Jaxon’s words still echoed in Addison’s heart as they descended toward the lobby, but she caught the edge in his voice—resentment cutting through declarations of love. She understood his pain, recognized the territorial fury that blazed beneath his executive composure.

“Almost finished,” Jaxon announced, clutching documents from his safe while Addison secured the flash drive containing encrypted files. “Everything you requested.”

The elevator opened to reveal the lobby transformed into tactical command center. Bank employees clustered nervously while armed figures maintained perimeter positions. The marble cathedral had become arena for final confrontation.

Wyatt approached with predatory precision, his scarred features visible beneath tactical lighting. His attention focused entirely on Addison, ignoring Jaxon’s protective positioning with deliberate calculation.

“Dove,” Wyatt said with intimate warmth that made Jaxon’s jaw clench with territorial fury. “Give me all the evidence, please.”

The endearment detonated through marble space like explosive charge. Jaxon’s hands clenched into fists as implications of Wyatt’s familiarity rewrote every assumption about their relationship.

Addison extended the flash drive with trembling fingers, her pulse hammering as Wyatt’s gloved hand closed over hers. His grip lingered for eternal seconds, thumb tracing across her knuckles with reverent pressure that spoke of desperate need to maintain contact.

She didn’t resist his touch, couldn’t pull away from warmth that triggered memories she’d fought to bury. The connection blazed between them like electrical current, charging the air with recognition that transcended their circumstances.

“That’s enough,” Jaxon exploded, stepping between them with protective authority. “You got what you wanted. Now fulfill your part of the deal.”

“My part?” Wyatt’s laugh carried cruel amusement that sliced through Jaxon’s corporate confidence. “I’ll fulfill my obligations as soon as Firebird verifies these files contain what you promised.”

“We have a deal!” Jaxon shouted with fury that echoed off marble walls. “I gave you evidence in exchange for civilian evacuation!”

“And civilians were evacuated,” Wyatt replied with steel precision that admitted no argument. “But evidence verification requires technical confirmation.”

“That wasn’t part of our agreement—”

“Agreements evolve,” Wyatt interrupted with predatory satisfaction. “Based on evolving circumstances.”

Jaxon’s executive composure shattered as he realized Wyatt had outmaneuvered him with tactical precision. The corporate authority that had built his empire meant nothing against military planning designed for psychological warfare.

“You bastard,” Jaxon declared with a lethal quiet that promised violence.

“Perhaps,” Wyatt agreed with theatrical menace. “But I’m a bastard with evidence that proves your culpability in systematic murder.”

Jaxon turned toward Addison with desperate appeal, his territorial instincts recognizing that she represented the only leverage capable of influencing Wyatt’s decisions.

“Tell him,” Jaxon commanded with a voice that cracked under pressure. “Tell him to honor his commitments.”

“I promised I would prove it to you,” Wyatt announced with steel conviction, gesturing toward documents arranged with military precision. “Here is everything you need to know the truth about the man you’re planning to marry.”

“Open it,” he commanded with authority that brooked no argument. “See what your fiancé has been authorizing while building his empire on corpses.”

Addison’s hands trembled as she reached for papers that carried weight of life and death. Each page might contain evidence that would destroy her understanding of everything, transform the father of her child from protector into predator.

Her fingers turned pages with mechanical precision as horror crystallized into undeniable truth. Contracts with military units. Elimination protocols. Systematic termination of witness families. Payment schedules that matched death dates with mathematical precision.

The full scheme blazed across official documentation like accusations written in blood—corporate efficiency applied to systematic murder with executive thoroughness that made her stomach clench with revulsion.

On the final page, director signatures authorized operation with bureaucratic precision. Morrison. Blackwood. Hayes. Other names that carried weight of institutional authority.

And at the bottom, signed with executive flourish that she recognized from three years of love letters and anniversary cards: Jaxon Wellington.

The signature stared back at her like condemnation written in ink that had dried into permanent confession of guilt that couldn’t be explained away by corporate semantics or executive misdirection.

“Now you know,” Wyatt said with quiet finality that promised their world would never be the same.