CHAPTER 323 Trixa 

I can still hear my father’s press conference echoing in my mind, each syllable laced with ice. Hours ago, he stood behind a podium, brandishing “proof” that Nyla murdered William and Hilda Stone, spitting out so-called facts I know he manipulated. Now, well past midnight, I’m pacing the confines of a one-bedroom apartment I’m using as a hideout—one of my father’s own safe flats, ironically turned against him.

A single table lamp throws out weak yellow light, barely cutting through the shadows in the living room. Outside, the hum of distant traffic pulses through the city night, muffled by blackout curtains I yanked shut the second I arrived. Each time I pause by the window, I replay Marcus’s triumphant sneer on camera: “Nyla Thomas is a cunning predator, and I have the evidence to prove it.” That damned line. That same line that might consign an innocent woman—and her unborn baby—to a living hell.

I stop near the couch, pressing my fingertips to my temples. Two days ago, I confronted Marcus about his twisted vendetta. He threatened to disown me if I revealed his manipulations, and worse, he threatened my safety. “Keep your mouth shut, Trix,” he’d snarled. “Or I promise, you’ll regret it.” I can still see the contempt in his eyes. He’d tossed in a parting shot too, letting me know Nyla was pregnant. Something about the triumph on his face when he said, “Imagine how humiliating it’ll be for her child, born behind bars for murder,” turned my stomach.

I inhale slowly, scanning the tiny apartment. I chose it for the minimal risk of detection: no personal belongings, no posted address linking back to me. There’s almost no furniture—a dingy sofa, a table, an ancient TV. Normally, I’d feel claustrophobic. Tonight, every locked door and drawn curtain gives me a sliver of safety.

On the flimsy coffee table sits my father’s laptop, which I stole from his main office suite. Next to it is a battered file folder stuffed with printouts and memory sticks. The biggest find? A single USB drive I discovered tucked behind faux-coded directories. I don’t fully understand all its contents yet—some raw camera footage from the Stone estate’s security logs, plus a suspicious trail of bank transfers pointing to the entire car sabotage story being rigged. I recognized the Stone Hospital insignias, transaction references, and then the corresponding forged “proof” my father pinned on Nyla. The puzzle pieces snap together in a horrifying pattern. If I can confirm it’s authentic, it might blow his framing scheme wide open.

I brush my fingertips along the USB. My father has gone too far. I played along at first, feeding him intel and helping him with some of his schemes for our family. But then he escalated: forging that funeral wreath receipt, tampering with toll booth footage, spreading vile rumors about Nyla. I thought it would end there. Then his press conference changed everything—he paraded his false “evidence” for the cameras, crowing about it. Now, Nyla’s set to stand trial within days, pregnant and alone in a cell. A child could be born to a mother in an orange jumpsuit—because of me. Guilt weighs on my chest like an anchor.

My phone buzzes. Blocked number. Probably my father’s men again—or Marcus himself. My stomach twists. Enough. I stab the silent option, ignoring the call. I’m done listening to him. If I do nothing, Nyla and her unborn child might be doomed. My breath catches. I’m no saint, but I refuse to let an innocent baby start life overshadowed by a murder conviction that might not be real.

I turn away from the phone and sink onto the couch. My next step is clear, even if it terrifies me: I have to get the evidence to someone in Stone Hospital’s circle. Jacob’s too publicly hounded; I can’t just hand him a USB in broad daylight with paparazzi breathing down his neck. William’s dead. Hilda’s gone. That leaves Derek, a quiet power behind Stone operations, a longtime family friend. He’ll keep things discreet and pass it on to the right people, maybe Margaret Ross, Nyla’s lawyer, or the press if needed.

Reaching for my second, older phone—the one I bought from some random electronics stall, with no link to my personal line—I type a message with shaking fingers:

It’s time. Meet me at the parking garage on West Pine & 5th. 1 AM. Come alone. This is about Nyla’s case.

I tap Send to Derek’s number, half expecting no reply. Maybe he lost the phone or he’s asleep. But within seconds, my phone vibrates: I’M READY.

I exhale, steadying my trembling heart, then type: Come now. Please trust me. I have crucial data like I said before. And I add a final warning: Marcus’s men mustn’t see you. 1 AM, top floor of the garage. Then I shut the phone off so no signals can be traced.

