When we finally reached the edge of the city, I executed the pivot.
"Tyrone, park the car," I commanded, my voice sharp. "Jackson, I need to make a private call to my financial team. Wait here."
I stepped out of the SUV and walked immediately to the most inconspicuous entrance of the mall, then executed a quick, clean exit out the back alley, using the layout I'd memorized from satellite images during the flight.
"Tyrone," I spoke into my secure comms, using a new, encrypted channel only he and I shared. "Divert. We are going to the private clinic Jackson mentioned. Do not alert Jackson. This is a matter of personal security that supersedes all other tactical concerns."
Tyrone's response was a brief, professional confirmation, "Understood, Ms. Knight." He had learned the crucial rule: if I gave an order that contradicted Jackson's, it was usually because the risk was existential.
The clinic was discreet, shielded by high walls and lush foliage. The consultation was fast, cold, and entirely clinical. I used my new identity, paid cash, and demanded absolute silence.
The doctor's words were the final, irrefutable confirmation: Positive.
It wasn't a tactical advantage. It wasn't a distraction. It was a human vulnerability that trumped every strategy I had ever devised. I was carrying Jackson's child.
The man who killed my father and lied to get close to me…was now the father of my future.
I didn't let the emotion touch my face. I secured the digital file, scheduled a follow-up appointment for three weeks, and ordered Tyrone to return me to the precise location where I had left Jackson.
I walked back to the SUV, my stomach churning, not from nausea now, but from the immense weight of the truth I was carrying alone.
"Financial matter resolved," I stated, sliding back into the seat, my expression cool. "Now, to the compound. We've wasted enough time."
Jackson's POV
I watched her walk back to the car, her movements still precise, her face a serene mask of strategic focus. She was back from her 'errand,' and I was left with the unsettling sense that I had been completely outmaneuvered during the last two hours.
The compound, built into the Hottentots Holland Mountains overlooking False Bay, was a masterpiece of clandestine architecture. My day was spent diving into the logistics that gave me comfort.
I spent the first hour in the subterranean vault, running diagnostics on the comms array and the redundant life support systems. I didn't just check the systems; I checked the people. Tyrone was here, along with a skeleton crew of trusted security personnel I had personally vetted over the last decade.
The compound was large, designed for an extended stay. But my mind was fixed on making Belinda physically comfortable. I bypassed the main master suite.
"Tyrone, prepare the South Wing penthouse for Ms. Knight," I instructed. "Separate sleeping quarters. Her own dedicated lounge and kitchen. Secure it with two unique biometric locks."
"Separate sleeping quarters, Boss?" Tyrone asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes. She's going to be working regardless of what I say. She needs space to manage the new target," I snapped, deflecting his knowing glance. She needs space to deal with my crime, I thought, a bitter correction. I needed to give her the physical distance to process the murder without feeling obligated to accept my comfort.
I walked through her new penthouse, cataloging the small necessities I knew she wouldn't ask for. I called a local contact to execute a swift, untraceable supply run.
"I need the closet and cupboards fully stocked," I dictated into my comms. "High-quality, loose-fitting cotton clothing. Gourmet bottled water. A lot of coffee products. And get me a full range of high-end sanitary products and painkillers. She might be a strategist, but she's still a woman. She shouldn't have to ask or leave the house for basics."
It was a small, quiet act of devotion…a way to love her that didn't involve grand strategic gestures. The simple act of preparing for her basic human needs felt like the only honest thing I had done all day.
When she arrived, driven up the twisting road and through the double airlock, I was waiting in the vault entrance.
"The South Wing is secured and prepared for you," I said, meeting her eyes. "Your working vault is ready. We'll start with the security weaknesses now."
She paused, looking at me, her eyes unreadable but carrying a new, frightening intensity.
"Thank you, nunus," she said, using a new casual, intimate name that cut through my armor. "Now, the weaknesses."
