Chapter 2: Frenemy

Jude's POV

The glasses clink. The music hums. Laughter spills like whiskey across the bar's dim lights.

“Alright, Jude, so what are you going to do about it?” Ash asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Do? about what?” I mutter, dragged out of my thoughts.

Ash smirks. “You’re already thinking about her. Ivy. She’s back. She’s single. Still hot as hell, by the way.”

A burst of laughter breaks out across the group, but it barely registers.

But he’s right.

I am thinking about Ivy.

Her soft pink lips. That husky French accent. Her legs wrapped around me, swearing she’d never love anyone else.

And then?

I close my eyes for a second. And the pain comes rushing in.

Her betrayal when she married my best friend.

“You know she asked about you,” Jace says.

I turn to my half-brother, the words slicing through me.

“You’ve seen her?” I ask too fast. Too eager.

Jace doesn’t miss it. “Yeah. Viv and I ran into her. She's done playing the grieving widow now. She’s back to her old self.”

I run a hand through my hair.

Of course, she asked about me. Of course, she’s back now. Nicholas is dead. She inherited millions. And Ivy? She always knows how to land on her feet.

“You all know what Ivy and Nicholas did,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “She betrayed me. So no, I’m not thinking about her.”

The words taste like ash.

The memory flashes—me waking up from a coma, still hooked to machines. The nurse telling me I was out for almost two years. The headlines.

Nicholas King marries the fiancée of the Comatose Creed heir.

Billion-dollar merger.

I didn’t believe it at first. But then I saw the photos. My best friend and the woman I would’ve died for.

And they didn’t even wait for the plug to be pulled.

But just as I open my mouth to bury the past again, a familiar sound cuts through the noise.

A vibration. A tone I haven’t heard in years.

My heart stops.

I pull out my phone.

Private Server: 1 Unread Message

My mouth goes dry.

The app has no name. It’s encrypted six ways to Sunday. Only one person ever used it. Only one person ever could.

Puzzle Girl.

I haven’t heard from her in two years. She was the faceless mind who helped me rebuild Creed Industries after my coma. Her ideas were genius. Her solutions saved me. She was a ghost, brilliant, anonymous, Flirty, then gone.

And now she’s back?

I tap the message.

Geo-Tag Attached

Please help me.

Come find me now.

That’s it.

My blood runs cold.

She ghosted me without warning. No goodbye. No explanation. And now, this?

What the hell is going on?

What is she caught up in? Is this a new game, a way for her to keep herself entertained?

I stand up so fast my chair screeches across the floor. Ash looks up, surprised. Jace frowns.

“Jude? You good?”

“No,” I say, already moving. “I’ve got something I need to handle.”

“Ivy?” the group shouts in unison. All breaking into laughter. Would I be this quick if Ivy texted me?

I stop. Smile. Then turn and leave.

I don’t need to explain myself.

“Martin,” I say as I slide into the back of my Phantom Bentley. “I need you to get me to this location.”

I hand him the phone. He glances at it, then nods. We pull off.

I lean back, but my thoughts won’t settle.

Puzzle Girl.

Quick-witted. Always five steps ahead.

She helped me through the worst time of my life, back when I couldn’t walk, couldn’t lead, could barely think. Her late-night messages and those encrypted riddles... they kept me sane.

She got me through rehab.

She saved my company.

I owe her at least this.

Outside the tinted window, tree-lined streets blur past like ghosts. This is old money territory. Discreet wealth. Generational power.

Then I spot it, a sleek black Jaguar gliding past in the opposite lane.

No plates.

A chill creeps up my spine.

“Martin... are we close?”

“Just about to pull up, sir. Five minutes.”

I nod, but anxiety coils in my gut.

Finally, I’m going to meet her.

Maybe she’s the woman I’ve been waiting for, someone who can finally help me get over Ivy.

Maybe she’s just a bored fifty-year-old professor with too much time. I don’t care.

Something about her has always felt important.

“We’re here, sir,” Martin says, slowing as we approach a massive iron gate.

I look up.

My stomach drops.

I know this house.

“Sir...” Martin starts, his voice uneasy. “This place looks like—”

But I’m already out the door.

“She’s inside!” I shout, running.

“Who?” he asks, chasing after me.

“I don’t know, Martin. But we have to go in!”

As we get closer, the acrid scent of smoke hits us hard. Thick black clouds curl behind the glass walls. Inside, flames crawl up the velvet curtains like they’ve been waiting for a reason.

“Martin!” I scream, backing away. “There’s a fire!”

He charges the front door, yanking the handle. Nothing. Locked.

The windows are bulletproof. Not even a crack.

I look down at my phone again.

She’s still inside.

The pin hasn’t moved.

“We need to get in. Now!”

Martin curses under his breath and sprints back to the car.

Seconds later, he returns with a matte black Glock. Without hesitation, he fires at the digital keypad near the service entrance.

The lock sparks. A high-pitched beep. The metal clicks.

I don’t wait.

I rush in.

The heat hits like a freight train. Smoke claws at my throat. My lungs burn. I cover my mouth with my sleeve, eyes stinging as I push forward, following the blinking dot on my phone.

“Sir, we need to get out of here!” Martin shouts from behind me. He’s coughing hard, dragging his jacket over his face.

“No,” I rasp. “Someone’s trapped in here. I’m not leaving.”

“It might be a trap!”

I hesitate.

He’s right. It could be.

But something deep inside says it’s not.

I check the map.

Five meters.

Three meters...

I shove open a scorched door—it’s the bathroom. The smoke is thick. The mirrors have cracked. Water floods the tile.

And then I see it.

The tub.

The water red as wine.

And a delicate hand… dangling over the edge.

“Martin!” I scream.

We rush forward. He gets to the other side as I drop to my knees.

Without thinking, I reach into the bloody water and pull her out. Her body is limp. Hair soaked. Blood and ash covering her skin.

Martin drops beside me, already checking for a pulse.

“Is she—” I start, my voice shaking.

“She’s alive,” he says, pressing harder. “But barely.”

I push the wet strands from her face, my hands trembling.

And that’s when I see her clearly.

My entire world tilts.

“Sir…” Martin says slowly, eyes locked on the woman in my arms. “Is that… Marion Storm?”

My mouth goes dry. I can’t speak.

It’s her.

It’s Marion.