Page 39 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow

I believe him. I know he can protect me—he already has. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

But still… “I just need some time,” I say quietly, my voice trembling just a little. “I need to make sense of all of this. It feels like my entire life’s been flipped upside down.”

His eyes stay on mine, and he nods again, slow and deliberate. “I understand,” he says, his voice as gentle as his touch. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be here.”

His words settle over me like a blanket, warm and comforting. He’s giving me space, letting me figure it all out.

But one thing is crystal clear in my mind now. If I’m going to make sense of this—of any of this—I need to start by finding out who wants me dead. And why.

Careful. That word’s been hanging over my head like a cloud these past several days. It’s become the theme of my life, my mantra. I’ve always been careful. Careful in my work, careful in my personal dealings, careful in navigating rivalries and vendettas. I’ve dealt with challenges before—ruthless competitors at work, bitter ex-friends, even the occasional schemer with a grudge. But this? Waking up every morning with the gnawing thought that someone might want me dead? That’s uncharted territory.

I can’t stop my mind from circling back to the crash. The Jeep. The way it came at me, no hesitation, like a predator locking onto prey. A part of me wants to believe it was nothing more than a horrible accident, that the driver lost control, panicked, and slammed into us. But the odds? They don’t feel in my favor.

My gut keeps pointing in one direction: Frank. His name lingers in my head like a bad taste. My suspicion grew sharper when I learned he’d conveniently left the city just one day before the incident. A sudden trip, it doesn’t sit right with me. And then, days later, a Jeep tries to ram me off the road?

Sure. Totally random.

But suspicion alone isn’t enough. It’s flimsy. It doesn’t get me closer to the truth, and it certainly won’t hold up if I want to get justice. I need answers. Hard, concrete facts.

That’s why, a week ago, I reached out to James.

James is my go-to private investigator. He’s discreet, reliable, and sharp enough to pick up on details most people overlook. I’ve used him in the past, usually for mundane tasks—background checks on potential business partners or a little light digging on someone who felt off. Hell, I even had him look into Alex briefly when things started between us. Just a precaution.

But this? Asking him to dig into something that feels like a matter of life and death? This is a whole different ballgame.

James is meeting me at my office today. He has an update, and I don’t know what to expect. I’ve spent the morning pacing between anticipation and dread, alternating between wanting answers and being terrified of what those answers might be.

I’ve tried distracting myself with work—emails, spreadsheets, the usual grind—but my focus keeps slipping. My eyes skim the words on my screen, but they don’t stick. It’s like my brain is stuck on a countdown, ticking off the seconds until James gets here.

The hum of my office is its usual mix of white noise: the distant murmur of voices in the hallway, the occasional click of a keyboard, the soft whir of the air conditioning. Normally, it’s soothing. Today, it feels like static.

I glance at the clock. Ten more minutes. My foot taps restlessly against the floor, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My fingers drum against the desk as I stare at my screen, the words blurring together.

I need clarity. I need to understand what’s happening, who’s behind this, and why. Because until I do, there’s no way I’m going to feel safe again.

The knock comes, slicing through the heavy quiet of my office. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself even though my pulse is hammering in my ears. “Come in,” I say, my voice tight but firm.

James steps inside. He’s a wiry man, the kind whose presence never screams for attention but somehow manages to command it anyway. His face is lined with creases that make him look older than he probably is, and his gray hair is combed back neatly, giving him a polished but weathered air. He walks over to the chair opposite my desk with a measured stride, carrying a slim briefcase.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lockhart,” he greets, his tone professional but laced with a softness I don’t miss.

“Good afternoon, James. Please, have a seat.” I motion to the chair in front of me, trying to appear composed, but my fingers are curled too tightly around the edge of my desk.

He sits down, placing his briefcase beside him, and looks at me with a seriousness that immediately sets my nerves on edge.

“So… what updates do you have for me?” I ask, skipping any pleasantries. I don’t have the patience for them right now.

James nods, like he expected me to cut straight to the chase. “We did a full sweep of every street CCTV camera in the area surrounding the crash site,” he begins. “Every camera that might’ve caught footage of the Jeep that evening. Unfortunately, the ones closest to the site had no footage from that day.” He pauses, letting the words land, before adding, “It looks like they’ve been tampered with or outright deleted.”

I stare at him, the weight of his words pressing against my chest. “So what you’re saying is, we’re no closer to finding out who did this,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

James stirs in his seat, his expression calm but cautious. “Not yet,” he admits. “Aside from the description of the car you provided, we haven’t been able to track the vehicle.”

I clench my jaw, frustration bubbling just under the surface.

“But,” he continues, and I catch a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, maybe? “I broadened the scope of our search. If someone’s after you, there’s a good chance they’ve been watching you. Keeping tabs on your house, the routes you take to work, anywhere you frequent. So, I had the CCTV footage from those areas checked, dating back weeks… months, even years.”

I nod slowly, my anticipation rising. “And?”

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