Lightning tore through the sky as rain battered the ground—violent, relentless, like it meant to wash the filth off the earth.
I shoved my wet glasses into my pocket and pushed Abigail into the passenger seat. She clutched her stomach, barely conscious.
I turned to Caleb, who was already dealing with the last of the men.
"I'm taking her to Lucia," I said.
He nodded once before diving back into the chaos. I should've been worried, but I wasn't. Caleb could handle himself.
The tires screeched as I sped down slick streets, the storm swallowing the sound. I stopped in front of a building marked Buldak Noodles, its "Closed" sign barely visible through the downpour.
I rang the bell.
Lucia swung the door open almost immediately. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Abigail.
"What the hell—?"
"Later, Lucy. Please—just do your thing."
By the time I carried Abigail inside, she was out cold.
Lucia didn't ask more questions. She knew better. She led me straight to the back, where the hidden clinic waited—our safe space. We never went to hospitals.
That was the rule. This was our life, our world, and I made damn sure it stayed intact.
But this—this had slipped past me. They'd found her. Just when we thought her cover was airtight.
I stood in the hallway, fists clenched, mind racing. The rage hit me like a freight train. I punched the wall hard, cracking the plaster. Didn't even realize I was crying until I tasted salt on my lips.
They were going to pay. Every last one of them.
These people—Abigail, Caleb, Lucia—weren't just my team. They were my family. Built over time, with sweat and grit. I would protect them with my life if I had to.
I caught my reflection in the glass frame on the wall. No glasses.
Just bloodshot eyes and fury. I didn't care. I'd get new ones.
Rowan Ashford. Twenty-four. Living in Moscow. To most, just another guy. But they had no idea. Not yet.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Still working, somehow. Thanks, Terry. Guess that
waterproof phone came through.
I picked up.
"It's Bambi," came my grandmother's voice—sharp, annoyed.
"She's tearing through the curtains again. If you don't want a dead cat, get your ass back here."
I rolled my eyes and ended the call. That woman hated cats. And she wasn't bluffing.
Lucia was still working, so I scribbled a note, left it on the table, and left.
By the time I pulled up to my house, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The gates parted without a sound.
Yeah. That was my mansion.
I earned it. Every square inch. Say what you want—I'm proud. When you were twenty-four, what did you have? Countless body counts? No shade, just facts.
The car hissed to a stop on the driveway. I stepped out. Soaked, pissed off, and exhausted.
The front door opened. A line of maids stood waiting inside, heads bowed.
I groaned.
"Seriously, Grandma? Again?"
One of the maids hurried over to take my coat. I let her. No point fighting it anymore.
Somehow, in this insane mess of a life, this was still home.
"Your day's never complete without yelling at me for doing 'normal' rich people things, is it?" she shouted from the living room.
Ah, there it was.
Morning wasn't official until Grandma tried to guilt me for existing in wealth.
I ignored her and called out for the real priority.
"Bambi," I called again. Nothing. "Bam—bi."
Still no reply. I glanced at Grandma, who just shrugged and kept flipping through channels like she hadn't just threatened my cat's life twelve hours ago.
"What did you do this time?" I groaned, rubbing my temple. I was this close to dragging out an apology from the heavens when—
"Meow."
There she was. Bambi strutted out like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did.
Then I saw it. I stifled a laugh. "Grandma, seriously? That is not funny."
Bambi had a ridiculous waistband wrapped around her, like some sad attempt at feline fashion. She rubbed herself against my legs, sulking.
I scooped her up. "Come on, let's get this thing off you."
We headed to my room. She always slept there. I didn't trust Grandma not to "accidentally" relocate her to the freezer or something. Bambi may be an overgrown diva of a cat, but she was my handful.
I was exhausted. Abigail had nearly been exposed, then shot. Terry's quick thinking saved her, but we came too close. Way too close. I clenched my jaw as I stepped into the bathroom and let the shower drown out everything—thoughts, rage, guilt.
The next morning.
