Katy P.O.V
The memory of my brother's death loosened its grip slowly like smoke thinning after a fire, but the ache stayed lodged beneath my ribs.
I shut my eyes once more, forcing the past back into its grave, then rose from the edge of my bed. I had work to do. James Bron was still breathing and that alone was a failure I intended to correct.
I walked into my bathroom and the doors slid shut behind me with a soft, obedient hush. The space looked less like a bathroom and more like a private sanctuary carved for royalty. Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling. The scent of crushed herbs and rare flowers already hung in the air, calming and dangerous at the same time.
The jacuzzi waited at the center, wide and gleaming, its water already filled with floating petals—white, deep red, pale gold. Maids moved in synchronised silence as if they were trained to anticipate my thoughts. Two of them sprinkled fresh petals into the water with careful hands. Another tested the temperature. Another held folded towels like offerings.
I stepped out of my robe and lowered myself into the jacuzzi, the warmth closing around me instantly. I leaned back, chin lifted, eyes half-lidded. If James Bron had any idea how much money and control surrounded the woman planning his downfall, he would have laughed, right before begging.
Hands touched my shoulders, firm but respectful. One maid poured expensive liquid soap into her palms; the scent alone probably cost more than most people's rent. They worked methodically, washing away the troubles, the memories, the blood that never truly left my hands. Another pair of hands kneaded my arms, easing tension I refused to admit I carried.
I sat there like a queen being prepared for war.
My thoughts, however, were anything but calm.
Unpredictable evidence.
That was the only way to destroy James Bron. Not witnesses. Not confessions. He owned too many people, buried too many truths. I needed something that even his money couldn't erase. Something sharp. Something final.
My jaw tightened at the thought of my father who was brilliant, reckless and naïve—walking straight into James Bron's trap with open eyes and a trusting heart. Rage bubbled hot in my chest.
You sold information, I thought bitterly. And he sold death.
The water sloshed as I clenched my fists beneath the surface.
A maid noticed instantly. She rushed forward, wrapping a thick towel around my shoulders as if shielding me from my own fury. Another helped me rise from the jacuzzi. The warmth vanished too quickly, replaced by cool air and colder resolve.
They dried me, dressed me, transformed me.
A fitted dress—elegant, sharp, expensive enough to intimidate before I even spoke. My hair was styled flawlessly, every strand in obedience. Jewellery clasped around my neck and wrists like subtle armour. By the time they stepped back, I barely recognised the woman in the mirror.
I looked powerful. Dangerous. Untouchable.
I left the penthouse without a backward glance. The doors closed behind me and my bodyguards came along. As soon as my heels hit the pavement outside, the city greeted me with noise, screens and light.
That was when I saw her.
A massive billboard flickered to life across the street. The image was impossible to miss—sharp eyes, confident posture, a perfectly tailored FBI uniform.
Acadia.
Head of the FBI.
The broadcast rolled beneath her image.
> "Breaking news: The James Bron criminal case has been officially transferred. The FBI confirms that Director Acadia will now oversee the investigation"
"We are all curious to know the reason for the sudden transfer"
My blood went cold.
The reporter continued, voice smooth and speculative, wondering aloud what this meant for me. What would happen to Katy Perezato if she was no longer James Bron's lawyer? Would she step aside? Fade into the background?
My nails dug into my palm.
I pulled out my phone and dialled Acadia immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
The billboard looped the footage, her image everywhere—billboard after billboard, street after street. People stopped to watch. Phones came out. Whispers followed.
I slid into the car, fury vibrating beneath my skin. "To her office " I snapped.
The car surged forward.
If Acadia took this case, I lost access. I lost proximity. I lost the chance to carve James Bron open from the inside. Worse—she would take the credit. The praise. The headlines. The victory.
Acadia had always done that.
She had always arrived last and left crowned.
We had crossed paths too many times to call it a coincidence. Every major case, every high-profile criminal—somehow, she ended up standing in the spotlight while I stood in her shadow. The public adored her. The media worshipped her. And she knew it.
I hated her for that.
Not because she was good, but because she was seen.
As the car sped through the city, her image still burned behind my eyes. Calm. Confident. Beautiful in a way the world found easy to love.
James Bron was still out there.
And now, so was Acadia—between me and my revenge.
I leaned back against the seat,my lips curling into something sharp.
This wasn't over.
It was just getting bloodier.
Laurel P.O.V
I didn't know whose house it was when they brought me there.
