A flicker of a smirk, broken and ghostly, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” he slurred, his breath shaky. “Just a graze… you don’t have to scream like I’m dead.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “A graze? You literally blacked out mid-sentence! There’s enough blood here to repaint the sidewalk.”

He winced, trying to shift. “God, you’re dramatic.”

“And you’re bleeding like it’s a sport!” I snapped, pressing harder against his shoulder. “Stop moving before you make it worse.”

“Relax. I’ve had worse cuts.”

“You’re not funny, William.”

“Tell that to my punctured pride—and artery.”

“Lie still, damn it! You try to play hero again, and I swear I’ll knock you out myself.”

He coughed. His hand reached for mine, weak and shaking.

“You always yell when you’re scared.”

“And you always joke when you’re bleeding out.”

The sirens grew louder, closer. My pulse beat in my ears, racing to match the panic in my chest.

“This isn’t funny, William,” I snapped, my throat tightening. “You need a hospital, not punchlines.”

“Hospital’s overrated. What I need is you… not screaming in my face.”

I leaned closer, pressing harder against the wound. “Be quiet and let me save your arrogant life.”

“I’m trying. But you’re making it hard… with all the drama.”

"Shut up. Paramedics are here."

"No. Not yet. Listen to me, Angela. They wanted to scare us. Not kill. If they wanted me dead, I would be."

"Who? Who the hell are you talking about?"

"Your board. Your uncle. Maybe mine. Doesn’t matter. The shot came from the rooftop, across the street. Clock tower."

"You’re giving me a sniper analysis while bleeding out?"

"Focus, Angela. Don’t trust anyone. Especially the ones smiling."

Sirens scream. Red lights swirl across the marble steps. The crowd shrinks back. The paramedics rush in, and the police team rush in.

"Miss Kings, please step back."

"He's not unconscious. You heard him. He’s still talking."

"We'll take it from here."

"Angela Kings? You're coming with me."

"What for?"

“You’re a witness to an attempted assassination,” a detective said, opening the unmarked car door. “Possibly the intended target. Possibly not. Please get in.”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

“You do. But one of them includes handcuffs.”

I exhaled sharply and slid into the back seat. “You’ve got a charming way with women, Detective…”

“Gibson. Detective Melvin Gibson.” He shut the door behind me with a solid, cold click—less like a car door and more like a verdict being passed.

No one said a word the entire ride. The silence sat between us, thick and accusing. I stared out the window as the city blurred by—glass towers, blinking lights, sirens in the distance like the city’s pulse screaming. I should’ve been checking my phone, calling my lawyer, screaming at someone. But all I did was sit there and count the seconds between breaths.

* Inside the station — One hour thirty-five minutes later

The room was intentionally ugly. Peeling paint, humming fluorescent lights, a metal table bolted to the floor. No windows. Just me, a pitcher of water I wouldn't touch, and a camera blinking red in the corner like a quiet threat.

I sat with my hands folded in my lap, legs crossed, spine straight. If they wanted me to sweat, they'd be disappointed.

The door creaked open. Gibson stepped in with a folder under his arm and the kind of face that had forgotten how to smile.

“Sorry for the wait.”

“I wasn’t counting,” I said, though I absolutely had been.

He sat down across from me, placed the folder on the table like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“You look calm for someone who nearly got shot.”

“William Briggs nearly got shot. I got splashed.” I lifted my hand, blood still caked beneath my fingernails. “Do I get a lawyer or is this more of a coffee and chat situation?”

"You're not under arrest."

"But until we know for sure you didn’t help pull the strings on what happened today, you’re not going anywhere."

“Let’s make this quick,” I said, arms folded. “I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

Detective Melvin Gibson didn't respond. Just opened his file and clicked a pen, the sound too loud in the cold room.

“Angela Kings,” he said, as if I needed reminding of my name. “Thirty-three. Daughter of the late Brian Kings, founder of Kings Capital Holdings. Heiress to one of the largest real estate portfolios on the East Coast.”

“This is sounding more like a biography than an investigation.”

“I like context.”

“Try getting to the point. Someone bled on me today.”

He didn’t smile. He just flipped a page.

“You and William Briggs were engaged under the terms of your father’s will. That correct?”

“Not like I had a choice.”

