Chapter 9 - THE MAN WHO FINALLY SAID NO
Gabriel moved before anyone could stop him.
I caught his arm.
“No.”
His face was white.
“That’s my sister.”
“I know.”
“He’ll kill her.”
“Then don’t give him exactly what he wants.”
Gabriel stared at me.
For twenty years, Christian had used Gabriel’s loyalty like a weapon.
Now he was using family.
Same method.
Different target.
Agent Rivera spoke quickly.
“Hannah Collins entered the property twenty minutes ago using a vendor entrance. We believe she was lured here by a message from Gabriel’s number.”
Gabriel pulled out his phone.
Cloned.
Of course.
Christian appeared on the screen.
“Hurry, Gabe.”
He pressed the gun against Hannah’s shoulder.
She was crying but conscious.
“I know how much family means to you.”
Gabriel whispered, “I’m going down there.”
Rivera said, “No.”
Christian smiled.
“You remember where the old recording booth is?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“He wants me alone.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the screen.
Christian didn’t want to escape yet.
He wanted an audience.
He wanted emotional obedience.
That gave us time.
I stepped toward the microphone.
Rivera caught my arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Talking.”
“No.”
“He wants me too.”
“We are not negotiating through the public sound system.”
Christian’s voice interrupted.
“Genevieve?”
He could see us on exterior cameras.
I took the microphone.
“Let Hannah go.”
His face softened.
“There you are.”
“I’m here.”
“You look beautiful.”
My stomach twisted.
“Let her go.”
“Come downstairs.”
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
“Still stubborn.”
“Yes.”
“You used to think it was cute.”
“You used to pretend you loved me.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
Christian’s eyes changed.
“Turn off the cameras.”
“No.”
“Genevieve.”
“No.”
I understood something then.
For years, every real argument happened in private.
Hotel rooms.
Cars.
Backstage suites.
Christian curated his kindness publicly and his cruelty privately.
Not today.
“You wanted the wedding,” I said.
“Here it is.”
I looked toward the sea of cameras.
“Talk.”
Christian’s jaw tightened.
Gabriel stared at me.
Then understood.
Keep him talking.
Let the world watch.
Christian laughed.
“You think this makes you powerful?”
“No.”
I answered honestly.
“I think it makes you visible.”
That hit him.
His calm slipped.
“You would have nothing without me.”
The old insult.
Maybe Sabrina heard it.
Maybe every former assistant did.
“I had a life before you.”
“A nobody life.”
“Mine.”
He stood.
Hannah flinched.
“You were a regional event planner when I met you.”
“Yes.”
“I put you on magazine covers.”
“You also paid someone to burn my face.”
The crowd reacted.
Christian’s eyes flashed.
“You think I wanted this?”
He gestured toward my scars.
“I wanted time.”
“By disfiguring me?”
“I told Crowe not to hit your eyes.”
The terrace went silent.
Even I stopped breathing.
He had just admitted knowing the attacker’s instructions.
Publicly.
Broadcast live.
Agent Rivera’s expression changed.
Christian realized it one second too late.
His face twisted.
“You set me up.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I asked you to talk.”
I almost smiled.
“You chose what to say.”
Hannah suddenly moved.
She slammed her heel backward into Christian’s shin.
He shouted.
The gun shifted.
Gabriel yelled, “HANNAH!”
She ran.
Christian fired.
The bullet struck the wall.
Agents breached the archive level.
The screen shook as Christian grabbed the camera.
Then disappeared.
Gunfire.
Shouting.
Gabriel tried to move.
Rivera held him back.
Thirty seconds later, Hannah’s voice came through an agent’s radio.
“Hostage secure.”
Gabriel collapsed against the podium.
He covered his face.
I held his shoulder.
Christian was still loose inside Ashford Hall.
The estate was evacuated.
Press pushed behind barriers.
I refused to leave entirely.
Rivera compromised by moving us into an armored command vehicle.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then forty.
Christian knew the estate.
Secret service passages.
Old wine tunnels.
Maintenance access.
He vanished.
Again.
But this time, something changed.
He had nowhere left to hide publicly.
His confession was live.
Clipped.
Downloaded.
Reposted millions of times before the first agent reached Hannah.
Crowe’s confession no longer stood alone.
Gabriel’s recording no longer stood alone.
Christian himself had said it.
I told Crowe not to hit your eyes.
The sentence ended him.
At least publicly.
Then Gabriel’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hannah?”
No.
Christian.
Gabriel went still.
“What do you want?”
Christian laughed softly.
“You let her do this.”
Gabriel’s face hardened.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m done lying for you.”
Silence.
Twenty years condensed into that sentence.
Christian’s voice changed.
“After everything I gave you?”
Gabriel almost laughed.
“You mean everything I cleaned up?”