I force myself off the couch, rummaging for a black hoodie and sweatpants to disguise my usual style. Next, I unzip a duffel bag of precautions: a small pistol, courtesy of years in my father’s household. I hate the thought of using it, but I’m no fool. If Marcus suspects betrayal, he might already have watchers tailing me. I tuck the gun into my waistband, shuddering at how surreal this is. This is insane. But it’s the only way. Gathering the laptop, the USB, and a few crucial printed documents, I stuff them into a slim folder. Everything inside might be Nyla’s salvation—and my guaranteed condemnation.

An hour later the multi-level parking structure looms like a concrete beast under the glare of streetlamps. Its top levels are typically empty at night—a perfect spot for clandestine meetings. My battered sedan crawls up the winding ramps, headlights cutting through the gloom. I deliberately chose this old, generic car, bought under a false name months ago. Marcus’s men might look for my Mercedes, but not this.

I reach Level 7, the topmost area open to the sky. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, sending jittery shadows across rows of empty parking spaces. The city skyline rises in the distance, shimmering. My nerves prickle. I can almost feel watchers lurking—or maybe it’s paranoia.

I steer into a corner spot near a concrete pillar and kill the engine, letting silence envelop me. The clock reads 12:56 AM. Four minutes early. My eyes roam every corner: empty, no sign of Derek yet. A swirl of wind rushes through the open edges of the garage, echoing off pillars. I pull my hoodie closer, resting the folder on my lap, forcing steady breaths.

My father’s voice creeps into my thoughts: “Don’t forget, you owe your life to me.” That old refrain from childhood. I clench my jaw. I’m done letting him bully me. I can still see his smug grin at that press conference, brandishing forged documents. The memory sparks fresh anger—the same anger that fuels me to risk everything tonight.

Finally, headlights break the darkness. My body tenses. I slip the gun from my waistband onto the seat, hidden under a sweater. A black sedan eases up the ramp, pauses, then inches forward. Fear clenches in my gut: Is it Marcus’s men? But I spot Derek behind the wheel, wearing a baseball cap, his face tense in the dash lights. He parks a few yards away, cuts the engine. Neither of us moves for several seconds.

I gather my courage, stow the gun, cradle the folder, and push open my door. Head low, eyes darting, I see no other vehicles. Overhead lights lend the place an eerie glow.

Derek steps out, shoulders hunched. He has a plain jacket and dark jeans, his hair hidden under that cap. “Trixa?” he calls softly. His voice is laced with worry. “Are we alone?”

“I hope so,” I answer, keeping my voice down. “I’ve been up here a bit. Haven’t seen anyone. But let’s not waste time.”

He nods, glancing around. “What the hell is this about? You sure you didn’t lure me into some trap?”

A faint, wry smile tugs at my lips. I can’t blame his caution. “No trap. I just have…well, evidence. Stuff that might blow open the case against Nyla. She’s innocent, Derek. I can prove it.”

He narrows his eyes. “Big claim. Margaret Ross has been digging for weeks, and—”

“Look,” I say, exhaling, “I know I haven’t been on your side. I kept quiet, even helped my father sabotage the Stone family once. But I swear, I changed my mind after I realized how far he’d go—especially once he found out Nyla’s pregnant. He’s forging footage, bank transfers—everything—to ensure she rots in prison. Enough’s enough.”

A breeze whips my hoodie. Derek studies my face, reading the desperation. Finally, he steps closer. “So, you’re turning whistleblower? You want me to deliver this to Stone’s legal team or the press?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes. The data on this USB, plus these printouts, show how Dad manipulated toll booth footage, paid off a witness, and orchestrated false evidence. If experts authenticate it, it’ll shred the prosecution’s case. They’ll see Nyla was framed.”

Derek whistles under his breath, eyeing the folder in my arms. “If it’s legit, it could exonerate her. Why me?”

“Because I trust you more than some Stone Board members or even Jacob’s inner circle. Most of them are under scrutiny, hounded by the media. You’re known for being quiet, resourceful. You can slip it to Margaret or handle it discreetly. I can’t risk giving it directly to Jacob—he’s swarmed by paparazzi.”

He hesitates, then extends a hand. “Let me see.” I pass him the folder. He flips the top sheet, scanning lines of code and transaction logs, half in confusion. “This is definitely beyond me, but I see Stone’s logos, suspicious timestamps… If it’s real, it might be the missing puzzle piece. Trixa… this could exonerate her.”

