Page 136 of Royal Bargain
Guns are drawn. Brannagan brothers stand shoulder to shoulder, weapons raised. Across from them, Anatoly’s men mirror their stances, fingers twitching over triggers, waiting—daring—someone to make the first move.
But none of it matters.
Not when I’m standing in the eye of the storm, my father’s hand gripping my arm like a vice and the cold press of a gun against my ribs keeping me from running. Not when the man I love is just a few feet away, frozen, eyes locked on mine. Confused. Hurt. Afraid.
“Papa, please,” I beg, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t betray you. You have to believe me.”
His grip tightens.
“I want to believe you, Annika,” he says, low and sharp. “But I’ve learned not to ignore the facts. Dariy has proof.”
“He’s lying,” I snap, desperation lacing every word. “He’s been lying to you for years, twisting things?—”
“Your keycard,” he interrupts, voice rising. “Your access. You were the only one who could’ve gotten into that server room.And someone gave those files to the Feds. Someone put me in a cell for eight months. And the timing? Convenient, isn’t it? Right after you ran.”
“I wanted out,” I admit, voice trembling. “But not like this. I just—I just wanted to breathe. To live without being owned. I would never hand you over.”
“But you did,” he says, voice flat and final. “You just didn’t have the guts to face what that meant.”
I reel like he’s slapped me. My knees nearly buckle, and not from the gun pressed to my ribs—but from the devastation behind his words.
He really believes it.
And for one horrible, breathless second… I wonder if Liam does too.
I chance a look across the warehouse. His face is unreadable. Pale, tense, locked in that Brannagan-stoic mask he wears when everything is spiraling and he’s trying to hold it all together.
I don’t know what he’s thinking.
I don’t know if he believes me.
The panic claws up my throat, sharp and wild. My hands tremble, my skin suddenly too tight. I try to remember every moment from that night—the one they keep accusing me of.
Did I leave my keycard somewhere? Did someone take it? Was I that careless?
My mind races, flipping through fragments. I remember packing my things. I remember crying in the dark. I remember the way the walls of my bedroom felt like they were closing in on me.
But nothing about a server room.
Nothing about files.
Nothing except?—
Wait.
The hospital.
My heart slams into my ribs, because that’s it. That was that night.
I wasn’t home. I wasn’t even conscious when the files were stolen.
“I couldn’t have done it,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I even fully form the thought.
Anatoly narrows his eyes. “What?”
“I wasn’t there,” I say louder, my voice shaking. “That night—when the files were stolen—I wasn’t at the compound. I was at the hospital.”
He scoffs, but I see it now. The crack in his certainty. A hairline fracture.
