Chapter 111: The Public Nuisance
Henry Jackson’s hands tightened around the steering wheel of his black SUV, the leather creaking beneath his grip. His knuckles had gone pale, tension thrumming through every muscle as he maneuvered through the city’s morning chaos. The sun was rising high, spreading molten light across glass towers that clawed at the sky — but to Henry, it wasn’t warmth he felt. It was exposure. Every glint of sunlight seemed to mock him, reminding him of the storm he was driving straight into.
It had been two long weeks since that disastrous confrontation — since Rafael’s fury had shattered the air like a thunderclap and Eliana’s trembling figure had been dragged out of Vexley Enterprises as though she were nothing. That moment had burned itself into Henry’s mind, playing over and over with cruel clarity. Rafael’s cold fury, the guards’ unyielding grip on her arms, the way she’d crumpled in defeat—it fueled a fire in him that no amount of logic could extinguish.
Henry had tried to reason it away. Tried to tell himself it wasn’t his place, that Rafael wouldn’t listen. But logic couldn’t smother the guilt — or the fire — building inside him. "Please, God," he muttered, voice rough as gravel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Let me get through to him. Just this once. Let him hear me, even if I have to tear down his walls word by word."
He wasn’t Eliana. He wouldn’t crumble or beg. Not this time.
By the time the Vexley Enterprises tower rose before him, all glass and steel and silent arrogance, Henry’s heartbeat had become a relentless drum. The building looked like it didn’t just touch the clouds — it commanded them. He parked close to the entrance, switched off the engine, and sat for a moment, feeling the pulse of his own breath. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped out.
The morning air hit him sharp and cool. He adjusted his button-down, smoothing the fabric over his chest like a soldier tightening his armor. His reflection flashed in the SUV’s dark window — high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that burned with quiet conviction. He didn’t look like a man second-guessing himself; he looked like someone marching into battle.
As he approached the lobby’s towering glass doors, his mind ran through his plan one last time — he rehearsed his words silently: Rafael, you have to listen. This isn’t just about you—there’s a child involved now.
And with that, Henry pushed the doors open, stepping into the lion’s den.
The lobby was a hive of polished efficiency: marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and executives hurried past with briefcases in hand. Henry approached the reception desk, noting immediately that the faces behind it were unfamiliar. Gone were the warm women especially the kind woman who’d smiled at Eliana that day and waved her through without hesitation — had vanished, replaced by strangers who didn’t know his story, or hers.
Two women sat behind the sleek counter now. One was a petite blonde with her hair pulled into a severe, almost painfully tight bun that gleamed under the lights. Her nails, painted a crisp white, tapped rhythmically against the desk as if keeping time with her patience. The other was a middle-aged brunette with neat glasses perched on her nose, her gaze sharp behind the lenses — the kind of woman who noticed everything and judged even more.
Both looked up at once when Henry stopped before them. Their smiles — practiced, polite, and identical — faltered for just a heartbeat when they met his eyes. There was something in his expression, something that didn’t belong in the pristine calm of the corporate morning. Determination, maybe. Or fury wrapped in restraint.
"Good morning, sir," the brunette began, her tone clipped but cautious. "Can we help you?"
Henry didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, eyes scanning the space beyond them — the glass elevators, the security guards stationed near the turnstiles, the faint hum of distant voices. Everything in this place screamed control and order. But underneath it all, he could still feel the ghost of that day — Eliana’s soft voice cracking in the air, the guards dragging her away while the old receptionist looked on helplessly.
He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. "Good morning," Henry said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "I’m here to see Mr Rafael Vexley. It’s important—personal matter."
The blonde blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his tone, then forced her smile back into place before briefly glancing at her computer screen. "Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"No," Henry admitted, leaning forward slightly. "But I need to speak with him. Tell him it’s Henry Jackson. It’s about a very pressing matter. He’ll want to see me."
