"You don't have to pretend anymore, Devon... I already know what happened."
Those words sent an icy chill down Devon's spine, as if he had been poured cold water. He had stood there, speechlessly. He reckoned. Not knowing whether to speak up and ask her to keep it a secret, or whether to remain silent, not saying anything at all. At that time, he had been so engrossed in her beauty— possibly mystified by it, that he had stood there, staring at her like a naive fool who had just felt icy water on his face. Indeed, he was taken aback. And as beads of sweats started to form on his forehead, the only response his brain could really come up with was... "Sorry, what?" That was when she repeated it again. "Yeah, you don't have to pretend anymore... after all, I already know what happened." Devon couldn't help but reflect on that particular incident as he drove the black Mercedes-AMG he had also received as a birthday gift, through the night. And even now, he could still feel the efffects of those heart wrenching statements. What did she mean by she knew what happened? Could it be that she knew about what had transpired between him and her brother. Devon had been lost in his own thoughts back then. She had left him in the state of speechlessness, with no way to defend himself. It was events like this that made him develop hate for secrecy. He so much hated the ordeal. Right there, at the ceremony. He felt like trapped rat when Anabelle mentioned that she knew about what happened out of the blue. It wasn't until he had questioned her— after almost giving himself out, that he had found out what truth she knew. "I know you're well against the idea of getting married to me." She had said. "I also know you're being forced against your will." She felt she had to say this at the time, seeing the way he was looking at her. She felt this way because she had been home that night, with her family for an impromptu dinner arranged by both their parents and he was no where to be found. She left smiling after saying all this to him of course, leaving him to drift away in his own thoughts. After the engagement ceremony she had left with her family, kissing him on both cheeks before she did. It was during this period that he remembered the box he had received from Damian. Filled with curiosity, Devon took off to his room, with the small box on one hand, leaving behind the glass of wine behind. On getting to the room, he took out another glass from the tray pan resting comfortably, on a table beside the large sofa there, and poured himself a reasonable portion of whiskey. For a minute or two, he stood there contemplating whether to open the box or not, but after giving much thought to it he proceeded to open it up. As he unwrapped the box, the familiar scent of Damian's cologne wafted up, transporting him back to memories he'd rather forget. And when he was done unwrapping it, he found a piece of paper in the box. The paper inside was crisp, the address scribbled in hasty handwriting. Curious, he proceeded to open it. Written on the piece of paper was an address— an address with a short note written below it: Meet me at the above address, by 10pm or else...? I'll be waiting. That was when he had hopped into his car, and drove out of the mansion. "Meet me at the above address, by 10pm or else...?" The words sent a shiver down his spine, a mix of anticipation and dread swirling in his stomach like a tempest. The weight of the message settling heavy in his chest, as he drove through the night, the dashboard The clock on the dashboard glared at him, it's lights casting an eerie glow on his face as it's digital display taunted him with the relentless march of time. 9:47 pm. Thirteen minutes left. He thought. His mind racing, he floored it, the engine's roar a stark contrast to the silence that had preceded it, devouring the distance. The address on the piece of paper seemed to burn a hole in his pocket, it's cryptic message fueling his curiosity and anxiety. What did he mean by 'or else'? Was this a threat or a warning? He pondered. Surely, the answers to this questions awaited him at his destination.The kiss started soft—just the press of lips and breath—but it deepened fast. Annabelle’s hands reached up to his collar, pulling him in like she didn’t want to think anymore. Like she needed something real, something now. Devon didn’t hesitate. His mouth met hers again, fuller this time, and as their lips parted, they both tried to catch their breaths. Annabelle's body was flush against Devon's, and soon the night that had begun with laughter and music cracked wide open into something else entirely. Devon’s hand found the small of her back, guiding her gently inside. She closed the door behind them, locked it without looking. The foyer was dimly lit, but Devon’s focus wasn’t on the house—it was on her. The green dress she wore earlier that night, clung to her curves like it had been sewn there, and the way she looked at him—hungry, raw—made everything else vanish. Neither of them spoke as they made their way upstairs. Just soft touches and glances. The tension between the both of