All I knew was that the car didn't stop until the city thinned into silence, until the streetlights grew sparse and the air felt colder, heavier like a warning.
The car ride felt endless, even though my mind kept replaying the same moment over and over—how he pulled me away from the grenade, how his body shielded mine without hesitation, how he didn't even look back to check if I was safe because he knew I was.
Why?
Why save me?
Why not kill me when he had every reason to?
Men like him doesn't save people for free. Especially not women like me.
By the time the car finally stopped, my nerves were stretched thin, humming like exposed wires.
The gates opened silently and we drove into a compound that felt...controlled. Not flashy. Not loud. The kind of place built by someone who valued secrets more than beauty. The men escorted me out without a word, guiding me toward the entrance like shadows with legs.
The house was immaculate—too immaculate. Clean lines, polished floors, walls painted in disciplined shades of white and grey. But it wasn't the luxury that unsettled me. It was the walls.
Her walls.
Photographs stared back at me from every angle.
A lady in an FBI uniform, sharp eyes, unreadable smile, authority carved into her bones. The same lady who had dragged me out of gunfire and into uncertainty.
Different angles. Different years. Different achievements. FBI uniforms. Medals. Press conferences. Crime scenes. Her picture frame was everywhere.
I stepped closer to one of the frames, my reflection ghosting over hers. At the bottom corner of the photograph was a signature,so clean, deliberate, unmistakable.
Acadia.
The name hit me like a slow bullet.
So this was her house.
The lady from the chaos. The FBI lady who shot with precision and vanished like smoke. The one who whispered to Richardo in the middle of gunfire as if they shared secrets the world wasn't meant to hear.
I swallowed.
The realisation settled slowly, heavily. The FBI lady wasn't just some officer following orders. This was her territory. Her chessboard. And somehow, I had been placed right in the middle of it.
Two men entered the house quietly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"He'll be back soon" One of them said, voice neutral.
My stomach twisted.
"I'm hungry" I said before I could stop myself.
They exchanged a look, then motioned toward the kitchen.
I helped myself, two preserved plates of sushi from the fridge. I didn't ask for permission. I didn't wait. I carried them to the dining room and sat like I belonged there, like this wasn't another cage with prettier walls.
The food tasted bland. Or maybe fear had stolen my appetite.
After eating, boredom crept in. Heavy and suffocating. Everywhere I went, the men followed—silent, obedient, irritating.
"I don't want any of you following me" I snapped finally. "I won't run away this time. I'm fine"
They didn't answer. They didn't stop.
Their eyes went where ever I go.
Frustration burned in my chest as I wandered the house, my eyes absorbing details without permission.
The layout was strange. Too symmetrical. Too intentional. Certain walls felt thicker. Certain corners…wrong. Like they were hiding something.
Who was Acadia really?
Why was her house a safe place for a man like Richardo?
Why did the FBI attacked him if one of their own was clearly protecting him?
Why hadn't he killed me?
And worse—what punishment was he saving me for?
"I need my phone" I said suddenly.
"You can't have it until Richardo returns" One replied.
Anger surged. I turned on them. "Why was Richardo attacked by the FBI?"
There was silence.
I scoffed. "Never mind. I don't want to get involved in Richardo's dangerous games"
Three hours passed like a slow torture.
Then the door opened.
I was standing in the living room, touching a small statue mounted near the wall—smooth, cold, slightly loose—when a voice sliced through the air.
"I didn't save you so you could touch my stuff"
I froze.
I turned slowly.
She stood there, removing her FBI jacket like it was armour she no longer needed. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that didn't need weapons.
"This is my home" She added calmly like a reminder.
A warning.
She adjusted the statue, placing it back with precision. Too precise. Like it mattered. Like it hid something I wasn't meant to see.
Then she looked at me.
"Aren't you curious to know about me?" She asked casually, unzipping her FBI jacket.
She dismissed the men with a flick of her hand. They left without question.
I swallowed. "Who are you?"
She laughed softly. "I should be the one asking you that"
"Why the hell am I here?"
She studied me like an experiment gone wrong.
"I don't know why Richardo chose you" She said slowly. "But one thing I do know—" her lips curved, sharp and cruel, "—you're one of his sex babes"
The words burned.
She turned toward the stairs.
"Richardo will be back soon"
"Why the hell am I always kept as a hostage to him?" I shouted.
She didn't answer.
As she disappeared upstairs, my eyes drifted back to the statue.
And this time, I was certain.
That wall was hiding something.
And whatever was behind it was dangerous enough to keep even Acadia on edge.