The brunette’s eyes widened in recognition, a subtle flicker that didn’t escape Henry’s notice. She exchanged a quick glance with her colleague, then reached under the desk for a slim folder. Flipping it open discreetly, she nodded once, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson," she said, her tone firm but polite. "You’re not welcome here. You’re on the banned list. You’ll need to leave the premises immediately."
Henry blinked, stunned, his thoughts scattering like shards of glass. "What? Banned? What are you talking about?" The words tumbled out, half disbelief, half fury.
He snatched the folder from the receptionist, his eyes darting over the contents. Photos. His own face. Eliana’s. Neatly printed and stamped with the company’s emblem. His stomach dropped, a cold, nauseating weight settling in his gut. Rafael had planned this—anticipated it—like a strategist predicting every move before the board was even set.
"This is insane," Henry muttered, his voice trembling between anger and desperation. He looked up at the receptionist, his expression raw with disbelief. "I just need five minutes with him. That’s all. Please—call up to his office."
The blonde shook her head, her voice rising a notch. "Sir, we’ve been instructed. If you don’t leave now, we’ll have to involve security."
Henry’s face flushed with frustration, his reserved nature cracking under the pressure. "Instructed? By who—Rafael? He can’t just ban people like this! I demand to see him!" His voice echoed in the lobby, drawing curious glances from passersby. He planted his hands on the desk, refusing to budge. "I’m not leaving until I talk to him. This is about a life—lives! You have no idea what’s at stake."
The receptionists exchanged a quick, nervous glance — the kind that said this isn’t in the handbook. The brunette, clearly the more senior of the two, reached for the phone with trembling fingers, her voice dropping to a whisper as she murmured into the receiver. The blonde, meanwhile, straightened in her chair, trying to keep her professional composure even as tension rippled through the air.
"Sir, please," she said, her tone polite but edged with unease. "You’re causing a scene."
Henry’s jaw tightened. A scene? Maybe that’s what it looked like to them — a well-dressed man losing his patience in the middle of a pristine lobby. But to him, this was about Eliana’s happiness and that of her unborn child.
The minutes crawled by. Twenty of them. Each one slower, heavier, more suffocating than the last. The hum of the lobby dulled into background noise as Henry paced before the reception desk like a caged lion, his polished shoes striking the marble with sharp precision. His pulse thundered in his ears, his thoughts looping with the same desperate refrain — He has to listen. He has to face me.
Every time the elevator doors slid open, he looked up, expecting Rafael — but it was never him. Just employees glancing curiously at the commotion before scurrying past, whispering to one another. The tension grew thick enough to taste.
"Call him!" Henry’s voice finally cracked through the silence, echoing against the tall glass walls. His anger wasn’t wild or reckless — it was righteous, the kind that came from being ignored. "Tell him Henry Jackson is here, and I won’t be silenced like this!"
The blonde flinched, glancing toward the security station. Her hand hovered over the desk before she pressed a small button beneath it. Within moments, two uniformed guards appeared —broad-shouldered, all business. Their boots clicked against the floor as they approached, their expressions unreadable.
"Sir," one of them said firmly, "we’re going to have to ask you to leave."
Henry turned slowly, meeting their eyes. For a brief moment, he said nothing. Then, with the quiet fury of a man who had nothing left to lose, he shook his head. "No."
When they moved to grab his arms, he planted his feet, muscles tensing beneath his shirt. The guards might have been trained for this, but Henry wasn’t some scrawny protester — he was built, strong, and powered by raw emotion.
"Get your hands off me!" he barked, shrugging them off with surprising force. "I’m not leaving until I see him!"
The entire lobby froze. Even the receptionist stopped pretending to type. The sound of Henry’s voice — sharp, commanding, and desperate — hung in the air like a live current.
The standoff escalated, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony. Finally, the guards radioed for backup, and sirens wailed in the distance. Police officers stormed in, badges gleaming, and after a brief scuffle where Henry protested wildly—"This is insane! I’m just trying to talk!"—they cuffed him, charging him with causing a public nuisance in a working environment.