Chapter 6: Betrayal and Wedding Bells

6

I became Marcus Delaney’s girlfriend.

He took me to secret clubs and underground casinos.

I secretly passed important information to the police.

My superiors were worried for my safety, urging me to withdraw. Marcus was too dangerous.

Three days later, Marcus planned to take me to an important event—there’d be big news. I promised my superiors that after this, I’d quit.

As I hoped, I got the big scoop.

I witnessed the entire gun deal between Marcus and a foreign gang.

After the deal, Marcus was in high spirits and had a few drinks.

He looked at me, wild desire in his eyes.

"Lillian, you’ve got a great figure."

I felt something was wrong.

After two months together, he’d never touched me. He probably didn’t trust me yet.

But today, I’d accompanied him on a core operation. That meant he fully trusted me.

And now I had to prove my loyalty.

He pulled me onto his lap and began unbuttoning my shirt.

I held his hand back.

His eyes narrowed.

He picked up the gun on the table, pressed the muzzle to my forehead. "Take it off."

...

I wrapped my coat tightly around me, walking through the drizzle.

Caleb called me—eight times. I finally answered.

"Caleb, let’s break up."

I handed all my information on the Delaney Crew and Marcus to the authorities, then resigned and disappeared.

Seven months later, when Caleb found me, I was already heavily pregnant.

Seven months along.

He hugged me. "Lillian, the Delaney Crew has been wiped out. You can rest easy now. Marry me. Let me take care of you for the rest of our lives..."

We chose a restaurant in a neighboring town for a simple wedding.

Most of the guests were relatives and friends from my foster family. Caleb’s team leader officiated.

The weather was terrible—dark clouds gathering all afternoon, a storm by dusk.

"Caleb Walker, do you take Lillian Hayes as your wife, to love and protect her from this day forward, for better or worse, in hardship and ease, to walk life’s path together?"

"I do."

The restaurant had the charm of small-town America—old license plates nailed to the walls, the scent of apple pie from the kitchen, neon beer signs buzzing above the bar. My foster brother gave a toast with cheap champagne, and Caleb’s team leader recited lines from an old country song as if it were scripture. Someone started singing “Sweet Caroline,” off-key, and for a second, it felt like nothing bad could ever touch us. Even with the storm pounding outside, the place felt like home—a pocket of hope, just for us.