chapter 2

The taxi stopped in front of the Blue Lantern Casino, and for a long moment, I couldn’t even open the door.

I just sat there, staring at the glowing blue lights shining on the building like cold moonlight. The tall glass walls, the spinning signs, the loud music inside — everything felt too big, too powerful, too dangerous.

I hadn’t been here in years.

And I never wanted to return.

But here I was.

I paid the driver with shaking hands and stepped out into the night. The air smelled like perfume, smoke, and something sharp I couldn’t name. My heart thumped against my ribs so loudly it felt like everyone could hear it.

People in bright dresses and expensive suits walked past me, laughing and smiling like this place belonged to them. I felt small, standing there in my cheap jeans and tired sweater.

Just walk in, Freya. One step at a time.

But when I pushed the glass doors open, the world inside nearly swallowed me whole.

Lights flashed everywhere.

Machines beeped.

Voices rose and fell like waves.

Music boomed from the speakers near the bar.

It was bright, loud, and alive — everything my life wasn’t.

I hugged my bag close to my chest as I walked deeper inside. Nobody looked at me, but I still felt exposed, like every secret I had was written across my forehead.

I told myself I was here for a reason.

I told myself I was strong enough.

But the truth was simple:

I was here because I had no choice.

I needed help.

And help from the wrong place was still help.

I took a slow breath. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Find him. Just find him.”

I looked around for someone familiar, someone from the last time I came here — but that was four long years ago. I doubted they would even remember me.

But fate remembered me before I remembered it.

A tall, broad man in a black suit suddenly stepped out of the crowd and blocked my path. His face was serious, his jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed like he was scanning me.

Clinton.

Grant’s bodyguard.

He used to stand near the roulette tables, arms crossed, watching everything with icy calm. And now, here he was again, staring at me like he had been waiting for me.

“Miss Freya,” he said in a low, even voice. “Mr. Grant will see you.”

My stomach twisted. “H-He knows I’m here?”

Clinton nodded once. “He knew the moment you stepped through the door.”

Of course he did.

People like Mr. Grant always knew everything.

Clinton turned and began walking toward the back corridor. I followed him, trying to keep my steps steady. We passed tables filled with rich laughter and clinking glasses, but the deeper we went, the quieter everything became.

The music faded.

The lights dimmed.

The air grew colder.

We reached a door with a small golden plaque that simply said:

PRIVATE

Clinton opened it without knocking.

“Go in,” he said.

I stepped inside.

And there he was.

Mr. Grant sat behind a dark wooden table, dressed in one of his perfect suits. His hair slicked back, his smile small but sharp. He looked exactly the same — calm, polite, dangerous.

He raised his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine like he had been expecting this moment.

“Freya,” he said with a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been… quite a while.”

My throat tightened. “I didn’t want to come back.”

“But you did,” he replied softly. “Which means you need something.”

I swallowed hard. “My mother… her heart condition. It got worse.”

His smile widened just a little. “I heard.”

Of course he did.

Nothing in this city happened without him hearing it.

I sat down in the chair opposite him, my hands clamped together to stop them from shaking.

“She needs surgery,” I whispered. “It costs two million dollars. I don’t have anything close to that.”

Grant rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward slowly. “I see. And you remembered me.”

His voice was soft, almost gentle, but it felt like a rope tightening around my neck.

“I remembered the debt,” I said. “And I remembered that you… help people.”

“Help,” he repeated with a chuckle. “Yes. In my own way.”

Then he motioned toward the table.

A red folder lay there, thin but bright, like a warning sign.

My breath hitched. “What is that?”

“Your solution,” he said calmly. “And your problem. Both in one place.”

He pushed the folder toward me with two fingers, slow and smooth, like he was sliding poison across the table.

“Open it.”

My hands trembled as I reached for it. The moment I touched the folder, it felt like touching ice.

Inside, there was a single photo.

A man.

Tall. Handsome. Sharp eyes. Expensive suit. Expression unreadable.

Darlington Knight.

I had heard the name before. Everyone had. The youngest billionaire in the city. The man with more secrets than anyone could count.

I looked up at Grant. “Why… why do you have his picture?”

Grant’s smile stayed calm. “Because I want something from him. And you are going to get it for me.”

My heartbeat stumbled. “Get… what?”

He tapped the folder. “Information.”

Not a kiss.

Not seduction.

Not romance.

Just secrets.

“Darlington keeps three files in his private study,” Grant said. “Files that belong to me.”

He leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You will get close enough to enter his house. Find his study. Take photos of the files. Send them to me.”

I stared at him in horror. “Mr. Grant, I can’t— I don’t even know him— I can’t break into someone’s house—”

“You won’t break in,” he said calmly. “You’ll enter like a guest.”

“But why me?”

“Because you’re forgettable,” he said simply. “And harmless. And desperate.”

His words hit like a slap.

“And if I do this?” I asked quietly.

“Then I will pay the entire surgery bill. All two million. And erase your debt to me.”

A lump rose in my throat. My mother’s face flashed in my mind. Her weak smile. Her soft voice. The way she always told me not to give up.

I closed my eyes.

Two million dollars.

Her life.

My desperation.

“I… I need time to think,” I whispered.

“Of course you do,” Grant said, his voice too soft, too gentle. “But think fast.”

Then he added, “If you don’t do this, Freya… things could become dangerous for you. You understand that, don’t you?”

My whole body went cold.

His voice wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

I opened my mouth to reply—

But Grant’s eyes suddenly lifted past my shoulder.

He froze.

Then he smiled again, but this smile was different. Forced. Tight.

“Oh,” he said softly. “It seems we have a guest.”

I turned slowly.

Standing in the doorway, silent as a shadow…

Darlington Knight.

Tall. Still. Eyes cold enough to slice through steel.

And he had heard everything.

Every single word.

The room felt like it stopped breathing.

Grant’s smile faltered. The air shifted, sharp and heavy.

Darlington’s voice was calm, deep, and controlled when he finally spoke:

“Well,” he said, eyes locked on me. “This is interesting.”