Captured by: Love Or Hatred?

Parallel Lives

Chapter 2: Parallel Lives

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Restricted Wing — Collins Estate

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A finger tightens around the trigger.

Not tense.

Not hurried.

Waiting.

The room is dimly lit— just a single overhead light casting a pale circle on the concrete floor. Shadows cling to the corners, thick and unmoving. The faint smell of gun oil and expensive cologne lingers in the air, mixing with something metallic… something wrong.

" I told you to report to me the moment you had that file. "

The voice is quiet.

Too quiet.

The investigator is on his knees, head bowed, unable to lift it. His entire body trembles, sweat dripping down his temples, tracing lines along his jaw before falling to the cold floor beneath him.

Silence stretches.

Seconds pass.

Too many.

No one dares to breathe too loudly.

" That bastard escaped because of your incompetence. "

Another pause.

Longer this time.

The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise the gun. Doesn’t step closer. That’s what makes it worse.

" Explain to me, " He continues evenly, " why you’re still breathing. "

The investigator swallows hard, throat bobbing.

" B-Boss… I—I’m sorr— "

The explanation never comes.

Three shots echo through the room.

Sharp.

Clean.

Final.

The sound ricochets off the walls, then dies just as quickly—swallowed by the same silence that came before it.

The body collapses mid-breath.

A dull thud.

Stillness.

The man exhales slowly, as if mildly inconvenienced.

" No, " He says at last. " You’re not sorry. "

He lowers the gun, unhurried, placing it on the table with quiet precision.

" If you were, " He adds, reaching for his glass, " you wouldn’t have wasted my resources… or my time. "

Ice clinks softly as he lifts the scotch. The amber liquid catches the dim light. He takes a slow sip, savoring it, as though nothing of consequence has just happened.

Only then does he glance at the body. Like it’s nothing more than an interruption.

" Clean this sh*t up. " The command is soft—but absolute.

Men move immediately. No hesitation. No eye contact. Just efficiency. A body reduced to a task.

" And you… " He points toward the other man—silent, frozen in place, breath trapped somewhere between terror and survival.

Blood trickles from the shallow cut on his head, a thin line slipping past his brow, stinging his eye. He doesn’t dare wipe it.

The man’s eyes widen.

Hope and fear colliding.

" You’re going to give me that bastard’s new location, " he says calmly, crouching down until they’re eye level.

" By the end of tonight. " His gaze doesn’t waver.

It doesn’t need to.

" I don’t care what it takes for you to do it. "

A brief pause.

The kind that presses against your ribs.

" I want a location. "

Another pause.

" And that’s what matters. "

The man nods frantically, words failing him. Survival speaks louder than language.

A drop of sweat hits the floor.

Echoes.

Behind them, the body is already being dragged away—leaving nothing behind but a faint smear and the memory of what happens when you fail.

The man straightens, adjusting his cufflinks with slow, deliberate care.

As if restoring order.

As if nothing had ever been out of place.

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...................................

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Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Monday morning.

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Jennifer's POV:

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The alarm drills into my skull at exactly seven, dragging me out of sleep against my will. I groan and turn my face into the pillow, clinging to its softness like it might save me from reality.

It doesn’t.

After a few minutes of denial, I push myself upright, stretching until my knuckles c***k. My hair is a mess—wavy, unruly, stubborn, much like me. I twist it into a loose bun and shuffle toward the bathroom.

Cold water. Toothpaste. Routine.

Normal.

By the time I reach my closet, I’m fully awake—and already tired.

Workday.

I slip into formal pants and a blazer, trading comfort for professionalism, and redo my hair into a fluffy ponytail. Makeup comes next—minimal, but necessary. Foundation. Concealer. Especially under my eyes.

Last night’s choices are clearly judging me from the mirror.

Clubbing.

Sunday night.

Bad ideas.

I had tried to refuse. Really. But my friends don’t understand the meaning of no. And the first rule of clubbing is simple—drink to forget the week.

Five shots.

Yes. Five.

After that, counting stopped.

' You were just a little tipsy. ' My subconscious mocks.

' Sure. ' That explains why I stumbled home around three in the morning.

I fasten my leather-belted watch around my right wrist—left-handers have preferences—and spray a hint of my favorite cologne over my neck.

Last comes the necklace.

My mom’s.

A delicate chain with a small triangular pendant, an infinity symbol engraved into it. She wore it every day.

I wear it every day too— except on nights when I know I’m about to make choices she wouldn’t approve of.

My parents died years ago in a car accident. I watched it happen.

That truth never softens, no matter how often I think it. And the nightmares—those are proof enough that the past never really stays buried.

After their death, I moved in with my paternal uncle, Benjamin Jones. He’s divorced, a former attorney who later chose to dedicate his life to philanthropic work.

He became my guardian until I turned eighteen—and even after that, I chose to stay. Not because I had to… but because I didn’t want to leave him.

Protective to a fault. Always watching. Always worrying. The kind of man who would double-check the locks at night and still ask if I got home safe—even when I was already standing in front of him.

He didn’t know how to express love in grand ways, but he showed it in everything else—hot meals waiting on the table, late-night calls just to hear my voice, silent sacrifices I only understood years later.

