Chapter 167: The arrest
Jack’s POV
The steering wheel felt cold beneath my clenched fingers as I pulled up to the Simpson family’s western estate.
My heart hammered against my ribs while bitter November wind cut through my coat the moment I stepped outside. The property’s security lights cast harsh shadows across the manicured grounds, turning the familiar landscape into something sinister.
"Mr. Simpson," the housekeeper’s eyes widened as she opened the door. "We weren’t expecting you tonight."
"I need information," I said, brushing past her into the warmth of the foyer.
"Has there been a blond foreign man staying here recently?"
Her hesitation told me everything before she even spoke. "Yes, sir. A Mr. Doyle. He’s been here for several days, but left this morning and hasn’t returned."
_Doyle_. The name landed like a stone in my stomach. I barely thanked her before rushing back to my car. This confirmed it—my father had collaborated with Marcus Murphy’s enemy from Europe. The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.
- - -
Back at the main Simpson mansion, I slammed my father’s study door open with such force that it bounced against the wall. He sat behind his massive desk, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.
"What is it now?" His detached tone scraped against my already raw nerves.
My chest heaved with barely contained rage. "Where’s the baby?"
Father’s expression darkened as he finally deigned to acknowledge me. "I already told you-"
"I’m asking where the baby is!" I shouted, cutting him off.
He rose from his chair, authority radiating from his posture. "Do you know who you’re talking to? Get out!"
I moved closer, staring directly into his eyes. "I’ll ask you one last time: where is Benedict?"
A slight tremor in his pupils betrayed him. He knew I’d discovered something.
"Dad, I’m so disappointed in you," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Isn’t the Simpson family wealthy enough?
Why be so greedy? Why steal a newborn child?"
When he remained stubbornly silent, ice crystallized around my heart. "You won’t talk? Then tell it to the police."
His body tensed. "What do you mean?"
My throat constricted painfully. The father I’d idolized since childhood— this scheming, callous stranger wearing his face—had become unrecognizable to me.
"I just came from the western estate," I said, feeling physically weak. "And the police are right outside."
Father instinctively moved toward the door, but it burst open before he could reach it. Two officers entered, their expressions grim.
"You called the police on your own father?" His face contorted with rage as he raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face. The crack echoed in the sudden silence. "You ungrateful
wretch. How could I have raised such a thankless son?"
I didn’t flinch, taking the blow full-force. The stinging pain across my cheek paled compared to the agony tearing through my heart.
"You gave me life, so I deserve this slap," I said quietly.
The officers rushed forward to restrain him. He fought against their grip, his expensive watch glinting under the study lights. "On what grounds are you arresting me? Do you know who I am? Arresting someone without evidence—Ill sue you all!"
I raised my phone, voice steady despite the hurricane of emotions inside me. "I told you I went to the western estate.
The staff confirmed a blond man was staying there. I believe the police should find evidence of his presence in the house."
"Anna has already contacted Marcus’s people. The blond man is Marcus Murphy’s enemy from Europe."
"So you’re the prime suspects, and the police have the right to take you in for questioning."
My legs nearly gave out beneath me as the truth of what was happening hit full-force. The shame of being George Simpson’s son felt like a physical weight crushing me.
"You don’t even know that this man Doyle is now globally wanted," I said, my voice cracking. "How could you be so foolish to get involved with him?
What did he offer that was worth it?’
Father’s face remained rigid, denying knowledge of anyone named Doyle or any connection to Benedict’s kidnapping. The officers ignored his protests and escorted him from the room.
- - -
Hours later, I sat alone in our living room, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The police car had long since disappeared into the night, taking my father with it. Emptiness had replaced the initial rage, leaving me hollow.
Mother’s footsteps on the stairs broke the silence. She appeared in her silk robe, hair disheveled from sleep.
"Jack, you actually called the police on your own father?" Her voice dripped with disbelief. "That’s your dad! What will happen to the Simpson family if something happens to him?’
I didn’t bother looking at her. "Weren’t you secretly transferring assets behind his back? Why do you care about him now?"
"I don’t care about him. I care about Simpson Group and about you," she answered sharply. "He’s still your father, and this situation will reflect badly on you."
She grabbed her phone from the side table. "I need to contact your father’s lawyer."
"He collaborated with Marcus’s enemy and kidnapped Anna’s baby," I said, pain twisting through me. "It’s freezing outside. Who knows if the baby is dressed warmly enough? If something happens... that’s a life at stake. Anna and Marcus won’t let him get away with this."
I finally turned to face her, disappointment crushing my chest.
"All you see is money. You’d rather use underhanded methods to take what belongs to others than believe I could achieve something myself."
"Having parents like you makes me miserable."
Mother acted as if she hadn’t heard a word, already talking to the lawyer on her phone. I sank deeper into the sofa, feeling like a stranger in my own home.
Rachel’s POV
The bitter November wind sliced through my wool coat as I sprinted across the airport terminal, scanning each passing family for signs of an infant. My eyes burned from exhaustion after twenty straight hours without sleep, but the thought of stopping never crossed my mind. Not when Benedict was still missing.
"Terminal C is clear," I reported into my phone, my voice raspy from overuse. "Any updates from the train station?"
"Nothing," Clayton replied, his typically composed tone now ragged with frustration. "Oscar and I have checked every passenger three times over. These people think we’re insane."
