17

Chapter 17

Martin's Pov

The night party went on at the penthouse. The music was heard through the penthouse like a second heartbeat, shaking the marble floors and the expensive furniture that filled every corner.

People danced under dim lights, happy and high in drugs. Their happiness is drug-induced, their smiles are “empty,” and their lives revolve around luxury and distraction.

I sat back on a leather couch that cost more than most people earned in a year, taking a slow sip of whiskey. The burn settled in my chest as I watched my world.

This was the life I had built: the parties, the favors, the power. I hadn’t sacrificed anything—how could you sacrifice something that was never yours? I’d taken, traded, planned. And it worked.

“Baby, dance with me!” Amelia’s voice cut into my thoughts. She staggered over in a dress too tight and heels too high, her makeup half gone and hair falling out of place from too much champagne. There was still a predator in her eyes, what had first drawn me to her but tonight she was clumsy and loud.

“Not now,” I said, waving her off. “I’m thinking.”

“You’re always thinking,” she complained, draping herself across my lap in a move that was meant to be seductive but only made me more tired of her. “You’re no fun, Marty.”

She called me Marty, and I hated it, correcting her wasn’t worth the fight. Keeping Amelia content was part of the arrangement. She’d played her role—supportive cousin in public, my plaything in private, right up until the night Adrian was taken and I married Amelia to close the loop.

The memory of Adrian’s face that day still felt like a private victory. I watched as the cops arrested her as a drug dealer instead of me. It was satisfying.

Lately I've been feeling paranoid about little things. Unease when a siren wailed, a jolt at every when an unknown number called me. But now it hummed under everything, louder with each passing week.

Three years had gone by since I’d framed Adrian. The case had closed. She had taken the fall and was still in prison.

I’d walked free and built an empire on the parts of her life I’d taken. So why did I feel like it could all come crashing down?

My phone buzzed. Carlos called—one of the guys who owed me favors and fed me useful news.

“Call me. Important.” He said before he hanged up

I moved to my private office, letting the music fade to an annoying thud as I shut the door behind me. Carlos answered on the first ring.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“Thought you should know—Adrian Martinez got released. Four months ago.” He said it was nothing.

But the words hit harder than I expected. My heart skipped. I couldn’t pull my thoughts together.

Released. Adrian was out.

“Are you still there?” Carlos asked.

“Yeah,” I said, voice tight. “How’d you hear?”

“Guy on parole. I saw her name when I checked in on someone. Figured you’d want to know, since she used to be your girl.”

I should have scoffed. I should’ve believed what I’d always told myself: that she’d be broken, scraped by on the little things, and never be able to touch what I had. But a different voice in my head picked at the image of her—naive, devoted, ruined.

“Any trouble?” I asked, trying for casuals.

“Nah. Clean so far. Probably scraping by.” Carlos shrugged through the line.

“Good,” I lied. “Keep tabs.”

“No problem.”

When I hung up, I stared at the city lights through the penthouse windows. Adrian was free and somewhere out there walking the same streets as me. That shouldn’t have mattered. She’d been sentenced, branded. I’d made sure of it. But the worry wouldn’t leave. What if she knew something? What if she wanted revenge? What if—

I poured another drink on my glass and moved back into the party. Amelia latched on and I let her. I distracted myself to quiet the anxiety that held onto my chest like a fist.

Later, when most guests were gone and some passed out with drugs, all laid in my living room as usual. I scrolled through social media, it had become a habit when boredom crashes, a way to feel the world without touching it.

Amelia slept on the couch, one arm thrown over her face. She had loved a reckless life ever since I married her.

The apartment hummed with after-party silence. The scent of alcohol and drugs lingered in the penthouse.

A gossip page had a photo from some billionaire’s family outing. I almost scrolled past until something in the image snagged me. The woman in the picture was holding a small child. She held the girl in a tender way and the way she looked at her like her own.

I zoomed. The face was familiar—too familiar. Her cheekbones, the way she tilts her head. Adrian. Healthier than the woman I’d left years ago and the last time I saw her in prison. Now put together, confident, not the broken thing I’d planned on.

