Chapter 3

I thought that fire would be enough to mark an end, to make them stay away.

But I had underestimated their obsession—or perhaps Celia's unseen web of control.

Days passed in silence, until Tad began seeping back into my life in the most absurd ways.

He sent black datura flowers—symbols of death and vengeance—with meaningless cards that spoke of "care."

Encrypted messages filled my inbox, feigning tenderness.

Once, in the lobby of a family-owned high-rise, he tried to drag me into the shadows to kiss me—

as if blood and betrayal had never existed between us.

Leo followed suit, slipping easily into the "protective brother" act—bringing my favorite espresso, repeating half-forgotten jokes.

And each time they said, *"We mishandled things before. Let's start over,"* their tone was so casual it felt like an apology for spilled wine, not for betrayal.

Then came their "surprise"—a dinner invitation.

"We'll host," Tad wrote through the encrypted line. "Same place as always. Remember?"

Part of me wanted to delete it, block them forever.

But another part—the tired, broken remnant of what used to care—whispered that perhaps this could be a clean ending.

No hatred. No drama. Just closure.

So I went.

The restaurant near the docks hadn't changed. Amber wall sconces, mahogany booths, the air thick with cigar smoke, whiskey, and the faintest trace of gunpowder.

Jazz played softly in the background—perfect cover for wiretaps.

I sat, watched them pretend warmth, spinning nostalgia into a fragile illusion. For a moment, in the glow of candlelight, it almost seemed real.

Then Tad's communicator buzzed sharply.

He glanced down, and his body stiffened.

"It's Celia," he muttered.

A pause. His voice grew tight. "What? Slow down—ambushed? By who? …You're shot?! Send your location—"

Within seconds, Tad and Leo were on their feet, knocking over their chairs in their rush.

"She's crying," Tad barked, already heading for the door. "She's hurt. We have to go—now!"

No goodbye.

Not even a glance.

They vanished into the rain-drenched night as if I'd never been there.

I sat alone before the half-eaten meal, watching the candlelight tremble. The silverware gleamed coldly.

The flame flickered once… twice… then died, leaving only smoke curling upward.

I paid the bill myself.

By the time I stepped outside, the skies had opened.

Thunder cracked, lightning split the night.

No cars, no taxis, no family escorts. The manager offered me an umbrella—but the restaurant had already locked its doors.

So I walked into the storm.

Each step felt heavy, my bandaged arm throbbing beneath soaked fabric. Every muscle screamed in protest.

But worst of all—the thunder.

It rattled in my chest, dredging up that old childhood terror.

Lightning tore through the sky, thunder rolled like artillery, and for a moment I thought the whole world might shatter.

I pulled my coat tighter, forcing my way through the downpour. The city blurred into streaks of light.

Then—

Headlights.

A blaring horn.

A black car skidding out of control.

No time to move.

Impact.

Then—nothing.

When I woke, I felt softness—too soft, unreal.

White walls, dim light. Every nerve screamed, but the pain felt distant, muffled.

"Tad…?" My voice was barely a whisper.

But the figure in the corner wasn't him.

A man sat in a high-backed chair, tall, composed, dressed in a tailored black suit. His eyes were dark, deep, unreadable.

When I tried to sit up, he spoke.

"You're awake," he said, voice low and steady. "Don't move."

"Who… are you?"

"Eric," he replied simply. "I found you at the crash site. Brought you to a… safe medical facility. You were unconscious."

I wanted to ask more, but dizziness overtook me, and darkness claimed me again.

When I opened my eyes the second time, he was gone.

No note. No trace.

As if he'd never existed.

My satellite phone remained silent—

except for one encrypted message from my mother:

> "The plan has begun. Contact me as soon as you return. Everything is ready."

I didn't tell her about the accident. She had enough to worry about.

The doctor called me lucky.

The car hit from the side—no broken bones.

A few more days' rest, and I'd be fine.

So I stayed, alone in that hidden clinic, until I was cleared to leave.

When I returned to the penthouse to collect the last of my belongings and book a flight back to the family estate—

Tad was there, standing in the doorway.

"Oh, you're back."

His smile was infuriatingly casual.

"Listen… we got rid of your Aston Martin. And those custom pistols you kept. Celia ran into a little ‘trouble,' needed some quick cash, so—"

"What?" My voice went cold. "You sold my things?"

"Relax," Leo said as he strolled in behind him, tone patronizing. "It's temporary. We'll make it up to you. Celia's been unstable since the ambush. She needs care. Could you make her something to eat? She hasn't been eating."

I stared at them, disbelief freezing me in place. "You're joking."

Leo frowned. "Where have you even been, Nancy? Celia said you left the dinner to go party somewhere. When she was attacked, you were nowhere. You really think that's acceptable? You've disappointed me."

Something inside me broke. I could hardly breathe—then laughter bubbled up, dry and sharp.

"Yes. A party."

I tossed the clinic's discharge papers at their feet. The documents scattered, the medical seal unmistakable.

"This is where I was ‘partying'—a clinic with no name. You left me in the storm. I walked home alone. I was hit by a car."

"What…?" Tad's voice faltered. "You were hospitalized?"

"I thought you were off with the gunrunners," Leo muttered, uneasy. "Celia said—"

"Of course she did." My laugh was ice. "It's *always* Celia, isn't it?"

Before they could answer, a piercing scream cut through the air—

"Help! Tad! Leo—it hurts! Please, help me!"

Celia.

Always Celia.

I didn't look back.

Didn't hesitate.

I crossed the threshold, leaving behind the noise, the lies, and everything that used to bind me.

The night outside was cold, endless—and for the first time in years, entirely mine.