It's All a Ploy

The phone dropped from my hand, clattering uselessly against the marble floor. I stared at it, blinking as if I could somehow un-hear what I’d just been told. But the words kept slamming into my skull, over and over again.

"There was a fight in the prison. Garry Miller was stabbed."

My pulse spiked. Not from fear. No, this wasn’t fear—it was something sharper. Wilder. Rage.

Rage because I knew him. Knew what he was capable of. Knew how good he was at playing the game. Uncle Garry didn’t just get stabbed. He orchestrated it. Either that, or he let it happen, let it unfold just right so that it served whatever sick, manipulative scheme he had up his sleeve.

And if the prison thought for one second that he wasn’t behind this—if they thought this wasn’t a ploy, a distraction, a trap—then they were fools.

I snatched my phone from the floor and hit Chief Wallace’s number so hard I nearly cracked the screen. It rang once.

“Chief Wallace.”

“Listen to me carefully,” I snapped, standing on trembling legs. “I just got a call about Garry. They said he was stabbed. Where are they taking him?”

“Ariana, I was just about to—”

“No, don’t waste time,” I barked. “Where. Are. They. Taking. Him.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “County General. He’s being airlifted there as we speak.”

“Then you make damn sure that hospital is under lockdown.” I started pacing, my nails digging into my palm. “Guards at every door. Armed detail. You hear me? I want that place locked tighter than Fort Knox. Because if this is what I think it is, he’s trying to get out. And I swear to God, Chief, if he escapes—”

“He won’t,” the Chief said firmly. “I’ve already called it in. SWAT’s en route. He’s not going anywhere.”

“He better not.” My voice cracked with fury. “Because I’m coming there. And if he’s breathing when I get there, I’m going to make sure he understands he won’t see freedom again—not in this life or the next.”

I hung up before he could respond and stalked down the hall toward my room.

My skin felt like it was on fire, adrenaline screaming through my veins. I yanked open my door and stormed inside, kicking it shut behind me. The moment it clicked closed, I let out a sound—a growl, a sob, a scream—I couldn’t even tell. All I knew was that I had spent the last thirty-six hours searching for my mother, fearing she was dead. And now, now, Garry Miller was trying to pull the spotlight back to him.

No.

No, I wouldn’t let him.

I marched into the bathroom, turned the shower knob all the way to hot, and stripped out of the clothes I’d slept in—if you could even call it sleep. My skin was streaked with dirt, my hair tangled, my eyes hollow. But I would not let that bastard see me like this. Weak. Frazzled. Human.

The steam filled the room in seconds. I stepped under the scalding spray, letting the water burn away the exhaustion, the grime, the helplessness. I scrubbed hard, harder than I needed to, until my skin was raw and my fingers shook. But I didn’t cry. Not this time.

I was done crying.

Ten minutes later, I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and stared at my reflection. My eyes were red but clear. My jaw was clenched. My body ached, but it stood tall.

Good.

I dressed quickly—black jeans, black boots, black leather jacket. Like armor. I pulled my hair into a tight braid, swiped on a little mascara, and dabbed some concealer under my eyes. It wasn’t vanity. It was war paint.

And I was going to war.

As I stepped back into the hallway, Grandpa was waiting.

“Ariana,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

“There was a fight in the prison,” I said. “Garry was stabbed.”

His brows lifted. “Is he—?”

“Alive. Unfortunately.”

Grandpa didn’t respond to that. He just studied me for a moment, his old eyes sharp.

“You think it’s a ruse.”

“I know it is,” I snapped. “It’s him. It’s always him. He knows we’re closing in. Knows we’re getting close to finding what we need to bury him for good. This is him trying to slip out before the trap fully shuts.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

“No,” I said quickly. “I need you here. With Mom. She just got back. She needs to see your face when she wakes up. She needs normal.”

He nodded, solemn. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

That was a lie.

I wasn’t careful.

Not anymore.

Not when it came to Garry.

By the time I reached the front of the mansion, the car was already waiting. One of our security team—Bryce—was behind the wheel. He opened the door without a word.

“Drive,” I ordered.

The hospital was twenty minutes away.

I spent every second of the ride staring out the window, fists clenched in my lap. My mind kept racing, looping back to every moment Garry had tried to manipulate us. Every smile, every veiled threat, every game. He’d taken my father. Torn my mother apart. Thrown our family into chaos. And now, now, he wanted to act like he was the victim?

Hell no.

When we arrived, the hospital was chaos. Sirens. Police cars lined up like a blockade. The SWAT team was already in place, rifles slung across their chests, expressions hard.

I marched past the first line of officers without slowing.

“Ma’am, you can’t—”

“I’m Ariana Miller,” I barked, flashing my ID. “He’s here because of me. You want to explain to the Chief why you’re keeping me out?”

The officer stepped back.

Inside, the corridors buzzed with tension. Nurses huddled behind the front desk, whispering. A stretcher had been abandoned in the hall. The air smelled like antiseptic and blood.

I found Chief Wallace outside the operating room, flanked by two guards.

He turned as I approached. “Ariana. I was just about to call—”

“You said he was stabbed,” I said, ignoring the pleasantries. “How bad?”

“Three wounds. Shallow. One to the shoulder, one to the abdomen, one to the thigh. None of them fatal.”

Of course not. Just enough to get him out of the prison.

“Where’s the attacker?” I asked.

“Dead. Garry stabbed him back with a pen.”

I smirked. “How convenient.”

Wallace frowned. “You think he set it up.”

“I don’t think, Chief. I know. Garry doesn’t breathe unless it serves a purpose. And he’s already proven he’s willing to kill to manipulate the system.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “We’ve doubled security. He’s handcuffed, shackled to the bed. He won’t be walking out of here.”

“Good,” I said, brushing past him.

I reached the door, laid my hand on it, and paused.

My heart thudded once, a heavy drumbeat of hatred and fire.

Then I pushed it open.

The room was dim, machines beeping softly. The air smelled of blood and bleach. Garry Miller lay on the hospital bed, shirtless, bandaged, pale—but smiling.

The moment he saw me, his smile widened.

“Ariana,” he crooned, voice weak but oily. “What a surprise. Did you come to check if I was still alive?”
She's The Boss
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