First thing I did was call Lucia.
"She's stable," she said. "Alive. Just unconscious for now."
Relief, but not enough. I needed to see her myself.
I fed Bambi, made breakfast—for me and Grandma. Apparently, my food tastes better than the maids'.
Lucky me.
Work mornings were always dull unless someone threw a tantrum or started a fistfight—which happened more often than you'd think. And always over petty nonsense.
I was on a video call with a colleague, one of the few I trusted.
"It's nearly impossible to get to them, Rowan," he said, voice low and tense.
"We need someone higher up. These people—if you even breathe their names—you disappear. You've seen it. The bloggers, the journalists. All gone."
He wasn't wrong.
"I'll think about it," I said. "I'll call you later."
I ended the call and took the headset off, dropping it onto the desk. I leaned forward, exhaling hard. Felt like the hundredth sigh of the day. I loved what I did… but damn, it made me fantasize about early retirement more than I'd like to admit.
Crash.
I didn't even flinch. Probably another chair flipped over in the dining area. Guests brawling again.
They'd pay for the damages—standard protocol.
I stayed put. Unless someone came to get me, I wasn't moving a muscle.
Knock knock.
"Come in," I muttered, already annoyed.
A staff member peeked in.
"We need your attention, sir. The guest refuses to calm down unless she speaks to the manager."
Of course.
Another entitled brat throwing a tantrum. I should've passed the manager title to Terry when I had the chance.
Maybe I still will.
As I reached the scene, my brow lifted instinctively. The woman—clearly the cause of the chaos—stood with her back to me, arguing with one of the employees. And oddly enough, the employee was arguing back.
Great. Just great.
"Young ladies," I said calmly, the best neutral tone I could muster. I turned slightly toward the staff member who had fetched me.
"Miss Elevane," she whispered urgently.
Wait—what?
The Miss Elevane?
My eyes almost popped out of my head. What the hell was someone like her doing in this company?
We were working our way up the fashion ladder, sure, but her name was reserved for places already at the top.
She turned then—right into my stunned expression. I straightened immediately, clearing my throat and adjusting my glasses like I hadn't just been caught off-guard by a celebrity storming my shop floor.
She was… stunning. Even more so in person. Unfortunately, so was her reputation.
"You the manager?" she asked, unimpressed. "You know who I am, right?"
I gave a small nod. "I do."
Miss Elevane—famous, fiery, and viciously honest. A walking headline. The kind of woman you don't mess with unless you want your business burned to the ground with a tweet.
"What happened?" I asked, turning to the younger staff member. She looked like she was about to faint.
I wasn't the kind of manager who automatically bowed to wealthy customers. Most of the time, they were the problem—pushing workers until they snapped. But this wasn't one of those times.
Phoebe—the employee—had apparently made a snide comment, implying that Miss Elevane had "slept her way to the top."
Predictably, it exploded from there.
"Phoebe," I said, calmly but firmly, "apologize."
She opened her mouth to protest, but I gave her a look. She lowered her gaze.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, head bowed.
Miss Elevane rolled her eyes. "No need to fire her. Her life looks miserable enough. If it's that easy to sleep to the top, maybe she should try it. Might improve her wardrobe."
I let that pass. "I wasn't planning to fire anyone. And let's try to keep the drama at zero for the rest of the day."
With that, the situation dissolved. Miss Elevane finished her shopping—an excessive spree, of course—and arranged for everything to be delivered.
I assumed that would be the end of it.
Until she asked to see me privately.
I found myself standing in a quiet corridor with her, the lighting soft and indirect, casting shadows across her unreadable expression.
I couldn't tell what she wanted—but whatever it was, it wasn't something the regular staff could've handled.
"I'm a straightforward woman," she began, arms crossed. "Mr…?"
"Ashford," I said.
She nodded once. "Good. Then let me be blunt."
There was a pause. Then:
"You look exactly like someone who could satisfy my sexual cravings. In short—would you like to be my sex partner?"