She walked into the vault. I followed, adrenaline spiking. The first weakness she targeted wasn't the perimeter fence or the satellite uplink. It was the air handling system.
"The air is too sterile," she noted, running her fingers over a vent. "A controlled environment is a liability. The General would weaponize the environment itself. I want the system adjusted to pull in a minimum of 20% fresh, unfiltered air at all times. We need to acclimatize quickly."
I stared at her. Unfiltered air was a security risk. But she was forcing us to embrace the real world, to leave the bunker mentality behind. She was already building a home, not a prison.
Belinda's POV
The first week in the compound wasn't a honeymoon or a retreat… it was an intensely focused campaign to secure the future I now held close. Jackson was focused on dismantling his father's network and I was focused on building a sanctuary around the one secret I couldn't afford to share.
My second security demand, made in the vault minutes after the air handling system was adjusted, was my next piece of quiet fortification.
"The satellite uplink," I commanded, pointing to the dedicated workstation. "It's too direct, too clean. The General will use the bandwidth signature to track the scope of our operations. I want a complete ban on deep-level data transfer—no transferring ledger files or large intelligence packets. You will only use the comms array for live video and voice communication with Tyrone, Liam and Lola."
Jackson looked at me, perplexed. "Love, we need the ledgers to track the money. The core of the dismantling is data transfer."
"No," I countered. "The core of the dismantling is trust. You will manage the money, the data, and the ledgers entirely through physical hardware delivered by trusted couriers—Tyrone, and only Tyrone. If you need to see a ledger, you wait for him to arrive and review it in the secure vault. This reduces our digital footprint to nothing but conversational static. It forces patience."
The real reason? I couldn't risk the energy signature required to transmit my personal, sensitive medical data, or any online searches related to pregnancy, being flagged as a high-value signal by an adversary.
Jackson conceded, his brow furrowed with strategic appreciation. He thought I was minimizing risk. No nunus I was maximizing secrecy.
Time Lapse: 1 week
Day 1-2: The Physical Perimeter. Jackson was focused on the stone and steel. He ran drills with Tyrone, mapping emergency exit tunnels and refining the biometric access points. I, meanwhile, focused on the internal life support. I mapped the kitchen pantry, taking obsessive inventory, mentally calculating the nutritional requirements of a growing fetus, not a high-stress operative. I demanded all organic produce be sourced from a specific, small local farm…a detail Jackson interpreted as me establishing a clean, fastidious cover.
Day 3: The Ghost Asset Arrives. The medical drone—the 'proprietary data' asset—arrived with the morning light. Jackson was preoccupied in the vault, running a system diagnostic. I took the drone's contents to the privacy of the South Wing. It wasn't data; it was a compact, encrypted medical scanner. Alone, I confirmed the stability of the pregnancy, the tiny, terrifying fact of it. I sent back the 'all clear' code through the drone, letting Jackson assume the phantom data was safe. That night, exhausted, I found myself instinctively curling into his side of the bed in the master suite, seeking his physical presence—a desperate, silent plea for protection he mistook for post-crisis comfort.
Day 4-5: Re-establishing the Core. Jackson was immersed in his work, analyzing the physically delivered ledgers and dismantling the General's shell companies brick by brick. His focus was absolute. I was doing my own quiet work. I used my new encrypted phone to open back channels with the few trusted assets I had outside of his network, not to conspire, but to quietly confirm his timeline of my father's death. He killed him for us. The betrayal receded but the depth of his commitment remained.
Day 6-7: The Human Element. The strategic work was grueling, but the evenings became the most vulnerable time. We didn't talk about the murder. Instead, we spent hours on the massive deck, looking up at the clear, magnificent night sky, the Southern Cross hanging heavy and bright. We talked about nothing: family, our goals, the absurd logistics of building a home here. It was a calculated form of intimacy—a slow burn of emotional tethering designed to prove the peace was real. I knew, with a certainty that transcended strategy, that I was deeply, utterly…
in love with him.