My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 232

The Jailbrek

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The Jailbreak

~Julian-

The thought of my wife behind bars did not sit well with me.

In fact, it sat in my gut like a block of concrete. Katia was my wife, and whoever had tampered with that security footage clearly wanted her out of the way permanently. They wanted to bury her in the system. But they had underestimated one very important variable: me. I didn’t care if I had to buy the entire precinct and turn it into a private parking lot, Katia Kensington–no, Katia Windsor–was not spending a night in a cage.

Marcus walked into my office at exactly seven PM. He looked like a man who had spent the last three hours fighting a minor war with a federal judge, which, knowing Marcus, he probably had. His tie was slightly askew, a tragic occurrence that signaled extreme corporate stress.

“Tell me we’re leaving,” I said, not looking up from my desk.

“Bail is processed. She is ready to be released,” Marcus said, collapsing into the leather armchair across from me. He rubbed his temples. “But don’t start celebrating yet, sir. The accusations still stand. The DA is holding onto that goddamn tape like it’s the holy grail. They’ve already given us a date for the preliminary hearing.”

I stood up, grabbing my coat. “I’ll deal with the DA. I’ll buy his favorite golf course and turn it into a swamp. What about the footage?”

Marcus sat up, his expression instantly shifting into his sharp, analytical lawyer mode. “That’s the thing. Something is completely off with the other angles. I’ve been analyzing the backup servers from the adjacent building. The file they submitted to the secure tip portal has a compression rate that doesn’t match the building’s local security system. But more importantly…” He paused, looking at me directly. “The override code used to upload the splice was issued from a secure WEG node. Julian, whoever did this didn’t just hack I* Technologies. They used our own secure network to feed the police.”

A cold, hard focus settled over me. “We have a rat.”

“A very sophisticated one,” Marcus agreed, standing up. “I’m running the forensic trail on the router logs now. I’ll find out who did it. But right now, we have a jailbreak to execute.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

The drive to the precinct was ten minutes of silent, simmering rage. By the time we walked through the heavy glass doors of the New York precinct, the desk sergeant took one look at my face and immediately decided he was very busy looking at his keyboard.

When I walked into the holding block and saw my wife, my chest tightened.

She was sitting on a cold metal bench, wearing a scratchy, state–issued grey jumpsuit that looked like it had been designed to strip a human being of all dignity. It was three sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up to her wrists, and the pants bagged around her ankles. It did something to me–seeing the elegant, brilliant CEO of I* Technologies reduced to a state–issued potato sack.

But I knew Katia. I knew her very well She wasn’t weeping. She wasn’t trembling. She was sitting with her back straight, her chin up, looking like she was currently drafting a hostile takeover of the entire precinct’s budget.

I didn’t pity her. Pity was for people who couldn’t fight back.

I stopped in front of the bars. “Sorry I’m late.”

Katia got up from the bench, her movements slow but entirely unhurried. Detective Reeves–looking like he had slept in his coat

stepped forward and unlocked the cell door with a heavy, metallic clink.

Katia stepped out, her eyes locking onto mine. “I thought you were not coming.”

“Well,” I said, my gaze dragging slowly down the ridiculous grey fabric of her jumpsuit, “unless you want me to fuck you here in

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The Jailbrenk

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this cell, we can go back in there and start right away. I’m sure the detective would be happy to give us 20 minutes. I sleep where you sleep, remember?”

Detective Reeves let out a dry, hacking cough that sounded like a cry for help. “Mr. Windsor, please. This is a federal processing area, not a motel.”

Katia’s lips twitched, a spark of her usual defiance returning to her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“Perhaps,” I said, leaning in slightly. “But I must say, Ms. Kensington, those jail jumpsuits look fucking sexy on you.”

Katia raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until she was nearly brushing my chest. Her handcuffs gave a small, musical clink against the grey fabric. “Well, should we borrow these cuffs, Officer Windsor? Because I am dying to see how you would handle this particular offender.”

I felt the sudden, heavy throb of my cock against my trousers. “Leave the cuffs on her,” I barked at Reeves. “And the jumpsuit.” Reeves blinked, looking between the two of us like he was trying to calculate how much pension he would lose if he shot himself in the foot right now. “Sorry, sir, we can’t. Mrs. Windsor will have to change back into her personal clothing before she can be officially discharged.”

The room went entirely silent. I froze. Marcus froze.

Beside me, Katia’s eyebrows knit together. She looked at Reeves, then at me, her expression a mix of sheer disbelief and mild amusement. “Mrs. Windsor?” she repeated, letting out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Detective, I think your database has a virus. My name is Kensington. Or is the state of New York now forcefully marrying me off to my business associates?”

My heart did a violent, silent thud against my ribs. I slowly turned my head, raising a single, lethal eyebrow at Marcus. We had specifically gone to extreme lengths to keep our Las Vegas marriage a secret from the press and the public during an active homicide investigation, and this detective had just dropped her legal name like he was reading a grocery list. If Katia dug into this for even a second, the whole house of cards would come crashing down.

Marcus cleared his throat, his face turning a very interesting shade of pink as he desperately scrambled to save us. “Ah. Detective. There seems to be… an administrative clerical error on the bail release form. A tragic typo by my paralegal, who will be fired tomorrow morning.”

“It’s not a typo, counselor,” Reeves said, squinting at the computer screen. “The court order from the judge specifically lists the secure bond under the name ‘Katia Windsor.‘ I was going to ask about that, actually. Is there a tax loophole I should be aware of?

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Katia folded her arms, her handcuffs clinking as she shot Marcus a highly unimpressed look. “Marcus, did your office seriously file my emergency bond under Julian’s last name? Is that how WEG pushes corporate bail through the system now?”

“My client has been double–taxed for years, Detective,” Marcus lied with a completely straight face, stepping directly between Reeves and the computer screen to block Katia’s view. “It’s a highly complex corporate proxy structure. We will litigate the typo with the clerk of courts tomorrow morning. Now, about her clothes.”

“Yes,” Reeves said, turning to the property locker, completely baffled but too tired to argue. “We need the jumpsuit back. It’s city property.”

“Um, Detective,” Marcus said, peering into the empty paper bag on the counter. “My client’s personal clothes are currently missing. There is no grey silk suit in this bag. There is only a single sock and what appears to be a half–eaten bagel.”

Reeves stared at the bag. “What? That’s impossible. The property clerk logged it in at four.”

“Well, it’s not here,” Marcus said, raising his voice to his best courtroom baritone. “I am currently filing a motion for the illegal seizure and subsequent theft of my client’s luxury apparel by the state of New York. This is a civil rights violation of the highest order. My client is currently shoeless and trouserless.”

“We can’t let her leave in city property!” Reeves protested.

The Jailbreak

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“Then I suggest you find her trousers, Detective,” Marcus snapped. “Until then, we are taking the jumpsuit. And the handcuffs.”

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