“That’s the goal,” I say softly. “Nyla’s unborn child deserves a chance at a normal life. I won’t watch an innocent baby suffer for something it had no part in.”

He nods, compassion in his gaze. “You’re doing the right thing. We can still get it to the defense in time. The hearing’s next week, but if we move fast—”

Footsteps echo, cutting him off. My body freezes. I turn, staring into the gloom at the far corner of the top level. A side stairwell door creaks open. Two silhouettes appear. My heart drops—Dad’s men. I recognize the stocky build of one; he’s the enforcer who shadowed Marcus at the last conference. Instinctual dread slams me.

Derek’s breath hitches, the folder clutched tight. “We have company?”

I manage a shaky whisper. “Yeah. Marcus’s watchers or enforcers. He must’ve known I’d try something.” My pulse pounds in my ears. “We can’t be seen or the data’s lost. They’ll kill us, Derek.”

He scans for exits. “No quick way out but the ramps. If we get in the car, they’ll see us.” The men fan out, scanning the parked cars.

I lock eyes with Derek. “We hide. Now. Then we head for the opposite stairs.”

We duck behind a nearby SUV, dropping low. My heart thunders so loud I’m sure it’ll give us away. The overhead lights cast patches of white across the concrete. I peer under the chassis, watching the men’s feet moving between cars. Each step sets my nerves on fire.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I scramble to silence it, cursing my forgetfulness. The men pause, one lets out a suspicious grunt. Did they hear that?

I hold my breath, gesturing to Derek that we should make a run for the far side while they’re still searching the center lane. We inch forward, painfully slow, hugging the shadows. The enforcers’ footsteps close in, scanning row after row. My lungs burn with tension.

Then a scuff of a shoe—one of them steps from behind a pillar on the left, his gaze locking on us. He sees us. My stomach twists into knots. “Stop!” he barks, raising a pistol. “Hands up!” I freeze, mind spinning. The second man appears from the right, blocking the stairwell exit.

Derek presses closer protectively. My own gun digs into my side, but fear floods me. I brought this. Am I actually prepared to shoot?

“You traitor,” snarls the armed enforcer, recognition flaring as he sees my face. “Boss said you might try something stupid. Give us that folder. Now.” The weapon glints under the flickering fluorescents.

Derek’s jaw tightens. “Don’t do this,” he warns through clenched teeth. “You have no idea what’s in here.”

“Shut up,” the second enforcer snaps, stepping forward. “Hand over the documents or we’ll drop you.” The echo of his boots pounds in my chest.

My father’s voice rattles in my head: “Don’t betray me.” The realization that I already have betrays me in a physical wave of terror. The men are armed, and they can’t let me leave alive. They can’t let Derek leave, either. If they succeed, Nyla’s evidence disappears.

Derek weighs the situation. Two guns, two men. Slowly, he lowers the folder to the ground. “Alright,” he says. “Take it.” They advance, but he lunges out of nowhere, slamming a kick into the first enforcer’s wrist. The gun jerks upward, firing a deafening shot that ricochets off a concrete pillar, sparking.

I gasp, adrenaline surging. The second enforcer curses and rushes in, but Derek twists, driving an elbow into his chest. The folder skids away, pages spilling. I dive for it, heart pounding, scooping up scattered papers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the first enforcer recover, fury in his eyes.

Gunshots echo again, muzzle flashes searing the dim garage. I shriek when a bullet pings off the floor near me, throwing up chips of concrete that sting my arm. Derek and the second man wrestle for control of the weapon. The first enforcer is striding toward me, gun aimed at my center mass. “Stupid girl,” he snarls. “You had to cross the boss?”

Time seems to slow. My fear crystallizes into cold resolve. I’m done letting Marcus terrify me. If I let this man shoot me, or shoot Derek, everything is lost. My hand grips my hidden pistol. I whip it free, my teeth clenched.

The enforcer’s eyes widen as I fire. My bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The recoil jolts my arms, almost knocking the gun from my grip. He staggers, letting off a shot that shatters a parking lamp overhead. Glass rains onto the concrete.

Derek lands a savage blow to the second man’s throat, grabs his pistol, and knocks him out with the butt. The first enforcer crashes onto his back, bleeding from his shoulder. He tries to lift his weapon again, but a rush of terror and desperation takes hold of me. My second shot—I’m not even sure I meant to pull the trigger—hits his chest. The explosion of sound reverberates in my skull.