And beside her stood Darcy Rodrigo: clean-cut, careful, the kind of billionaire who could crush businesses and people with a signature. His daughter clung to the woman like she was the center of her world.

My hands went cold.

“This can't be right?” He was the same man who paid me to have her that night. A Virgin.

How did they find each other? Does she know the truth?

This could be a coincidence. Maybe Adrian had found a legal job , was humble and happened to be photographed near someone famous. Maybe she was a nanny by chance. But my mind raced to worse places.

Three years ago, in a prison visiting room, she’d been pregnant. I’d laughed when she begged and pleaded, watching her hope die. The hospital had reported the baby dead. I’d paid to make sure it stayed that way. To make sure they kill the baby.

What if not everything had gone as planned? What if a child lived? What if, somehow, Adrian and that child had found shelter with someone powerful?

I shut my phone off halfway through scrolling, the image burned in my head. What's the connection between these two? If Adrian had Darcy Rodrigo’s protection or even access to him—this wasn’t a corner of the city I could control with favors and intimidation.

This wasn’t a powerless woman struggling to survive. This was a woman with resources or connections who could dig, ask questions, reopen things.

Fear sharpened. I’d already destroyed her life once. I’d made sure her past was a closed book. But if she was back, connected, maybe even protected, then my choices narrowed. I knew how to move in darkness. I’d lied, bribed, and destroyed before. I’d cross lines again. I’d do what I had to.

I started planning the next steps then and there. First, confirm. Find out if the woman in the photo was actually Adrian. Find out how close she was to Darcy Rodrigo and, more importantly, who else might be tied to them.

Carlos could check the parole tracks. My people could look into the gossip source, trace the photo, and find the photographer. I didn’t want guesswork, I wanted proof. I wanted to know if the child had any link to the pregnancy Adrian had when I’d last seen her.

Second, keep her weak. If Adrian had resources, cut them off quietly. Make opportunities vanish. Intimidate without traces. Painting a target with obvious moves would bring scrutiny. Subtlety had always been my ally.

Third, remind her who controlled this city. If she pushed—if she used Darcy’s name to pry into things then I’d make sure the consequences were personal and unbearable. I had ways to make someone fall apart again. I’d done it before.

I hated myself as the plan took shape. The part of me that felt nothing, who’d relished her ruin eased into familiar patterns. It was shameful and efficient. I’d never liked Adrian.

She’d been disposable in my life, a pawn in a game that kept me on top. But the thought of her slipping back into power, of her walking into my world with a child in her arms and a billionaire at her side, made something like panic curl in my gut.

The photograph was a threat, whether coincidence or proof. I would find out which. I would protect what I had built, even if it meant sinking lower than I had before.

Adrian had been out of my reach for years, but the world had a way of looping back. If she was back, I would make sure she never stood tall against me.

I remembered when I went to the prison with her cousin—the fear on her face, the helpless way she placed her hands on her belly. I had enjoyed that moment when we told her about our marriage, the way she cursed and her water broke. Perfect. She felt pain just like I wanted.

Now that memory feels dangerous. If anything from that past had survived, if a child had lived, if someone had hidden them—my victory had a crack.

I started mapping how to find the truth. Photos could be traced to a photographer or agency. My people could check parole logs, social feeds, and the gossip account that posted the image.

The nurse who signed the hospital report had been paid; money trails could be followed. Darcy Rodrigo was careful and public; if he protected someone it would be behind clean walls but walls can be watched, doors nudged.

If Adrian held a stranger’s child, I would be paranoid. If she had protection and resources, I’d need a quieter approach. Subtle pulls, closing off jobs, removing people who might connect them, whispering into the right ears—would work better than anything loud. If she pushed, I would respond like always: precise, leaving no trail back to me.

Hating myself for the plan didn’t stop it. I’d made worse choices before; I would make them again. Fear sharpened into a plan. The photograph burned on my phone. I set it down and called Carlos.

“Find everything on Adrian Martinez,” I told him. “Quietly.”

I'll end her before she ends me…