The Crib In The West Wing
1143 Words
Chapter 6
The footsteps stop outside the study.
Lucien doesn’t lower the gun.
Neither do I breathe.
The darkness presses in, thick and deliberate, broken only by the city glow bleeding through the glass. Somewhere in the house, a door closes softly. Not slammed. Not rushed.
Confident.
“Stay behind me,” Lucien murmurs again, quieter this time.
“I am,” I whisper, though my body has already betrayed me—leaning into his back, fingers clenched in his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Another step. Closer.
Lucien lifts his wrist, taps twice against his watch. A silent command.
Nothing happens.
No response from security.
That’s wrong.
His jaw tightens. “They’ve jammed the internal line.”
“Who?” I ask.
“You already know.”
The light flickers.
Once.
Twice.
Then the emergency LEDs cut in—dim, red, bathing the hallway outside in a sick glow.
A shape moves beyond the doorway.
Lucien fires a warning shot into the ceiling.
The sound cracks the night open.
“Stop,” he calls coldly. “Now.”
Laughter answers him.
Low. Male. Familiar.
“Elijah,” Lucien says, voice lethal.
The figure steps into the doorway.
He’s dressed like he belongs here. Dark jacket. No rush. No fear. A man who has already calculated every outcome.
“Elena,” Elijah says, smiling at me. “You look paler than the last time I saw you.”
My stomach twists. “You sent the messages.”
“Of course I did,” he replies. “I wanted you awake.”
Lucien shifts slightly, blocking more of my body. “You’re trespassing.”
Elijah lifts a brow. “In my brother’s house? Please. I helped build half of it.”
“You’re not welcome,” Lucien snaps.
Elijah’s smile sharpens. “Neither was she. Yet here she is. Wearing your name.”
His eyes drop again.
To my stomach.
This time, Lucien moves.
The gun comes up fast, steady, aimed directly at Elijah’s chest. “Say another word about her body and you won’t leave this room.”
Elijah doesn’t flinch. “Still so dramatic.”
“Get out,” Lucien growls.
“No,” Elijah says lightly. “I came to finish something.”
My heart slams. “Finish what?”
Elijah looks at me like I’ve just asked the wrong question. “The pattern.”
Lucien steps forward. “You won’t touch her.”
“I already have,” Elijah replies. “Just like Mara.”
The name slices through the room.
I feel Lucien tense beneath my hands.
“You think you’re protecting her,” Elijah continues. “That marrying her changes the ending.”
Lucien’s voice is ice. “It does.”
Elijah chuckles. “You said that last time.”
Rage burns through me, cutting past fear. “Why are you doing this?” I demand. “What do you want?”
Elijah’s gaze shifts to me fully now. Assessing. Calculating.
“I want him to break,” he says simply. “And you’re the fastest way.”
Lucien fires.
The shot shatters the mirror behind Elijah’s head. Glass rains down, glittering.
Elijah moves back, hands lifting slightly—not in surrender, but mockery.
“Careful,” he says. “You kill me, and everything spills. The accounts. The offshore trails. Father’s sins. Yours.”
Lucien doesn’t blink. “I’ll burn it all.”
“You won’t,” Elijah counters. “Because she’s standing behind you.”
I realize then what he means.
Lucien hesitates.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
Elijah smiles.
“That pause,” he says. “That’s new.”
Lucien recovers instantly. “Get out. This is your last warning.”
Elijah steps back into the hallway, hands raised. “Relax. I’m leaving.”
My lungs finally draw air.
But Elijah isn’t done.
“Oh,” he adds casually, “you should check the west wing. Renovations can hide so many things.”
Lucien stiffens. “What did you do?”
Elijah’s eyes gleam. “What I always do. I left you a choice.”
Then he disappears into the dark.
Lucien doesn’t chase him.
That terrifies me more than if he had.
“Lucien,” I whisper. “What’s in the west wing?”
He doesn’t answer.
He turns, grips my shoulders, and looks at me like he’s memorizing my face.
“Go back to your room,” he says. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“No,” I say. “I’m done being moved like furniture.”
His grip tightens. “This isn’t a debate.”
“I won’t be another secret,” I snap. “If there’s something there, I’m seeing it.”
For a moment, I think he might order the guards to carry me out.
Instead, he exhales sharply. “Fine.”
We move fast.
The west wing smells different. Dust. Paint. Something metallic beneath it.
Lucien unlocks the door at the end of the corridor.
Inside, the room is unfinished. Plastic sheeting. Exposed beams.
And a crib.
White.
Perfect.
My knees go weak.
“What is this?” I whisper.
Lucien goes still.
“I didn’t build this,” he says.
The words barely leave his mouth before I see it.
A folder on the crib mattress.
My name written on the tab.
Hands shaking, I open it.
Inside are photos.
Me. Leaving my apartment. At the conference. Entering the Blackwell estate.
Medical records.
Highlighted.
Circled.
A note sits on top, written in neat, deliberate handwriting.
FOR WHEN YOU DECIDE WHO TO SAVE THIS TIME.
My vision blurs.
“He’s documenting me,” I choke. “Like—like evidence.”
Lucien’s face is stone, fury barely contained. “He’s marking territory.”
Something clicks.
“He didn’t want to hurt me,” I whisper. “He wanted you to choose.”
Lucien’s voice drops. “He wants to force my hand.”
“And if you don’t?” I ask.
Lucien looks at the crib.
Then at me.
“I already chose,” he says.
Before I can respond, a sharp pain twists through my lower abdomen.
I gasp, doubling over.
“Elena?” Lucien catches me instantly.
The pain hits again. Stronger.
Panic floods his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I don’t know,” I breathe. “It hurts.”
Another wave.
Lucien scoops me up without hesitation. “We’re going to the hospital.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t need to look.
Elijah’s voice echoes in my head.
The pattern.
As Lucien carries me out of the west wing, sirens wailing in the distance, one truth becomes horrifyingly clear—
This was never about revenge.
It was about inheritance.
And the war has just claimed its first move.
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