He goes still, eyes blank. I freeze, gun trembling in my grip. Oh God. I shot him. I killed him. He doesn’t move. Blood pools across his torso.

“Trixa!” Derek’s urgent voice snaps me out of my paralysis. He’s kneeling by the second enforcer, who’s clearly unconscious. “We gotta go. The next shot might bring more of them, or the cops.” He grabs my arm, seeing how pale I am. “Come on!”

I stare at the lifeless enforcer, horror clenched in my chest. “Is he…? I didn’t mean—” My voice is raw. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. I was aiming to disable him, but adrenaline and fear have a mind of their own.

“Trixa.” Derek’s tone is harsher this time. “He was about to kill you. You had no choice. Now we have to leave, or we’re next.”

Tears blur my vision. I force myself to yank my eyes from the corpse and scoop up the scattered documents and USB. My entire body is shaking, but I cling to the knowledge that if I hadn’t shot him, he would’ve ended me—and the evidence. I follow Derek, weaving between cars. I fumble my gun back into my waistband, numb and trembling. I’ve taken a life. Now Dad will never stop hunting me.

The hiss of rotating overhead lights, the acrid smell of gunpowder, it all hammers at my senses. In the distance, I hear sirens. Are they coming here? We only have moments to vanish.

Derek leads us to the far edge of the level. We peek over the low concrete wall, seven stories up. The ramp is too exposed, probably swarming with danger any second. My heart thuds painfully.

“This way,” Derek gasps, spotting a smaller door marked STAIRS. We bolt toward it, and I hear a faint groan behind us—maybe the second enforcer stirring. My stomach clenches. I picture him raising a phone, calling for backup, or taking a final shot. Derek yanks the door open, nearly dragging me through. We stumble into a narrow stairwell, the stale reek of concrete closing in around us. The door bangs shut behind us, but it won’t hold long. Sirens scream closer—or I might just be imagining them. My ears are still ringing from gunfire. We race down flight after flight, footsteps pounding the stairs.

By the second level, Derek carefully opens the door. The ramp there looks empty. We hurry behind a row of cars, heading for an exit sign. My mind buzzes with the enforcer’s final stare, with the guilt. I’m sorry…I had no choice.

We slip through a side door and out onto a quiet street. The city lights press in, neon reflecting in puddles left by a recent drizzle. We’re half-running, half-hiding in the gloom. My entire body trembles, adrenaline spiking and crashing. I keep the folder clutched tight.

After a block, I brace a hand against a grimy alley wall, panting. “I can’t believe…that just happened,” I whisper. The weight of the gun in my waistband feels impossible to ignore.

Derek stands at the alley’s mouth, scanning for suspicious vehicles or cops. “We have to keep moving,” he says quietly, though urgency crackles in his voice. “Marcus’s men or the police will be looking for us soon. Let’s find a safe place for you.”

I’m on the verge of tears again. “I don’t have a ‘safe place.’ Dad’s network is everywhere. He’ll label me a traitor the second he finds out, and that man I—he’ll—” I try to swallow my panic. “I’m a fugitive, aren’t I?”

Derek’s expression softens. “At least for now. Come with me. I have a friend who can hide you. He’s off the grid, not tied to Stone Hospital in any obvious way. Then tomorrow, I’ll get this folder to Jacob’s lawyer. We’ll set the record straight. Marcus won’t be able to bury the truth.”

I grip the folder, tears threatening. “Alright,” I manage. “Let’s do that.” Regret and dread tear me apart. I shot one of Dad’s men. Dad’s going to know. But if that’s the price to save Nyla’s baby from prison… I can’t let myself break down. Not yet.

We emerge onto a slightly busier street, blending into the sparse crowd. A battered taxi passes, and Derek flags it. I slide into the back seat, pressing close to him so the driver doesn’t notice my shaking hands. The folder is practically glued to my lap, sweat gathering at my temples.

Derek murmurs an address, pays in cash, and the taxi pulls away. The city lights blur by, neon streaks on glass. My father’s shadow looms in every reflection. He’s going to unleash hell on me. I hold the folder tighter, reminding myself why I’ve done this. That child deserves a future without steel bars.