“I made you rich.”
“You made me useful.”
“You’d still be booking nightclub acts in Toledo without me.”
“Maybe.”
Gabriel looked at me.
Then out the vehicle window.
“At least I’d recognize myself.”
Christian went quiet.
Then:
“She doesn’t love you.”
My breath stopped.
Gabriel’s eyes met mine.
Christian continued.
“You think I don’t see it?”
Neither of us spoke.
“You’ve always wanted what I had.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You want Genevieve.”
There it was.
Public enough.
Private enough.
Too soon.
Too real.
I looked away.
Christian laughed.
“She’ll never trust you.”
Gabriel answered calmly.
“Maybe not.”
My chest tightened.
“And that’s her choice.”
Christian had no response.
Because choice was a language he didn’t understand.
Gabriel continued.
“I’m not coming to find you.”
Silence.
“I’m not fixing this.”
Another pause.
“I’m not your manager.”
His voice became steady.
“I’m not your friend.”
Christian whispered, “Gabriel.”
“No.”
The word was simple.
Twenty years late.
But complete.
“No.”
He ended the call.
His hands shook.
I reached for one.
He looked at me.
I didn’t say anything about Christian’s accusation.
Not yet.
He squeezed my hand once.
Then released it.
Two hours later, agents found a maintenance uniform and blood near the north service tunnel.
Christian had escaped with a shoulder injury.
He stole a delivery vehicle.
Police recovered it twenty miles away.
Empty.
For three days, America hunted him.
Airports monitored.
Border alerts issued.
Private aviation restricted.
His photographs appeared everywhere.
Fans turned into amateur detectives.
Some tried to protect him.
Most did not.
Then the most unexpected person called.
Christian’s mother.
Marianne Prescott.
I had met her only twice.
Quiet woman.
Divorced Richard when Christian was ten.
Christian claimed she abandoned him.
She lived in Oregon.
Rebecca took the call first.
Then handed it to me.
“Genevieve.”
Marianne sounded old.
Tired.
“I’m sorry.”
I had no energy left for apologies.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yes.”
Every person in the room froze.
“Where?”
“He called me.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“What did he say?”
“That everyone betrayed him.”
Of course.
“He asked me to meet him.”
“Where?”
Marianne began crying.
“My family had a cabin when he was little.”
My pulse quickened.
“Address.”
She gave it.
Northern Michigan.
Remote.
Christian had crossed multiple states.
Agent Rivera mobilized teams immediately.
Marianne whispered, “He was not always like this.”
I closed my eyes.
Maybe that was true.
Maybe it wasn’t.
People always wanted monsters to have started as monsters.
It made the world easier.
But children grew.
Fear became entitlement.
Pain became excuse.
Talent became power.
Power removed consequences.
Then one day someone paid a man to burn a woman’s face and told himself it was necessary.
“He became like this,” I said.
Marianne cried harder.
“Yes.”
The FBI reached the cabin before dawn.
Christian was inside.
Alone.
Armed.
He refused to surrender.
Negotiators spoke with him for three hours.
At 8:17 a.m., he called me.
Rivera asked whether I wanted to answer.
I did.
“Genevieve.”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Christian.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words meant nothing.
“For what?”
Silence.
That mattered.
People who were truly sorry usually knew what they were sorry for.
He finally said, “Everything.”
“No.”
“What?”
“That’s too easy.”
His breathing changed.
“I loved you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“You loved what I did for your image.”
“That isn’t fair.”
I almost laughed.
“Fair?”
“I was going to take care of you.”
“After having me attacked.”
“I panicked.”
“After sabotaging my pregnancies.”
Another silence.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Losing my career.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not rage.
Not madness.
Priority.
He had simply valued his career over my body.
His image over our children.
Control over every person around him.
“Come outside,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because the story is over.”
“I can’t go to prison.”
“You should have thought of that earlier.”
“You’d let them take me?”
I looked at my scarred reflection in the dark window.
“Yes.”
He began crying.
Real crying this time.
Maybe the first honest sound I had heard from him in years.
“Genevieve.”
“What?”
“I don’t know who I am without all of this.”
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“That isn’t my job to solve.”
The line remained silent.
Then he whispered, “Goodbye.”
Fear shot through me.
“Christian.”
A gunshot sounded through the phone.
I flinched.
Agents shouted.
Then Rivera raised one hand.
“Hold.”
Seconds passed.
A radio crackled.
“Subject alive.”
I exhaled.
Christian had fired into the ceiling.
Then walked outside with his hands raised.
At 8:26 a.m., Christian Prescott was arrested.
No stage.
No screaming fans.
No final song.
Just snow.
May you like
Handcuffs.
And a man who had spent fifteen years controlling every room finally walking into one where nobody cared how famous he was.