“And what happens if you don’t marry him?”

“My inheritance is placed under the management of my uncle. It’s all in the will.”

“So if William dies before the wedding—”

“—I lose everything. Do a proper investigation before you start waving motive in my face.”

He paused, scribbled something I couldn’t see, then met my gaze.

“When was the last time you spoke to William Briggs before today’s incident?”

I didn’t blink. “Roughly a month ago. I ran into him during a breakfast meeting with a potential real estate investor.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ran into him? Coincidence?”

I shrugged. “Depends on how you define coincidence. He was sitting two tables down. He recognized me first. Said hello, asked about the company. Nothing more.”

He jotted something down. “Was it a friendly conversation?”

“Polite. Shallow. Business small talk, mostly.”

Gibson leaned back, his chair creaking. “No tension? No bad blood?”

He tapped his pen against the table. “You didn’t find it strange that someone you barely knew just happened to show up at the building the same day your father’s will was read?”

“I found it presumptuous. Arrogant, even. But strange?” I shrugged, voice cool. “Not in our world. Men like William have a talent for showing up where the money is.”

He paused, measuring my tone. “You sure you didn’t know about the will’s condition in advance?”

“I didn’t,” I said flatly.

He watched me like a man watching a candle for signs of wind. “William said your fathers had an agreement. Did you ever hear of this arrangement before today?”

“No.”

I leaned forward, voice cool. “And if I had, I would’ve burned it.”

Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting. Because according to William’s statement before he was taken in for surgery, he claimed the arrangement had been discussed with your father, and that you were aware.”

My lips parted, then closed. Carefully. “That’s a lie.”

He raised his hands. “Not saying you’re guilty. Just saying your version doesn’t match his.”

“Well,” I said, “he was bleeding out. Maybe he got confused.”

Gibson smirked. “You’re cold.”

“No,” I said. “I’m tired. There’s a difference.”

He flipped a page in the file. “Let’s talk motive.”

“You think I hired a sniper to avoid a wedding?”

He didn’t answer.

Another officer entered, set a sealed evidence bag on the table—the prenup, folded neatly inside, marked and tagged from the scene.

Gibson tapped it once. “Are you sure you didn't know this was drawn up a couple of days ago?”

“Yeah. Williams informed me about it earlier today, moments before the shooting occurred.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “See, that’s what bothers me. William came prepared. You didn’t.”

“Because I didn’t know. Why would I fake surprise in front of half the board if I knew I’d have to marry a man I barely spoke with?”

Gibson leaned forward, voice low. “Because faking a reaction is easier than actually giving up control.”

Silence. I let it hang long enough to make him uncomfortable.

He picked up another sheet. “Do you know this man?”

He turned it to face me. A grainy security photo. Long coat. Gloved hands. High-powered rifle.

“No,” I said instantly.

“He was spotted on a rooftop across Kings Tower at 11:04 a.m. Fired exactly once. Vanished before anyone reached the stairs.”

I stared at the photo, cold creeping up my spine. “So this was an assassination attempt.”

“Maybe,” he said. “And it either had everything to do with you—or absolutely nothing.”

“Which is it?”

He smirked. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

A knock on the glass. Another officer opened the door and slipped Gibson a tablet. He scrolled, eyes sharpening.

“What?” I asked.

He turned the screen to me.

A still image from a conference two weeks ago. A PR panel in Sweden. Wealth fund delegates. One woman, second row, partially obscured. But unmistakable.

I froze.

No.

No, it wasn’t—

“Does she look familiar?” Gibson asked.

I couldn’t speak. My heart slammed into my ribs like it was trying to escape.

He zoomed in. The face became clearer. Greying curls pulled into a sleek chignon. Pearl earrings. That exact lavender blouse.

“Angela,” Gibson said, voice sharp. “Is this your mother?”

My voice came out coarsely. “She’s dead.”

He stared at me, eyes dark and unblinking. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

I didn’t flinch. Couldn’t.

I was there. In that sterile hospital room. Standing beside my father, watching her chest rise… then fall… and never rise again.

Every second of that moment was etched into me.

So when I finally spoke, my voice came out low and shaking.

“This... this isn’t possible.”

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just leaned in, eyes steady and unreadable.

“Then explain why she called me. Last night.”