The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 726

Chapter 726 Lights Out Kidnap 
Even as Dawn crumpled, her hand whipped out, claws of determination sinking back into Verity’s. 
She went slack, head lolling, but those fingers stayed, a desperate knot he could neither loosen nor return. 
“Forget the timetable. We grab both.” The second man’s decision landed like a gavel. 
He muttered something about Whitethorn security sweeping through any minute, the words blurring as Verity’s own pulse roared. 
Rough shoulders pressed into Verity’s stomach. The world flipped, and he was hauled away, Dawn dangling somewhere beside him. 
Light stabbed back into the ballroom, too bright after that strangling dark. Julius blinked against the glare, counting heads the way a general checks his lines. 
Two spaces yawned open near the dessert table–Dawn’s pink shoes and Verity’s shy grin both missing. 
A guest stammered at his elbow, “I heard a little girl cry, ‘You can’t take my friend.’ Might’ve been Ms. Bridger, I’m not sure.” 
Across the marble floor, Louisa dissolved into tears, clutching Julius’s sleeve as though it were a lifeline. “You must find my boy,” she sobbed, reminding him that Verity had spent two quiet years under his roof. 
The tremor in her voice felt rehearsed, but grief and calculation often wore the same mask. Julius kept his doubts hidden. 
He pictured Bryce’s only child in rough hands and felt a knot tighten under his ribs. Whatever this was, it already cut too close to home. 
Not far off, Quinn stood still as carved ice, eyes sweeping the room, cataloging every exit and every coward who had missed the snatching. 
It had been less than a heartbeat since Dawn and Verity had stood beside Quinn. Now the stretch of polished floor where their shoes had clicked lay empty, and the private horror of that emptiness clawed up her spine. Someone had taken them. She felt the certainty like a stranger’s hand closing over her own mouth. 
The question slammed in right after the fear: had the abductors come for Dawn or for Verity? 
Her mind flicked through every threat she had catalogued since landing back in the city, trying to match motive to child. 
Or worse–were both children nothing more than leverage in someone else’s plan? The possibility tasted metallic, like biting her own tongue. 
The ballroom’s chandeliers still hung dark, their crystals dull as unpolished ice. That blackout had been no fluke; even the emergency panels had stuttered and died. Someone had mapped the entire grid first. Quinn pictured hands slipping through ductwork, wires cut with the patience of a surgeon. A common gatecrasher could never have slipped past the Whitethorn guards, much less disabled redundancy. 
Beyond the curtained archway she could hear the head of security barking for every camera angle within a five–block radius. Keyboards clacked, radios hissed. A hunt was already moving, but it felt miles away from the hollow just carved inside her chest. 
She trusted their competence; Whitethorn money bought ex–military sweeps, facial rec, the works. Trust, however, did nothing to steady her hands. 
Her job, then, was narrower and crueler: keep the girls breathing and put a face on the shadow that stole them. Everything else–her pulse, the gossip, even Julius’s reputation–could wait. 
Instinct pointed at Dawn. Verity had played stand–in for years without attracting crosshairs, but Dawn stepped off one plane and straight into a rifle scope. That symmetry felt too neat to ignore. 
Verity’s very anonymity had been her armor. Parties, press shots, nothing but smiles–never a ransom note, never a threat. Tonight shattered that record, but only after Dawn returned. 
The timeline was unforgiving: arrive, embrace, vanish. Quinn replayed Dawn’s laugh from earlier, the way the girl had tilted her chin, trying on courage like a borrowed dress. That memory, still warm, already felt like evidence in some cold box. 
By reclaiming Dawn, Quinn had yanked profit from people who had grown fat on the girl’s absence. She imagined their ledgers dripping red ink and knew resentment could hire dangerous hands. 
Across the hall, Louisa sobbed openly, mascara sluicing down her cheeks like ink in water. Quinn’s own face remained still, every muscle locked so tight it barely felt like skin. The contrast looked heartless, she could feel the verdict hanging in the air before anyone spoke. 
“Her kid’s gone and she’s not even sad,” a woman whispered, thinking volume masked cruelty. “Is that girl even her daughter?” another voice chimed, sharper, eagerly cruel. 
“I heard she fell from a balcony at three months pregnant–lucky she lived, no way the fetus survived.” 
“But the kid looks just like Master Whitethorn,” someone countered, uncertainty dripping over the words. 
“Louisa’s girl looks like him too. Maybe she just found a look–alike to keep her seat as Madam,” a man suggested. 
“Didn’t he adore her? No need for tricks,” another muttered, though doubt hollowed the claim. 
“That was before–she’s all skin and bones now, heard she was in a wheelchair. A man like him can upgrade.” 
The whispers bred more whispers, multiplying like mold in a sealed dish. Each syllable scraped across Quinn’s nerves yet she held her gaze on the empty doorway where the girls had vanished. 
The gossip slid past her like wind against stone; only the girls mattered. 
Julius’s head turned; the hush sliced off mid–sentence under the weight of his glare. He strode toward the worst offender, boots ringing against marble. “You enjoy dissecting other families?” His voice was soft, and therefore terrifying. 
“I–I was only-” the woman stuttered, knuckles whitening around her clutch. 
Crack. 
His hand had already landed, turning her head aside, imprinting his answer on her cheek. 
Gender offered no shield; he would not tolerate a single slight against Quinn. 
Even if affection had not caught up with obligation, the defense came by instinct. 
The welt rose bright and fast; she pressed her palm to it but uttered no complaint. 
Around them the crowd recalibrated, silence snapping into place like a lock. Five years gone, Quinn’s position had not slipped an inch. 
Sirens dopplered outside; uniformed officers flooded the entrance, notebooks opening like tiny, insistent jaws. The ballroom’s temperature seemed to drop another few degrees as questioning began, but Quinn’s pulse burned hotter than ever. 
Julius swept his gaze across the glittering hall. Under the chandeliers every courteous smile looked pasted on. Any one of these people might have taken the children, and the thought scratched against his throat. 
He edged closer to Quinn and lowered his voice. “Let me have someone drive you home. I’ll handle things here.” 
Quinn’s shoulders squared. “I’m not going back! Dawn is missing. Rest is the last thing on my mind. I’m joining the search.” Her defiance hit him like shattered glass, bright and dangerous. 
The word burst out before he could temper it. “No.” The refusal rang louder than the string quartet. 
Quinn lifted her chin. “Whether you agree or not, I’m going.” Her certainty felt as inevitable as sunrise, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath him. 
His brows tightened until they ached. How could he let her walk back into that chaos again? 
Last time she had hunted for Laura, she herself had vanished for hours–hours that carved hollows in his lungs. He would not relive that night. 
The vow flared hotter inside him. Absolutely not. 
He stepped closer, voice kept low. “Your body can’t endure a high–intensity search. Go home and rest, Quinn, or I’ll have you taken back to the manor.” 
He reached for her hand, needing the warm proof she was here. She slipped aside, leaving his fingers closing on air.