I walked into the secure vault, ignoring Tyrone's concerned salute, and approached my main command console. I didn't want a blood sample or a doctor…I wanted data.
My suspicions of her won't allow me to sleep.
1. Water Analysis & "System Check: I instructed Tyrone to install a new, miniaturized sensor array onto the main water line feeding the master suite for "trace toxin detection" following the infiltration. This however, was also calibrated to measure calcium and magnesium levels (which can indicate dietary shift), and most importantly, subtle hormonal fluctuations that might leach into the water during bathing or other uses. It was a passive, continuous blood test via waste water.
2. Environmental Scan: I then ordered a "mold and air quality sweep" in the master suite to explain the lingering nausea. This involved deploying an ultra-sensitive, silent atmospheric drone to hover near the ceiling, calibrated not only for environmental pathogens but also for minute pheromone and thermal signatures—looking for any persistent, abnormal increase in internal body temperature or hormonal scent changes.
3. The Ronda Intercept: My final, most direct move was targeting the source of the only new variable…the green drink.
The next morning, the compound felt deceptively quiet. I , who hadn't slept, positioned myself on the top floor balcony of the West Wing, overlooking the auxiliary kitchen built into the South Wing…a room rarely used, but perfectly suited for Ronda's quiet routines.
A few minutes later, Ronda appeared. She was calm and efficient, retrieving various items: a blender, a handful of spinach, ginger, and a small, unlabeled container.
I stood beside the railing, my field glasses focused.
"Tyrone, pay close attention" I ordered quietly into his comms. "Log every single ingredient and ratio. I want a complete chemical breakdown, cross-referenced with all known medicinal, toxic, and traditional wellness databases."
"Copy that," Tyrone's voice crackled softly. "This seems a bit… aggressive for a simple stress tonic."
"My father is looking for a vulnerability," I ground out. "Any deviation from her baseline is a vulnerability. That drink is the only new variable in her system. I need to know exactly what she's putting in her body."
Ronda worked swiftly. She added the spinach and ginger, then a thick, dark powder from the unlabeled container—likely a protein or vitamin supplement. Then came the unexpected addition: she carefully cut open a small, clear capsule and sprinkled the powder inside into the blender.
"Zoom on the capsule ingredient, Tyrone," Jackson snapped.
Tyrone's augmented reality feed zoomed in, overlaying a chemical formula on the image. "Folic Acid and B-Complex," Tyrone reported, sounding confused. "High doses. Strong systemic support, nerve regeneration... typically used for extreme stress, or... major cellular growth."
I felt a cold clench in my stomach. Major cellular growth…I watched as Ronda poured the bright green liquid into a thermos flask—Belinda's waking refreshment.
"Cross-reference Folic Acid, B-Complex, and sudden nausea from coffee," Jackson instructed, his voice barely audible. "Find any common medical diagnosis that requires those items."
Belinda's POV
The master suite felt suffocating. I needed to move, to brief, to strategize, but the exhaustion was a physical weight, and the knowledge of the life I was protecting was a secret heavier than any armor.
I slipped out of the master suite and made my way down to the secure South Wing suite where Rosline and Ronda were staying. Rosline was waiting, already pulling out a blood pressure cuff and a small, sterile kit.
"Ronda's covering the perimeter and making you your swamp juice," Rosline murmured, her usual sharp focus softening with a shared, silent tension. "We'll do this quickly. The General's move has given us perfect cover: stress recovery."
Rosline took my blood pressure and drew a small vial of blood—a private, untraceable checkup. This was our secret counter-operation.
"Relax, B," Rosline said, deftly applying a bandage. "You were on the front line yesterday. You earned the fatigue. But we need to monitor the spike. Jackson's eyes are everywhere."
I nodded, gesturing toward the nearby console. "He's running Iron Maiden. He won't even check this room. He knows you two are the most secure part of the perimeter."
I walked to the sideboard. Rosline had already set the scene: a half-full glass of red wine near the main chair, and a second, untouched glass next to it—a decoy illusion that I was unwinding like a normal operative, not a vessel under unprecedented siege.
"It's working," I sighed, looking at the two glasses. "He's focusing on his father, on perimeter threats. He sees me as the target, not the vault. He doesn't see the life."
Rosline gave a reassuring nod. "He won't. I'll make sure the lab reports indicate severe exhaustion and high cortisol—nothing more. For now, the secret is the strength."
Tyrone's POV
I finished sending the detailed chemical analysis of Ronda's green drink to Jackson's secure server. The initial cross-reference was screaming "prenatal vitamins," but I knew better than to send that direct result. Jackson was already operating on edge. My job was to filter data, not create panic based on an inference. I suppressed the obvious conclusion, instead highlighting the stress and cellular repair benefits of the B-complex.
This isn't something that should come from me. I know Belinda well enough to know she would kill me if I was the one who told Jay before she could. I also respect her privacy and know the difference between things Jackson should know and things I should keep private for her.
I descended to the gym in the sub-level. Jackson was already there, brutalizing a heavy bag, sweat pouring off him. Ronda soon arrived, calm and composed in her workout gear.
"Morning Ronda," I said, grabbing a nearby set of weights.
Jackson nodded, his eyes distant. "Tyrone. Keep your comms hot. Report any anomaly."
Ronda began her stretching routine near the window. I watched her—the quiet efficiency, the controlled strength. She was like a beautiful, highly polished piece of ordnance.
"You know, Ronda," I said, leaning casually against the squat rack, unable to stop myself. "For someone whose sole priority is internal security, you have a surprisingly calm demeanor."
Ronda looked over, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "Control is our job, Tyrone. You should try it sometime."
"Oh, I'm trying," I smirked, letting my gaze linger a beat longer than professional. "The amount of variables in this compound—it takes a superhuman effort to maintain control." I meant her, of course. The compound was an excuse.
I saw Jackson pause mid-swing on the heavy bag. He glanced at us, his eyes razor-sharp, then slowly lowered his fists. He didn't say a word, just reached for a towel.
He tossed the towel over his shoulder, grabbed a water bottle, and headed for the exit after letting out a soft chuckle.
"Looks like the boss is calling it a day early," I muttered to Ronda, pleased at the sudden, private moment. "Guess the stress finally got to him."
Ronda watched Jackson leave, her expression unreadable.
"Maybe," she said, her voice quiet. "Or maybe he just realized two people were sharing a room he needed all to himself."
I chuckled, thinking she meant the gym. "He is territorial. Glad he left us alone, though. Now, about that systemic optimization drink recipe..." I started, leaning closer.