Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 17: A Man Who Protected What Was His

"Have you found out what happened to Hilbert Calhoun?" Alexander asked.

He sat at his desk, hands braced against the polished wood, posture deceptively calm. Duncan knew better. Everyone did. When Alexander Preston sounded this controlled, it meant the storm had already passed through him once, and whatever remained was colder, sharper.

"I want him alive," Alexander continued evenly. "With no further attachments to my sister’s life. Ever."

He didn’t say how he would ensure that. He didn’t need to. The police were still blocking access, hiding behind procedure and paperwork, but that was temporary. Everything was temporary. Eventually, Alexander would reach him.

And when he did, Hilbert Calhoun would wish he had not survived. He should never have tried to humiliate Catherine.

"They’re saying he’s in a coma," Duncan replied.

Alexander scoffed softly.

"Coma?" His lips curved without humor. "So, his father’s already at work."

A convenient lie. A shield. As if claiming fragility would protect that boy from consequences. As if Alexander Hunter Preston had ever been dissuaded by time, illness, or distance.

"They’re also threatening to sue for excessive force," Duncan added.

Alexander’s gaze lifted, cold and precise. "Excessive force? Is he disappointed his son is still breathing?"

Duncan said nothing. He simply turned the laptop around.

"Here’s the entire recovered footage, Mr. Preston."

Alexander pressed play.

His body stiffened despite himself. He had already seen parts of this, more than once, but the knowledge did nothing to dull the impact. Each viewing unearthed something new. Some detail missed before. Some fresh reason to burn.

The footage showed Catherine at the restaurant.

Alive. Upright. Unimpressed.

Alexander skipped forward, jaw tightening as Hilbert leaned too close, as Catherine’s patience thinned. She stood. Walked toward the ladies’ room. Composed. Unaware.

Then the men entered. The sneers... The way their attention lingered...

Alexander’s hands curled slowly into fists.

It was almost a mercy that the audio hadn’t been recovered.

Then Catherine returned...

And fell.

Alexander inhaled sharply through his nose.

Then Maximilian appeared.

Alexander didn’t know how the man had been there, at precisely that moment, but he didn’t question it. His mind, trained by years of law and strategy, tried anyway...coincidence, probability, timing... or... planned? But none of it mattered.

What mattered was that Maximilian helped her.

He focused on the screen.

Hilbert hurled a wine bottle.

Maximilian raised his arm. Too fast. Too clean.

Glass shattered.

One fragment struck Catherine’s forehead.

Another hit the fire sprinkler.

Water exploded from the ceiling, blurring the footage, distorting shapes and faces as chaos unfolded. The image wavered, obscured by spray, but Alexander leaned closer, eyes locked.

Hilbert’s group rushed him.

MMA. Jujitsu. Something disciplined. Something lethal. Maximilian moved with a fluency that unsettled even Alexander: smooth, economical, violent without excess. His long coat flared with each motion, soaked through.

And Catherine... She didn’t move. She lay there, unmoving, while bodies fell around her.

When the last of them hit the floor, disarmed and groaning, Alexander thought it was over.

It wasn’t.

Maximilian walked to Catherine.

The footage flickered as water smeared the lens, but Alexander saw enough. He saw the blood on her forehead. Saw the exact second Maximilian noticed it.

Something in him changed.

Maximilian removed his coat. Draped it over her carefully. Reverently. As though shielding her from the world that had already failed her.

Then he stood.

And turned.

Hilbert was slumped against the wall, clutching an arm bent at the wrong angle. Maximilian walked toward him. And began to punch.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The footage dissolved into red and motion and violence too raw to catalog properly. Hilbert’s head became a blurred mass, then less than that. Others received the same treatment; it was not defense, not rage alone, but something colder. Purposeful.

Alexander didn’t look away.

He had seen worse. Court evidence. War crimes. Political brutality stripped bare and packaged for legal consumption.

But this...

This was different.

This wasn’t violence for power or pleasure. This was what happened when someone touched what should have been untouchable.

Alexander felt no pity for them. Not an ounce. If anything, a bitter disappointment settled heavily in his chest.

He hadn’t been there. And that was the part he knew he would never forgive himself for.

He watched as Maximilian returned to Catherine’s side. The footage wavered through sheets of falling water, but Alexander saw it clearly enough. Maximilian bent close, murmured something near her ear. Catherine didn’t stir. She lay limp, unresponsive, as a porcelain figure dropped too hard.

Then Maximilian lifted her. Carefully. Instinctively.

He wrapped her in his coat as though shielding her from more than just the cold: cozy, deliberate, almost reverent. And as he carried her toward the exit...

He turned. His gaze landed precisely on the camera.

Alexander swallowed.

Even through the blur, even distorted by water and distance, the intensity of that stare was unmistakable. It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t adrenaline. It wasn’t even anger.

This wasn’t the look of a man who had intervened out of principle.

No.

Alexander knew this in his bones.

This was not how someone acted when they were merely doing the right thing. Someone driven by duty would have stopped sooner. Would have disengaged. Would have looked away.

This had been purposeful.

And, God help him... it was intimate... Like a man protecting what he believed was his.

"Did Whitmore look for this footage?" Alexander asked quietly.

Now he understood the aggravated charge. Under the law, this went far beyond self-defense. And if Maximilian Whitmore’s family had any sense at all, they would already be working to bury this footage beyond recovery.

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Preston. I’ll look into it," Duncan replied. He didn’t need to elaborate. He’d seen it too.

Alexander stared at the frozen frame. Maximilian’s arm around Catherine. The way her head rested against his shoulder, as if she was trusting him even in unconsciousness.

And Catherine’s words in the hospital echoed unbidden in his mind.

Could it be... Catherine was right? Do they know each other from another life?

No.

He dismissed it immediately, yet the question lingered like a splinter beneath the skin.

"Is there any connection between Whitmore and Catherine?" Alexander asked.

"No," Duncan answered firmly. "They’ve never crossed paths. Not once. Miss Preston wasn’t even in the same area as Whitmore during the three years she was in Meridon. This was their first recorded encounter."

Alexander exhaled slowly.

"Investigate further," he said. "Find out why Whitmore was in that restaurant when Calhoun had booked the entire place. Pull footage from surrounding areas. I want to know what happened before Catherine fainted and what Whitmore was doing before he stepped in."

"Yes, sir."

Duncan exited quietly.

Alexander rewound the footage once more and paused it.

The frame froze on Maximilian’s face, caught mid-glance as his eyes lifted and met the camera.

Something tugged at Alexander’s thoughts.

His first instinct was recognition, but he dismissed it almost immediately. He knew better than to trust that feeling. Familiarity was a trick the mind liked to play when it didn’t yet understand what it was seeing.

Still, the image unsettled him.

There was nothing overtly threatening in Maximilian’s expression. No tension. No reaction. Just a steady, unreadable calm.

Alexander leaned back, forcing himself to reframe the sensation.

Not recognition, then.

Perception. An instinct of perceiving danger? A Spidey sense?

He tapped his finger against the desk. Once. Twice.

Then he closed the laptop.

"It’s better if she doesn’t meet him again," he muttered.

He didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere between watching that look and remembering Catherine’s outburst in the hospital, something had shifted.

For the first time since that night... Alexander Preston no longer felt grateful to Maximilian Whitmore.

His phone vibrated, and he picked it up. It was a text from Roxana.

[Catherine walked out of the hospital against her doctor’s advice.]

Alexander clenched his jaws and called Catherine.

***

Meanwhile, in Maximilian’s office...

Maximilian leaned toward Catherine, as if he were in a trance.