CHAPTER TWO
1277 Words
William staggered.
Blood sprayed across the sidewalk like a violent signature.
He dropped to one knee, eyes wide with stunned confusion, then collapsed flat on the pavement.
People screamed.
Cars screeched to a halt.
Panic tore through the crowd like wildfire.
I dropped beside him, shaking. “William? William—!”
His eyes flickered. His lips parted, struggling to form a sound.
But nothing came.
Only a shallow breath. A strained groan.
Then—stillness.
Total. Terrifying. Stillness.
"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?”
- Writer