I leaned against a pillar, watching Jack Simpson approach from the airport’s west wing. The bags under his eyes had deepened to bruise-like shadows, and his expensive coat hung wrinkled and askew. I never thought I’d see the day when I felt sympathy for a Simpson.
"You should rest," I told him, though I knew neither of us would.
Jack shook his head, his gaze distant.
"I keep thinking about how small he is. How fragile."
His voice cracked on the last word, and I looked away, giving him a moment to compose himself. Despite everything, Jack seemed genuinely devastated by his father’s involvement.
He’d spent the night methodically searching alongside us, as if Benedict were his own flesh and blood.
My phone vibrated. Anna’s name flashed on the screen, sending a wave of dread through me. Each time I reported our lack of progress, a little more hope drained from her voice. I couldn’t bear to deliver another failure.
"Ms. Shaw," I answered, straightening my spine out of habit though she couldn’t see me.
"Anything?" Just one word, but I heard the desperate prayer behind it.
"Not yet," I admitted, my chest constricting. "But we won’t stop looking. I promise."
---
By mid-morning, we’d gathered at the police station where new evidence had emerged. The golden strand of hair found in George Simpson’s western estate matched Doyle’s DNA profile from Interpol’s database. Just as we’d suspected.
"They’re bringing George in for another round of questioning," Jack informed us, his expression hardening.
"He’s still denying everything, claiming he didn’t know who Doyle really was."
Sean slammed his fist against the wall.
"Bullshit! Your father knew exactly who he was dealing with."
I placed a restraining hand on Sean’s arm. "Easy. Jack’s on our side."
"It’s fine," Jack muttered. "He’s right."
- - -
Outside Anna’s door, my professional façade finally crumbled. I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, and delivered a stinging slap to my own cheek. The sharp pain did nothing to ease the crushing weight of guilt.
_If only I’d checked the baby more carefully. If only I’d stationed someone in the nursery. If only..._
"This isn’t your fault, Rachel." Oscar’s gentle voice startled me. He slid down beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine.
"I’m sorry," I choked out, tears spilling down my face. "If I’d been more careful..."
"They were determined to take him," Oscar replied softly. "Today, tomorrow they would have found a way."
My chest heaved with a sob I couldn’t suppress. "It’s so cold outside. Do you think they’re keeping him warm? Are they feeding him properly? Changing his diapers?" The words tumbled out in a broken whisper. "He’s so small, Oscar. So helpless."
Marcus’s POV
The filtered light in my secure office cast long shadows across the polished hardwood floor. I sat perfectly still, conserving energy while my body continued to heal from wounds that should have killed me.
Peter Reed approached with measured steps, the tight lines around his eyes betraying his anxiety. "Sir, do you want to respond to this message?" he asked, extending my phone with a slight bow.
I took it from his hand, staring at Anna’s text message: *If our son was taken to Europe, you have to bring him back.*
The words hit me like a physical blow, sending pain radiating through my chest that had nothing to do with my healing bullet wound. Benedict. My son. Kidnapped.
Without hesitation, I typed a single word response: "Okay."
Just that. Simple. Direct. A confirmation not only of my commitment but of my continued existence. For weeks, Reed had been responding to Anna’s messages, mimicking my communication style to maintain the illusion that I was merely busy with business matters. This was the first message I’d personally answered.
Reed’s shoulders visibly relaxed when I didn’t return the phone. The simple action conveyed my decision more clearly than words-from now on, communication with Anna would be handled by me alone.
"Mr. Murphy, considering you’ve almost fully recovered, and Ms. Shaw will likely contact us again, perhaps you should rest and-"
"Report," I cut him off, placing the phone within reach on my desk.
Reed straightened immediately. "I’ve stationed men at all major airports. If Doyle shows up with young Benedict, we’ll intercept immediately. But Doyle is cunning there’s no telling when he’ll make his move."
I traced the raised scar tissue on the back of my hand, a souvenir from another battle, another time. Rage simmered beneath my carefully maintained facade, but I refused to let it cloud my judgment. Not with my son’s life at stake.
"He’s likely kidnapped the child to leverage against Oliver Jones, just as he once used Oliver’s parents against me," I said, my voice a controlled monotone despite the inferno raging within. "So Benedict should be safe... at least his life shouldn’t be in danger."
Every word burned my throat like acid. This was my son-my flesh and blood, my future, the tiny miracle that Anna had carried and brought into this world. Yet here I was, analyzing his kidnapping like just another business problem.
"What’s our next move then?" Reed asked, contusion evident in his tone.
I forced myself to consider our options methodically. Benedict’s safety demanded nothing less than perfect strategy.
"Pull back our men," I finally ordered.
"We’ll pretend we don’t know the child has been taken by him. Everyone who knows about this needs to keep quiet."
Reed’s eyebrows shot up. "Sir?"
"If Doyle truly intends to use Benedict as leverage against Oliver, we’ll act then. We can’t risk alarming him now —it could endanger Benedict." The words felt like crushed glass in my mouth, but I continued. "Don’t get distracted. How are the preparations with Torres going?"
"Almost ready," Reed replied, professional composure returning to his features.
I rose from my chair, turning toward the window. The sky outside mirrored my mooddark, turbulent, threatening violence.
"Tell Torres to begin operations."
Reed’s sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet room. "According to our original plan, we weren’t going to move until after the major families’ meeting two months from now."
"I can’t wait any longer." My voice hardened. "Only when the Torres family makes their move will Doyle show himself."