KEIFER — SIX YEARS LATER
London never slept.
It hummed beneath his feet, a constant low vibration of power and movement, like a beast that refused to rest. From the top floor of the penthouse, the city stretched endlessly—glass, steel, lights that pretended to be stars.
Keifer stood at the window, hands in his pockets, tie long discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal scars no one ever asked about.
Six years.
The reflection staring back at him didn't look like the boy who once believed cruelty could be a form of protection.
His phone lay untouched on the table behind him.
No messages.
There never were.
His mind drifted, as it always did when the city grew quiet.
---
It started with blood.
Not literal—not at first—but emotional, thick and suffocating.
The night Jay ran from the Fernandez house never left him. Her face—white with panic, eyes too wide, breath tearing apart inside her chest. He remembered how easy it had been to stay still. How he had crossed his arms, locked his jaw, and chosen silence like a weapon.
Don't flatter yourself.
He had said it to end things cleanly.
He hadn't known clean breaks still bleed.
When the news came that she'd been hit by a car, something inside him collapsed so violently he couldn't breathe. He'd driven to the hospital like a madman, knuckles white, lungs burning—only to be stopped at the doors.
Gone.
Transferred.
Vanished.
She didn't just leave the Philippines.
She erased herself from it.
That was when the war began.
Not outside.
Inside.
---
His father had always been a monster wearing a tailored suit. A man who ruled through fear, broke his wife slowly, and raised sons like assets instead of children. Keifer had learned early that love was a weakness—something the world exploited.
Jay had proven him wrong.
And that terrified him.
When the family discovered she was his weakness, they sharpened their knives. Subtle threats. Leveraged meetings. Quiet insinuations. It didn't take long for him to understand—she would never be safe as long as he loved her openly.
So he destroyed her instead.
It was the most unforgivable thing he'd ever done.
Then he buried his father.
Not with hands.
With contracts.
With exposure.
With allies turning into enemies and enemies turning into wolves.
By the time his father's heart failed him, Watson Enterprises was already Keifer's.
The world mourned a powerful man.
Keifer felt nothing.
---
London happened because staying would have killed him.
Every street in the Philippines carried her echo. Every corner reminded him of laughter that no longer existed.
So he left.
London taught him control.
Watson Enterprises grew sharper under his hands—leaner, colder, unstoppable. He learned how to move markets with a sentence. How to end rivals without noise.
Dangerous men respected him.
Smart men feared him.
And still, none of it mattered at night.
Keigan and Keiren were the only reason he didn't hollow out completely. His younger brothers stayed in the Philippines by choice—clinging to the only place that still felt like home to them.
He made sure they had everything he never did.
Safety.
Choice.
A future untouched by their father's sins.
When they smiled, it hurt.
Because she would've loved them.
He visited when he could.
Section E drifted in and out of his life like ghosts who shared the same grave. Conversations were shallow, careful. Everyone avoided her name like it might shatter what little stability they'd built.
Except Aries.
Aries didn't avoid it.
Sometimes they sat in silence, two men bound by the same loss, the same mistake.
"She'd hate us," Aries had said once, staring into his drink.
Keifer hadn't argued.
---
He tried to find her.
God, he tried.
Every resource. Every favor. Every shadow channel money could buy.
Nothing.
No records. No digital footprint. No trace of a Mariano heir.
It was as if she had died—and been reborn somewhere else.
That scared him more than hate ever could.
Because disappearing meant intention.
It meant she had chosen a life without him.
---
The penthouse bedroom remained untouched.
Dark. Still. Sacred.
A single huge framed photograph rested against the wall—Jay caught mid-turn, eyes sharp, lips parted like she was about to say something clever.
It wasn't staged.
She hadn't known.
That was why it mattered.
No one entered that room.
No one was allowed to see her.
Some nights he stood there for hours, glass of untouched liquor in hand, replaying the last words he'd ever spoken to her.
Every time, he wished he had chosen truth over fear.
He still cried sometimes.
Quietly.
Alone.
Like a man who deserved the pain.
---
The present pulled him back slowly.
London lights reflected in the glass before him.
Six years.
Watson Enterprises was an empire now. His brothers were safe. His enemies were silent.
And yet—
He pressed his palm against the window, breath fogging the glass, chest aching with a familiar, endless grief.
There were no speeches left.
No apologies that could reach her.
No explanations that mattered anymore.
Just one name.
A prayer.
A wound.
A truth he would carry until the end of his life.
His lips parted.
And in the empty penthouse, he whispered the only word that had ever owned him.
"Jay Jay."