Page 130 of Knot Their Safe Haven
The applause dies entirely. The room holds its breath.
"Twenty years of opportunities. Including the six hours I lay dying in a German hospital, requiring pack authorization for surgery that would prevent paralysis. Six hours where they debated, discussed, deliberated while my body shut down. Six hours that might have been my last if not for the intervention of strangers who saw my worth when those who claimed to love me couldn't sign their names."
Knox makes a sound—protest or pain, I neither know nor care. Malcolm's hand moves toward me, then stops as he realizes the cameras are capturing everything. Adyani stands frozen, those carefully cultivated royal mannerisms cracking like ice in spring.
"But even that abandonment pales in comparison to what my pack's investigation uncovered."
I turn to face them fully now, these three pillars of my past who are about to become rubble.
"You see, the bombing wasn't random. The location wasn't coincidence. The timing wasn't unfortunate." My voice remains steady despite the tsunami building in my chest. "Everything was orchestrated with precision that required inside knowledge. Knowledge of my schedule. My route. My driver's patterns. My vulnerabilities."
Malcolm's bag hits the floor again. This time, bottles shatter, spreading medication across marble like confetti made of chemistry.
"The police couldn't find evidence because they weren't looking in the right places. They didn't have access to private communications. Encrypted messages. Financial transfers routed through shell companies that took considerable resources to unravel."
I pull the small remote from my pocket—not for the presentation screen, but for something else entirely. One click, and the screen behind us illuminates with evidence. Bank statements. Text messages. Email chains. Each one timestamped, authenticated, undeniable.
"Three months ago, payments began flowing from accounts linked to your names to an organization known for its... aggressive stance against omega independence." I watch their faces cycle through shock, denial, and the dawning horror of recognition. "Fifty thousand from Knox's gym expansion fund. Thirty thousand from Malcolm's research grants. And seventy-five thousand from Adyani's diplomatic accounts."
"That's not—" Knox starts, but I continue over his protest.
"Six weeks ago, detailed discussions about the 'omega problem' and how to 'maintain traditional pack structures' appeared in encrypted communications between the three of you and known extremist elements. Including specific mentions of needing to 'remove obstacles to natural order.'"
"Velvet, please—" Adyani's voice cracks, her royal composure shattering entirely.
"Two weeks before the bombing, Malcolm's medical credentials were used to obtain specific sedatives. The same sedatives found in my system after the explosion. Sedatives that would have ensured I couldn't escape even if I'd noticed the danger."
The crowd has become a living thing, breathing in unified shock, their collective horror warming the room despite the aggressive air conditioning.
"And then there's this." I click again, and the screen displays a single message. From Knox's confirmed number to an unlisted contact: "She's entering the city now. Downtown route as expected. Make it look random."
The silence that follows is absolute. Even breathing seems to have stopped, the entire room frozen in this moment before everything changes.
I turn back to the audience, to the cameras that will broadcast this moment across the world, to the future that starts with this revelation.
"Introducing..." My voice carries clear and strong, no tremor despite the magnitude of what I'm about to do. I gesture to the three people standing beside me, their faces masks of dawning horror as they realize the trap has already closed.
"The men who plotted my murder."
THE TRUTH UNVEILED
~VELVET~
The silence that follows my declaration has weight—physical mass that presses against eardrums and makes breathing feel like drowning in reverse.
Three hundred people frozen in a tableau of shock, mouths open in identical expressions of disbelief, cameras still rolling but operators too stunned to adjust focus.
Then chaos erupts.
Not from the crowd—they remain paralyzed by the magnitude of what I've just revealed—but from the rear doors that burst open with calculated precision. Black tactical gear floods the conference hall, SWAT officers moving in formation that speaks of rehearsal, of preparation, of Alessandro's meticulous planning coming to fruition. Their boots create thunder against marble, weapons drawn but pointed down, movements efficient as they surge toward the stage.
"No!" Knox's voice cracks through the paralysis, raw desperation replacing his usual controlled bass. "This is wrong! Velvet, you know me—twenty years, you know I would never?—"
His protests cut off as tactical gloves close around his biceps, zip-ties appearing with practiced efficiency. The officer—face obscured by tactical helmet—begins standard arrest protocols,but Knox fights against the restraint, silver hair coming loose from its careful styling as he struggles.
"I'm being framed!" The words tear from his throat, grey eyes wild as they search for mine across the stage. "Velvet, please! You know I loved you. I would never—I couldn't—our son, think about our son!"
My hand rises, a simple gesture that freezes every officer mid-motion. They hold their positions, training warring with the authority I still command in this space, in this moment. Knox remains half-restrained, one arm twisted behind his back, body torqued in a position that must be agony but he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on me.
