His Wicked Obsession (Archer and Virginia) novel Chapter 516

Archer stood up, grabbing the black motorcycle jacket he had tossed onto the armchair.

"My people are already tracking down Gemma's whereabouts."

The words hit like a bolt of lightning.

"Gemma" snapped her head toward him in sheer shock, looking utterly dumbfounded.

Wasn't Gemma supposed to be dead?

He slipped the leather jacket over his dark gray turtleneck, pulling the zipper all the way up.

"I suspect she faked her suicide in the water to escape abroad." Archer looked at her, his tone exuding the absolute confidence of a man fully in control. "Once the real Gemma returns, you can come back to me. Then the three of us will finally be a family again."

The three of them?

An image flashed through her mind—an adorable, doll-like little girl holding her hand and calling her 'Auntie' in the sweetest voice.

Her heart tightened, and her fingers subconsciously gripped the bedsheets beneath her.

Archer didn't linger any longer.

Taking one last, profound look at her, he turned toward the balcony. "I'm leaving. Take good care of yourself, and if anything happens, use that phone to message me."

With those parting words, his towering figure vaulted cleanly over the railing, vanishing into the damp, freezing winter night of Chicago.

The icy wind rushed through the half-open glass door, completely scattering the lingering scent of Oud & Bergamot.

"Gemma" sat on the edge of the bed until the bitter chill finally pushed her to get up and lock the balcony door.

The next morning.

A light drizzle fell from the gloomy gray sky, cloaking the Harrington estate in a suffocating mist.

The bedroom door was unlocked from the outside.

Two maids walked in carrying trays, their demeanor perfectly respectful.

Hearing her footsteps, he didn't bother turning around. He simply parted his lips and ordered, "Sit."

"Gemma" walked to his side, leaving a couple of feet between them as she took a seat on the adjacent armchair.

The massive screen in front of them was playing an old piece of home video footage.

It showed the deck of a luxury yacht.

Under the glaring sunlight, a woman in a bright red bikini with nothing but a sheer white cover-up draped over her shoulders leaned casually against the yacht's railing, letting the ocean breeze whip through her fiery curls.

She held a glass of champagne in one hand, her sunglasses propped on top of her head.

"What are you filming for? Are you ever going to stop being annoying, Dominic?"

The woman on screen blatantly tossed her champagne right at the camera. She acted like she was throwing a tantrum, but her voice was playful, and her eyes crinkled with laughter.

The camera shook violently for a second, immediately followed by the deep, incredibly indulgent chuckle of a man off-screen.