The Real Game

That smile.

“What a surprise. Did you come to check if I was still alive?”

I didn’t speak. Not at first.

I stared.

We stared.

A silent battle of wills stretching across the room like barbed wire.

I didn’t blink. Neither did he.

The pulse monitor ticked out the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

That smug glint in his eyes never wavered. And mine, I knew, burned with fire.

I stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until I stood at the foot of his bed. “Cut the crap.”

His brow arched, feigning innocence. “Crap?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Whatever game you’re playing—whatever trick you think you’ve pulled off—it’s not going to work.”

“Oh?” he said mildly, folding his hands over his chest, shackled wrist rattling lightly against the bed rail. “You wound me. Truly. I’ve just survived a vicious stabbing, and you accuse me of games?”

“I don’t accuse,” I snapped. “I state facts. You planned this. Or allowed it to happen. Either way, it’s your move. But I’m here to tell you, Garry—it’s not going to work.”

His smile widened just slightly, a flash of teeth. “You sound so certain.”

“I am certain.”

He chuckled softly. “Ariana, my dear niece… do you honestly believe I wanted to be stabbed?”

I tilted my head, letting my gaze rake over the bandages, the bruises. Then I looked him square in the eye. “Yes. Yes, I do. Because you’re desperate. And desperate men do anything.”

There it was—a flicker.

A subtle tightening of his jaw. A whisper of irritation beneath the smug exterior. Barely visible, but I saw it. I knew him too well.

He exhaled through his nose. “You always were clever. Your father would’ve been proud.”

I stepped closer. “Don’t you dare say his name.”

“I only meant—”

“No. You don’t get to mean anything,” I hissed. “You murdered him. You destroyed our family. And now you’re trying to wriggle out of the cell you were born for by staging some pathetic little sideshow to gain sympathy or orchestrate an escape. But I’m not falling for it. And neither is the rest of the world.”

Garry leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, something had shifted. His tone dipped lower. Darker.

“You think locking me in a box changes anything? You think steel bars will protect you from what’s coming?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

I laughed—short, cold. “You’re shackled to a hospital bed and under twenty-four-hour armed surveillance. Your men are either dead or behind bars. The empire you built is crumbling. You have nothing, Garry.”

His eyes glittered. “You really think this is about me?”

That gave me pause. “What?”

“The Millers,” he said, voice calm now. Measured. “The name. The blood. The legacy. It was never mine to control. I was just the placeholder. The bridge. But the cooperation—the dynasty—it will live on. Just not through me.”

I stared at him, my stomach churning. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” He leaned forward as much as his restraints would allow, voice almost conspiratorial, “...you’re wasting your time chasing the dead. I’ve already passed the torch.”

I shook my head. “To who? Everyone loyal to you is gone.”

He smiled again, sickly sweet. “You’ll see. Sooner than you think.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh, I won’t need to,” he said, settling back. “You’ll come looking all on your own.”

I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. I wanted to scream. To grab the nearest scalpel and carve the truth out of him. But that’s what he wanted—to shake me. To make me lose control.

So I straightened.

Lifted my chin.

And gave him nothing.

“You know what, Garry?” I said, brushing imaginary lint from my jacket. “I don’t have time for this. For you.”

He blinked, surprised.

“I have real things to do. Like help my mother recover. Like finish the case that’s going to keep your rotten soul behind bars until you die chained to a toilet.”

I turned sharply on my heel and stalked toward the door, fury thrumming in every step.

My hand reached for the doorknob.

Then—

“Ariana.”

His voice stopped me.

It was quiet.

Almost gentle.

I froze.

Silence stretched behind me like a shadow.

And then, slowly, he spoke again.

“I’m coming for you.”

The words slithered into the room like a fog, thick and poisonous.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see his face from the corner of my eye.

Still lying there.

Still smiling.

Like he knew something I didn’t.

My blood turned to ice.

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

Because in that moment—despite the guards, the handcuffs, the wounds—I felt it.

The truth.

He wasn’t bluffing.

He wasn’t broken.

He wasn’t finished.

And deep in my gut, I knew—

The real game hadn’t even started yet.
She's The Boss
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