The restaurant was high above the city—fifty-six floors to be exact. Floor-to-ceiling glass surrounded their table, giving them a panoramic view of Manhattan as twilight melted into night. Cars below looked like scattered fireflies, and the buildings across the skyline gleamed like steel and glass titans standing in judgment.Annabelle looked radiant. A deep green dress hugged her just right, her hair pulled back into something soft and effortless. Devon had changed too—black shirt, blazer, clean lines. For once, he didn’t feel like he was performing. Not for the board. Not for his father. Just… here, having dinner with his contracted wife-to-be.Everything was just perfect. Their waiter was attentive, moving with the kind of choreography that only places like this demanded. While the menu on the other hand, was handwritten and changed daily. Hell, Devon didn’t even recognize half the dishes, but it didn’t matter. They both ordered wine. Steak for him. A Truffle risotto for her.“So,”
The restaurant was high above the city—fifty-six floors to be exact. Floor-to-ceiling glass surrounded their table, giving them a panoramic view of Manhattan as twilight melted into night. Cars below looked like scattered fireflies, and the buildings across the skyline gleamed like steel and glass titans standing in judgment.Annabelle looked radiant. A deep green dress hugged her just right, her hair pulled back into something soft and effortless. Devon had changed too—black shirt, blazer, clean lines. For once, he didn’t feel like he was performing. Not for the board. Not for his father. Just… here, having dinner with his contracted wife-to-be.Everything was just perfect. Their waiter was attentive, moving with the kind of choreography that only places like this demanded. While the menu on the other hand, was handwritten and changed daily. Hell, Devon didn’t even recognize half the dishes, but it didn’t matter. They both ordered wine. Steak for him. A Truffle risotto for her.“So,”
Devon's phone screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in weeks. Micheal. Devon’s brows pulled together. He stared at the notification for a full five seconds before his thumb moved. > Hey, I’ve been off the grid for a while... Just reaching out to let you know. There’s so many things you must know. Talk when I can. That was it. Devon read it again. Then a third time, as if reading it one more time might force more information out of it. He tapped the number—no saved contact photo, just digits—but when he tried to call, a crisp female voice came through the speaker. “The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.” He frowned, lowered the phone, and dialed again. Same thing. Third time, just to be sure. Still nothing. Dead line. The kind of line that had never really been alive in the first place. Devon sat forward, staring at the screen like it owed him answers. It didn’t make sense. Micheal had disappeared without a trace weeks ago—right after the funeral, righ
Devon’s foot slammed the brake just in time and the car lurched forward with a sharp hiss of tires against asphalt, jolting him hard into his seatbelt. His heart immediately shot up to his throat, hammering. For a second, he couldn’t move, or breath. He just sat there staring through the windshield at the small figure frozen in front of his car. A child. He'd almost hit a child. Barefooted. Clothes loose and threadbare, hanging off his bony shoulders. His knees were scraped, dirt smudged along his face like war paint. The boy stood there unmoving, wide-eyed, as if the world had paused with him in it. Devon’s hand shot to the door handle and he was out of the car before he’d even realized it. “Hey,” he called, voice raw with adrenaline. “Are you hurt?” The kid didn’t speak. Just blinked up at him, wary and silent. Devon crouched low, his breath still uneven. “You okay?” No answer. But the boy didn’t run. His lip trembled slightly, and his fingers twitched like he didn’
The tires hummed quietly beneath him as the city rolled by—gray, blurred buildings smeared across the windshield like watercolor. Devon’s hands gripped the steering wheel with more tension than he realized, veins stiff beneath the skin. The AC whispered, faint against the low throb in his temples. It was just past noon, and the sunlight barely pierced through the muted clouds. Manhattan never quite stopped moving, but in this moment, Devon felt curiously still, like he was suspended above his life, watching it unfold from the outside. It had been a week since Hugh Lawson's funeral. The weight of it hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had settled into the marrow of things. Not just the funeral—everything. Damian’s death. The accident. The way his name still echoed in Devon’s mind, soaked in guilt and silence. The PI’s report on Celeste. The blackmail. The lies. The damned ring he’d picked up from the warehouse, now buried in a hollow space in his study drawer, wedged between meaningless