Chapter 4

The sun is barely rising over London, filtering through the low, greyish clouds that shroud the city like a shroud. I'm sitting in the back of the black Bentley, hands clenched on my knees, while Alfred, the chauffeur, drives in silence toward the Black Tower. No Cameron this morning. Just me, alone with my thoughts spiralling like an endless whirlwind. Last night's scene plays on loop in my head, obsessive, relentless. That threatening phone call  the distorted voice, full of hatred, promising death. The way Cameron reacted: fists clenched, eyes black, a contained fury that turned his face into a stone mask. And then his words: "It's too dangerous for you." Why me? What do I have to do with any of this? I'm just an intern, a forced assistant, trapped in a contract I signed out of fear. But it sounded so serious, so real. Cartels, death threats… It's like I've fallen into a noir film, except there's no script to tell me how to get out.

Alfred glances in the rearview mirror, his lined face impassive. "Miss Hayes, we'll be there in five minutes." His voice is neutral, professional, but I detect a hint of concern. Or maybe I'm imagining it, my paranoid mind amplifying every detail. I nod without answering, staring at the passing streets: the hurried pedestrians, the black cabs, the normal life continuing outside while mine plunges into the unknown.

The tower finally appears, a monolith of glass and steel dominating Canary Wharf. Alfred parks the car in the basement, escorts me to the private elevator. "Mr. Black asked me to take you straight to the 67th floor. Stay safe." He disappears, leaving me alone in the silent ascending cabin. My reflection in the mirrors sends back a tired image: dark circles under my eyes, pinched lips. The necklace around my neck weighs like a constant reminder of my new reality.

The doors open onto the immaculate lobby. Elena is already there, impeccable grey suit, a coffee in her hand. She smiles at me, but her gaze is probing.

"Amanda? Mr. Black isn't here yet. He'll be late this morning."

She guides me toward the shared office, looking busy.

"Settle in for now. Don't touch anything unusual, alright? On your desk there's a list of tasks: file those folders, check the reports on Asian investments you started yesterday, and prepare a memo on growth projections for next quarter. Nothing complicated, just basic work."

I nod, grateful for the apparent normality. The tasks are indeed mundane: sorting financial documents, cross‑referencing Excel data on legal acquisitions luxury real estate in Singapore, tech start‑ups in India. It reminds me of my initial internship, before everything went off the rails. No traces of shady business, no mentions of cartels or suspicious transfers. Just numbers, charts, cold analyses. I dive in, trying to concentrate to forget the chaos. The minutes pass, the office silent except for the clicking of my keyboard.

Then, suddenly, the door bursts open. Cameron enters like a storm, slamming the door behind him. I look up, and my heart skips a beat. He looks like he's been out all night: dishevelled hair, a rumpled white t‑shirt stained with dried blood at the collar, a wound on his right temple  an irregular gash with coagulated blood trickling down to his cheek. His knuckles are scraped, red and swollen, as if he's been punching something or someone repeatedly. He moves stiffly, on edge, muscles taut like cables ready to snap.

I'm shocked, a mix of fear and instinctive concern overwhelming me. Without thinking, I jump to my feet. "Mr. Black? What happened to you? You're hurt!"

He doesn't notice me at first, lost in his own bubble. He mutters to himself, voice low and venomous, full of suppressed rage.