Bound By Decree

CHAPTER THREE

“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.”

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 crack 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.