He raised me with patience, with care… with a kind of quiet devotion that never asked for anything in return.

He never tried to replace what I lost.

He just made sure I never felt alone in it.

Now he’s not just family— he’s the only one I have left. And the only person I know will always be there… no matter what.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped being just my uncle— and became my home. Everything I have left.

" Knock. Knock. "

It gets louder this time.

" KNOCK. KNOCK. "

I flinch.

" Sh*t...!! "

Breakfast.

I rush to the door and pull it open, coming face-to-face with a familiar expression—anger struggling to mask worry.

Uncle Benjamin.

Or just Ben, as I call him.

" Are you okay? " He asks immediately.

Concern fills his eyes, raw and unmistakable. He worries if I’m late. Worries if I don’t answer his calls. Worries if I come home late from work. He’s the kind of man who pretends to be strict but panics first.

I don’t answer. Just stare.

When I stay silent, he crosses his arms, his frown deepening. " What were you doing, Jenn? I knocked forever. "

" When did you come back last night? And why are you late for breakfast? "

Questions pile up faster than I can process them.

So I do what I always do.

I soften my eyes. Tilt my head. Give him the look.

My secret weapon.

" I… I— "

" Whatever. " He cuts me off, already turning away. " Leave it."

' It's worked, didn't it? '

God he is anger. A flicker of fear rushes through me as he walks downstairs without another glance.

" Breakfast is ready. Come fast. " He adds, but his voice distant.

" Yes… I’m coming. " I mumble, grabbing my laptop bag and purse.

' Oh God, what’s gotten into him? Why is he so grumpy this early in the morning? ' Shaking my head, I hurry downstairs before he can change his mind.

Because when Ben is angry, forgiveness comes slow— and his silence is far worse.

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At the dining table, I drop my things onto one chair and collapse into the other. My favorite omelette and bread, along with a cup of coffee, are already served.

The rich aroma hits me instantly—warm, buttery, irresistible—making my stomach twist with hunger. I swallow hard, my nose practically soaking in the scent as it settles deep inside me.

Ben sits beside me, just like always.

But today… he ignores me.

Completely.

Interesting.

Not normal. Not even close.

Ben doesn’t do silent treatment. He lectures. He nags. He hovers.

But this? This quiet distance?

' And… I don’t like it. '

So, I place my phone on the table and scroll aimlessly, doing absolutely nothing— on purpose. My eyes flick to him every few seconds, waiting… watching… counting.

Come on… say something.

It takes exactly three minutes.

Three painfully slow, suffocating minutes.

" No electronic devices at the table. " He snaps.

" You know the rules, Jenn. "

There it is.

Relief loosens something tight in my chest. And I smile inwardly.

' Attention secured. '

I set my phone down slowly, deliberately, like I’ve just been caught doing something terribly important.

" Well... " I say innocently, tilting my head and widening my eyes just enough, " No one else lives here except you and me—and since you’re ignoring me-- " I pause, letting the words hang, watching his reaction.

" …what exactly am I supposed to do? " I lean back in my chair, folding my arms, pretending annoyance— but really, I’m just waiting.

Waiting for him to look at me properly.

To say something.

To go back to being… him.

Because his anger? I can handle.

His lectures? I’ve survived plenty.

But his silence?

That’s the one thing I don’t know how to fight.

Silence stretches.

Long. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Dangerous silence.

I clear my throat, shifting in my seat. " I’m sorry… for not answering when you knocked earlier. "

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

"And, " I add quickly, words tumbling over each other now, " for last night too. I’m sorry. "

Still nothing.

God...!!

" I said I’m sorrryyyyyy…? " I drag the word, pouring every ounce of charm, guilt, and desperation into it.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then—

He looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Not just annoyed.

Worried.

His eyes scan my face like he’s checking for something I’m not saying out loud. It softens him for just a fraction of a second… and that’s all I need.

' Victory. '

" This is the last time. " He says sternly, but the sharp edge in his voice has dulled. " If you don’t listen to me, I won’t let you go out for— "

He stops mid-sentence, jaw tightening.

Because he knows. He knows he won’t be able to follow through. Not when it comes to me.

" I mean it, Jenn. " He adds, quieter now. " You can’t keep doing this. Coming home late, not answering calls… anything could happen. "

" You don't know how dangerous this world is. "

There it is.

Not anger.

Fear.

And suddenly, my chest tightens just a little.

" Jenn, I’m telling you… if you don’t listen to me, I won’t let you go out for— "

I don’t let him finish.

I’m already on my feet, wrapping my arms tightly around him before his lecture can go any further.

" I know, I know. " I say, laughing softly, pressing my cheek against his shoulder.

' The world is dangerous. People are unpredictable. ' His words echo in my head—even when he doesn’t say them out loud.

" I’ll be careful. Very careful. " I murmur, pulling back just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek. " I promise. "

He exhales slowly, the tension leaving him in a quiet sigh.

Defeated.

And just like that—

Forgiven.

A small smile tugs at my lips.

Another battle won.

After breakfast, I grab my things and rush out, waving a quick goodbye over my shoulder, already late for work— but forgiven.

And right now… that’s what matters.