Eventually, the cab turns onto a quieter residential street. Derek hands over some bills, and we step onto the sidewalk. I hug the folder, scanning for suspicious cars. None. We walk to a small townhouse next to a vacant lot. It’s dark and unassuming.

“Almost there,” Derek whispers, leading me around the back. It’s quiet, no SUVs or men with guns. My relief is shaky and fragile.

We hover near the threshold. I turn to Derek, my voice hushed. “When Marcus hears what happened in that garage…he’ll want me dead, won’t he? I shot one of his men.”

Derek meets my eyes. “We’ll protect you. Stone Hospital has resources, and Jacob or Alexander can help. This friend of mine is completely off grid.”

I nod slowly, swallowing my fear. “I’m sorry you got dragged into bloodshed. But thank you, for helping me find a chance at redemption.” The word tastes strange, but it’s all I have.

He gives a small, sad smile. “We can’t change the past, but saving Nyla and her child is worth any risk.”

I press my lips together. “Let’s just hope this evidence is enough.” My stomach knots with guilt. “And—I hope what I did… it really was self-defense.”

Derek’s voice is firm. “Absolutely. Don’t torment yourself.”

I manage a nod, inhaling raggedly. “Alright. Let’s see this through.” And I mean it.

We step inside, a cramped living area filled with stale, dusty air. Derek’s friend is nowhere in sight—probably asleep or lying low. I place the folder on a rickety side table, ignoring the tremor in my hands.

Derek rests a comforting hand on my back. “Try to get some rest. I’ll handle the next steps. We’ll watch the news for any story on the parking garage or your father’s response.”

I nod, though my mind’s racing. “Tomorrow, let’s get this to Margaret Ross. If all goes well, maybe Nyla will be free by the time her baby’s born.”

A flicker of hope lights Derek’s face. “That’s the plan.” He glances at the phone in my hoodie pocket. “And Trixa… maybe ditch that phone for good. We can’t risk them tracking it here.”

Grimacing, I pull it out. My screen shows a slew of missed calls from a blocked number. Marcus. With a trembling hand, I switch it off. Then I rip out the SIM card and snap it. No more contact with him.

Outside, sirens wail in the distance. My stomach churns at the thought of paramedics at the parking garage, discovering the body I left behind. He was going to kill me, I remind myself for the thousandth time. I had no choice. Soon enough, Marcus will know I’ve turned on him—violently. A chill wracks me.

I sink onto a threadbare couch, burying my face in my hands. Every time I close my eyes, I see the enforcer’s dying stare. I’m sorry… but you gave me no choice. Guilt or not, I crossed the line tonight, and I can’t go back. I’ve stolen my father’s secrets, killed his soldier to keep them.

From the next room, I hear Derek whispering urgently into his phone, probably to one of the Stones’ trusted contacts. He sounds tense, but also determined. He’s promising them we’ll get the data to the right people, maybe first thing in the morning. Relief washes over me. We’re so close to dismantling Marcus’s entire scheme.

A single tear slips down my cheek. I let it fall—shock, remorse, fierce resolve all tangled together. I’ve chosen my side now. I’m no longer Marcus Swan’s pawn. I’m a hunted traitor, but maybe one who can save Nyla’s child from a lifetime of injustice.

Derek finishes his call and appears behind me. I take a steadying breath and glance over my shoulder. He manages a reassuring half-smile.

“We’ll move at dawn,” he murmurs. “Get everything to Margaret Ross. And, Trixa…I’m proud of you. You risked it all to do the right thing.”

I nod, my throat tight. “I just hope it’s enough.” My voice cracks. “And that man in the garage… It was self-defense, right?”

“It was,” he says firmly. “Don’t doubt it.”

I swallow hard, forcing my voice not to shake. “Alright. Let’s see this through.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance, mirroring the storm I’ve unleashed inside my father’s empire. And I feel the final severing of ties. I’m done being his dutiful daughter; I’m the woman who stole his secrets and killed his soldier to protect them. There’s no going back. His men already found me once. Now I’m their number-one target.

My heart hammers with equal parts terror and righteousness. If saving Nyla and her unborn child means facing my father’s fury, then so be it. The lamp overhead flickers, my tense silhouette dancing against the wall. In that wavering light, I vow I will not back down. I refuse to see another innocent baby’s life destroyed by Marcus Swan’s machinations. If I have to pay in blood—or with the last shred of my old identity—then that’s what I’ll do. I’m not turning back.