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Finally, the timer goes off. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and look at the result.
The digital display on the pregnancy test is stark, unequivocal. Positive. I stare at it, my mind refusing to accept the reality in front of me.
It's positive. I'm pregnant.
Shock courses through me like ice water, chilling and surreal. How could this be happening now? My thoughts race, tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl. This changes everything. Everything.
It's Julian's—that I know for sure. In a way, that part is a relief. I've already seen first-hand how wonderful he is with Aria, so there's no doubt in my mind that he would be anything less than a perfect father to this child.
Oh, God. A child. A baby.
Julian and I have only just rekindled something. Something I thought might have promise. But this is taking things way too fast. It's not something we're ready for. Not to mention my career, the total lifestyle shift…
I'm not ready.
And what will Julian think? He's already dealing with so much. Julian, with his own bundle of complexities and his protective instincts, might feel suffocated, overwhelmed—it might be the very thing to set him over the edge on which he’s been so precariously balancing.
I sit back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, the test still in my hand, feeling a profound sense of isolation. Burdening Julian with this news right now feels wrong. He’s under enough pressure. This could break him, break us.
I decide, here in the quiet solitude of my bathroom, not to tell him yet. Not until I can figure out how to handle this, how to even begin processing it myself. It’s not just about what he’ll think or feel. It’s about what I need, too. What this child—my child—will need.
I resolve to keep this secret just a little longer, at least until the immediate chaos at the Langford is resolved, until we can find a moment of peace to navigate this new reality together. But for now, I'll carry this knowledge alone, a silent sentinel guarding a future uncertain but inevitably changed.
CHAPTER 22
JULIAN
Tuesday morning finds me at my desk, sifting through old contacts and social media accounts, trying to piece together the whereabouts and activities of my former brother in arms, Mason Phillips. The knot in my stomach tightens with each bit of information I uncover—facts that paint a troubling picture of the man I once called a friend.
I discover that Mason was discharged from the military around the same time I went home: immediately following the incident. I didn't get the full story at the time, but I knew enough to assume things would go badly for him. The official record shows a dishonorable discharge, a confirmation of my long-harbored suspicion.
A year following his discharge, Mason’s name pops up in a police report involving vandalism and arson. Again, not many details. The charges were dropped due to lack of evidence, but the disturbing similarity to what we've been dealing with has me on edge, my every muscle tense.
Even more unsettling is the revelation that Mason lived here, in this very town, for a year or two after his discharge, and I never knew. He never contacted me, never reached out. This proximity, this connection to my current life—my gut is telling me it was intentional, deceptive.
Unfortunately, I can't find any information on where he might be living now, and this unknown only adds to my growing unease.
Could Mason really be behind the threats and sabotage at the Langford Building? I don't want to believe it, but there's too much evidence to ignore the possibility. Knowing Mason has been here, his history of violent behavior, plus everything that went down between us—it all paints Mason as the likely culprit behind the hell we've been through lately.
Mind swirling and heart racing, I head outside to the construction site, determined to find out if any of the crew might have crossed paths with Mason during his time here. As I step outside, a chill runs down my spine, and I have the unnerving feeling of being watched. The perimeter of forest that once seemed to protect this building now appears dark and menacing, the perfect hideout for someone intent on doing harm.
My radar is up, my training kicking in, though I don't immediately notice anything suspicious. I decide to take advantage of the quick break occurring at the site, gathering the guys, and trying my best not to alarm anyone.
"Did any of you ever know a guy named Mason Phillips? He might have lived here a couple of years back." I watch their faces carefully, looking for any sign of recognition.
The guys exchange looks, shaking their heads. "Never heard of him, boss," one of them finally says, and the others agree. As far as I can tell, they're all being honest. While it's a comfort to believe none of my crew are involved in the sabotage, it's still another dead end.
Questions pound against my skull, my ears ringing. What the hell was Mason doing here? Why wait to strike until after he seemingly disappeared? Or—and this is the most frightening of all—is he still here?
Back in my office, I sink into my chair, feeling the weight of every new piece of information. Maybe Jack had the right idea, perhaps I need to reach out to some of my old contacts who might have kept in touch with Mason, or at least followed his downward spiral more closely.
The possibility that Mason could harbor enough resentment to target me after all these years is not something I had ever wanted to consider. The memories of that operation—and the following consequences—are painful enough without the added responsibility of Mason's hatred.
But the truth is, I can completely understand why he would hold me accountable. I was the one who reported him, after all. Of course he would blame me.
I pull out my phone and start drafting messages to some of my old military buddies, asking if they have any recent information on Mason or if they've been in contact with him.
I pour over my emails, trying to figure out my next steps, when my gaze is drawn to the window overlooking the construction site. There, I spot Gabriel, standing off to the side. He’s on his phone, deeply engrossed in what appears to be a heated conversation. His body language—tense shoulders, a hand running through his hair—is the complete opposite of his usual chipper, ‘can-do' attitude.
