Rain hammered London like it wanted to wash the city clean. The Vaughn mansion’s driveway shimmered under the storm, its marble tiles reflecting blue flashes of lightning.Christopher Ford’s hands rested on the steering wheel, calm, deliberate. The silver Bentley purred, idling outside the grand ballroom entrance where the last of the guests were leaving in jeweled laughter.In the back seat, Ariella Vaughn was fury wrapped in silk. Her gown glittered, her expression didn’t. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she snapped, her voice sharper than the storm outside.Christopher didn’t turn. “You asked me to wait outside the gala, ma’am. I did.”“You did,” she bit out. “Except you blocked the service entrance instead of the main one. I walked past the caterers, for God’s sake! Photographers caught it, me, the Vaughn heiress, paraded out like a maid!”He spoke evenly. “The main entrance was cordoned off by the police for a brief moment. There was no safe lane to pull into.”“That’s n

Rain blurred everything into motion, light, sound, fear. Lila froze where she stood. The whisper had come from behind her, quiet, deliberate, too close to be the wind.She spun. Nothing. Just the curtain of rain and the faint flicker of the mansion’s backup lights. “Christopher?” No answer.Her breath misted in the cold. Every instinct screamed to run, but she couldn’t tell which direction was safe.A shape moved in the garden maze, tall, fast, almost silent.Then a hand clamped around her wrist. “Don’t scream,” came the voice she knew. Christopher.He pulled her down behind the stone railing of the terrace. His face was soaked, eyes burning with focus. “You were supposed to stay hidden,” he whispered.“I heard someone,” she whispered back. “They’re in the garden, two of them, maybe more.”He peered through the rain. The intruders’ silhouettes shifted near the broken gate, flashlights slicing through the mist. They were organized. Searching.“Crowe sent them,” Lila murmured. “He wants

Darkness swallowed the corridor whole. No light, no sound but the rain hammering against glass and Ariella’s sharp, uneven breathing. “Christopher?” she gasped.“I’m here.” His hand found hers in the dark, warm, steady, grounding. “Stay low. Don’t make a sound.”“Who are they?”“Not friends.”From the far end of the hall came the echo of boots, deliberate, synchronized. The kind of sound that carried discipline, not panic. Ariella whispered, “They’re inside the house.”He squeezed her hand once, a silent warning. “Move.”They slipped along the wall, guided by the faint glow from the storm outside. Every flash of lightning cut the world into snapshots, overturned chairs, rain pouring through shattered windows, Lila’s silhouette now vanished.Ariella’s mind spun. Her husband, her driver, was leading her through her own home like a man who’d broken into it before. Every word, every lie, every moment they’d shared collided inside her like shrapnel.“Christopher,” she whispered, her voice

The city was still asleep when the car slipped through its backstreets, headlights dimmed, rain whispering over the roof.Christopher sat in the back seat, hands still red from the cable ties that had held him hours ago. Lila drove, wordless, her reflection fractured in the mirror.Neither of them had spoken since the power went out. Since he walked in. Crowe. The name felt like a shadow that didn’t belong to just one man.It clung to everything, the air, the silence, the faint scent of gun oil that still lingered in Christopher’s coat.He watched the streets roll by: shuttered shops, sleeping windows, a neon sign flickering over a closed café. Ordinary London, painted in midnight and fear. Finally, he broke the silence. “He let us go.”Lila’s grip tightened on the wheel. “He wanted us to go.”“Why?” She didn’t answer.Christopher leaned back, voice low. “If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have wasted the theatrics.”“That’s exactly why you should be scared,” she said. “He doesn’t wast

Rain thickened into fog as Christopher left the car behind. The streets bled light; sodium lamps flickered in pale halos, reflections trembling on the slick pavement.His breath clouded before him, matching the rhythm of his steps. measured, deliberate, unstoppable.He checked the address again on the glowing phone screen. NORTH DOCK. WAREHOUSE 17. Every part of him said trap, but traps were just truths waiting to be exposed.The wind carried the low hum of the river, metal against metal, the groan of ships moored in the dark. Somewhere far off, thunder grumbled like a warning.Lila (over comm): “You’re still on the grid, Chris. You sure you want that?”Christopher: “If I go dark, he’ll think I’m hiding. Let him watch.”She sighed softly through the line. “There’s a difference between bait and martyrdom.”“Funny,” he said. “You never minded the first when it wasn’t your neck.”A pause, static crackled with unspoken tension.The old dock road curved toward the river. Ahead, the warehou