Page 60 of Guarded from Treachery

First, I save the folder to my secure cloud storage. Then I start counting back to the time when Isla would have become pregnant, just about fourteen weeks ago.

As I fast forward through the first few videos, I can feel myself shaking. Not with fear but anger, as I watch my beautiful girlfriend on the small screen, changing, walking around in a towel, sleeping in just a T-shirt with the sheets tossed aside, unwittingly exposing herself to whoever was observing.

It’s fucking sick.

And I’m so damn furious.

But on the fourth video, it gets so much worse.

In this one, she heads to bed much earlier than usual. And instead of walking into the bedroom, she stumbles inside, bouncing off the doorjamb and tripping over her feet. She’s alone as she weaves over to the bed and collapses onto it, her body going motionless almost immediately after.

She looked drunk. Not just drunk. Hammered. But I know that’s not Isla’s style. She might have a glass of wine or a beer, but to get so drunk that she can’t even walk straight… It doesn’t seem right.

My heart pounding hard enough to hear it, I fast forward again.

An hour later—not my time, but Isla’s—another person walks into the bedroom.

My heart stops.

Ah, fuck. No.

I don’t want to see this.

But I have to.

If someone walked in here right now, I’d be helpless. I can’t concentrate on anything but the scene unfolding in front of me.

The person—the man—is dressed all in black. Black hoodie. Black pants. A full-face black mask.

He stops by the side of the bed.

Bile rises.

Oh, no. Please no.

Then he puts a small bag on the mattress.

Unzips it.

Reaches inside.

Heart in my throat, I watch in horror as he pulls out a large syringe.

Then he does something I wasn’t expecting.

I’ve never had reason to research it myself, but I have enough knowledge to know what he’s doing.

It’s an assault. A violation. Just not what I feared.

In an economy of movements, he completes the short procedure and places the syringe back in the bag. Then he stares at Isla’s unmoving body for a few seconds before pulling the blanket over her.

Seconds after that, he’s gone.

And my Isla is still lying there—fast asleep? unconscious?—completely unaware of what just happened.

White-hot fury surges through me, turning my blood to fire. My head feels like it’s about to explode.

Remington lured Isla here. Set her up. Watched her. And arranged for someone to break into her home and impregnate her.

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