CHAPTER 92

THEY TOLD ME NOT TO...

Obetta sat in her room, the velvet curtains drawn tightly to shut out the morning light. Her phone lay face down on the dresser beside her half-empty glass of wine, untouched since last night. She hadn’t slept, her mind turning over and over the strange events of the past few days. Something wasn’t right.

For weeks, her plans had been unfolding with sharp precision. Every connection she’d cultivated, every whisper of gossip, every skeleton she had dug out of closets all of it had placed her ahead of Abigail, ahead of Maya, ahead of anyone who dared to stand in her way. She had built a careful web, and she was confident it would snare all her prey.

But now… her web was unraveling.

She leaned back in her chair and pulled her robe tighter around her. On the small table near her bed lay a stack of papers, files that had once brimmed with leverage background checks, financial slips, photographs taken in secrecy. And yet, every time she reached out to one of her contacts to confirm details, she was met with silence.

Her brows knitted together as she scrolled through her phone. One number after another failed to connect. Some rang endlessly without answer; others had been disconnected altogether. A week ago, she could have summoned half a dozen people willing to spill information at a single call. Now, the line was dead.

Obetta tapped her nails against the glass, irritation rising. She wasn’t a fool. People didn’t just vanish overnight. They didn’t cut off a steady source of money and protection unless something or someone had forced them to.

Her lips twisted into a bitter frown.

Someone was dismantling her network.

She stood, pacing across the room in her silk robe, the hem brushing the floor. Her eyes darted to the mirror, catching her own reflection. She looked tired, more tired than she would ever admit. But behind her own eyes burned fury.

“Who is it?” she muttered aloud, voice dripping with venom. “Who dares?”

She thought first of Abigail. It was easy to imagine that little doll running back to Luke, confessing all her fears like a helpless child. But Obetta shook her head almost immediately. Abigail didn’t have the intelligence or the reach to cut down contacts in this way.

No, this was bigger. Sharper.

Her chest tightened. Could it be Luke himself?

The thought sliced through her, unwanted but unavoidable. Luke Vandell had always been precise, calculated, capable of moving quietly when he wanted. If he suspected her, if he even so much as sensed she was circling Abigail, then of course he would have acted. And he had the power to do so.

But she refused to accept it without proof.

She grabbed her phone again and dialed a private number a man she had relied on for years, a fixer who always knew things before anyone else did. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Her heart began to pound.

Then a voice answered.

But it wasn’t his.

“This line is no longer in service.”

A robotic tone. Cold. Unyielding.

She yanked the phone away from her ear, staring at it in disbelief. He never changed numbers. Never. For years he had been steady, her shadow in the dark. And now, just like that, gone.

Obetta sank onto the edge of her bed, her legs trembling with an anger that boiled beneath her skin. She poured herself another glass of wine, even though it was still early morning, and gulped it down in one swallow.

Her mind raced. Whoever it was, they weren’t just cutting her strings. They were erasing them completely. Quietly, efficiently. And worst of all they were doing it without leaving a trace.

She slammed the glass onto the table, her voice rising. “Show yourself! Coward!”

But the room stayed silent, mocking her.

Obetta pressed her fingertips against her temples. She had clawed her way to where she was through cunning, through ruthlessness, through refusing to bow to anyone. She had seen enemies before, but never one this invisible.

She needed to test the waters.

Rising again, she walked to her desk and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook, flipping to the last few pages. There were still some names she hadn’t touched yet, minor players she hadn’t trusted enough to bring fully into her schemes. Perhaps one of them would still answer her.

She dialed quickly, tapping her foot against the floor as the phone rang.

And then, finally, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice, uncertain, wary.

“It’s me,” Obetta said, her tone sharp and commanding. “Don’t ask questions. I need information.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then the woman whispered, “I can’t talk to you. They told me not to.”

Obetta froze. “What?”

“They told me not to,” the woman repeated, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry. Don’t call again.”

The line went dead.

Obetta stared at her phone, her hand shaking slightly. “They told me not to.”

The words echoed in her mind like a taunt. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just cutting ties they were scaring her people into obedience. People who once feared only her were now afraid of something greater.

She sank back into her chair, fury burning through her veins. For the first time in years, she felt something she hadn’t felt since she was a child clawing her way out of her family’s shadow.

Helpless.

She wouldn’t accept it. She refused.

Obetta stood abruptly, storming toward her wardrobe. She dressed quickly, pulling on a fitted black dress and heels, armor for the battle she felt brewing in the air. If she couldn’t find out who was behind this through her usual channels, then she would dig another way. She would push harder, strike faster, and whoever stood in her way would bleed for it.

She paused before the mirror, adjusting her hair, painting her lips crimson. Her reflection stared back at her, fierce, unyielding, but underneath, she could see the crack the faintest glimmer of doubt.

“Who are you?” she whispered at the glass, as though the invisible hand dismantling her plans would answer.

Silence.

Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her purse and stormed out.

The day stretched long and cruel. She went from place to place cafés where her allies once met her, private clubs where whispers usually flowed, even the homes of two people she had once trusted to deliver information. But everywhere she went, she was met with the same thing: avoidance. Cold shoulders. People refusing to meet her eyes.

By nightfall, she returned home exhausted, her heels clattering against the marble floor. She tossed her purse onto the couch and sank into the cushions, rage simmering inside her.

She didn’t have answers. She didn’t have names. But she knew one thing with certainty: someone powerful was stripping her weapons from her hand, one by one. And they were clever enough to stay invisible.

Her nails dug into the fabric of the couch as she whispered to herself, “I will find you. And when I do, you’ll wish you never crossed me.”

But as the night deepened and the silence of the house pressed down on her, Obetta realized something chilling.

She might not find them at all.

And that thought, more than anything else, terrified her.