THE LAST DAY OF MERCY

CH 5

Victoria couldn't stop seeing it—the way Lucas's face had changed in that gallery, that ghost of a smile when the artist spoke to him.

She threw her phone across the bedroom. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor.

"What's wrong?" Derek looked up from his laptop, the platinum SR card spinning between his fingers like a nervous habit.

"Nothing." Everything. That smile. Six years of marriage and Lucas had never smiled at her like that. Like he was human. Like he remembered how.

Derek wasn't listening anyway. He'd been staring at that card for an hour, making call after call, his voice getting quieter and his face getting paler with each conversation.

"Who did you talk to?" Victoria asked.

"Hmm?"

"About the card. Who did you call?"

"Nobody. Doesn't matter." But his hand shook as he set down the card. "Your mother wants to see us. Downstairs. Now."

Vivian held court in the dining room, surrounded by papers and her phone and a smile that made Victoria's stomach turn. That smile meant someone was about to suffer.

"Sit," Vivian said. "Both of you. We need to accelerate the timeline."

"What timeline?" Victoria asked.

"The divorce. The humiliation. All of it.” She paused for a while. “See, I know Lucas won't annul the contract that easily, he's been refusing to for six years now. He's a stubborn leach but I've got a plan." Vivian spread papers across the table—invitations, guest lists, media contacts. We're hosting a party. Three days from now. A Pre-Divorce Celebration."

"A what?"

"You're divorcing the pathetic leech. We should celebrate publicly. Show everyone we're not ashamed. Better yet, show everyone exactly what kind of parasite Lucas Reed really is."

Derek leaned forward. "I like where this is going."

"Five hundred guests. The city's elite. Every major publication. We'll expose him as the gold-digging fraud he is. National coverage. By the time we're done, he'll never work in this city again."

Victoria should have felt triumphant. Instead, she felt sick. "Isn't that excessive?"

"Excessive?" Vivian's eyes narrowed. "He's lived in my house for six years. Eaten my food. Stole my money. This is the least he deserves."

"I just mean—"

"Unless you still have feelings for him." Vivian's voice dropped to ice. "Do you, Victoria?"

"No! God, no."

"Then why do you care?"

Because he smiled at someone else. Because for six years he'd looked at Victoria like she was a stranger and then some random artist spoke to him and his whole face changed. Because that should have been her.

"I don't care," Victoria lied. "Do whatever you want."

Vivian's smile returned. "Already in motion. Invitations go out tonight. I've contacted three tabloids—they're salivating for this story. 'Heiress Dumps Delivery Boy Husband.' 'The Marriage That Was A Mistake.' They'll eat it up."

Derek was nodding along, but his fingers kept returning to that platinum card. "What if—what if he fights back?"

"How?" Vivian laughed. "He's nobody. He has nothing. What's he going to do, throw food at us?"

Derek's phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned, then typed something back.

"Problem?" Vivian asked.

"No. Just... work stuff."

But Victoria saw his expression. That wasn't work. That was fear.

Lucas's phone vibrated in his pocket as he walked back to the mansion. He pulled it out. Dustin.

URGENT: The Southwest generals are getting impatient. They're threatening to propose changing the Reaper if you don't return to your position.

Lucas typed back: Let them threaten. I put them all in their positions, I can always remove them.

Sir, we also have a situation. Our operatives in Prague—Mitchell and Torres—they've been compromised. The Kozlov syndicate has them. They're demanding you show yourself or they start sending pieces.

Lucas stopped walking. Mitchell had a wife. Three kids. Torres was barely twenty-five.

[How long do we have?]

[Unknown. They sent a video. It's bad.]

[Hold position. Four more days.]

[They might not have four days.]

[Then make them last.]

He pocketed the phone and kept walking. Four more days. Mitchell and Torres would hold. They were trained for this. They understood what was at stake.

The mansion appeared through the trees. Something was wrong.

His belongings—six years of carefully accumulated nothing—sat in black trash bags on the front lawn. Clothes, books, the photograph of Richard Ashford. Everything he supposedly owned, dumped like garbage.

Vivian stood on the porch with her friends, phones out, filming.

"Surprise!" She gestured to the bags like a game show host. "We're redecorating. Your room is becoming a yoga studio."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"Oh, we've prepared accommodations." Vivian's smile could have cut glass. "Ladies, show him."

They led him around the house to the garden shed. It was maybe eight feet by six feet, built for tools and forgotten summers. The roof open. The walls were rotting. There was no heat, no electricity, no humanity.

"Home sweet home," one of Vivian's friends said. The others laughed.

"You can't be serious," Lucas said.

"Dead serious." Vivian pulled a padlock from her pocket. "You'll sleep here until the divorce is final. It's more than you deserve."

Victoria appeared from the house, Derek trailing behind her. She looked at the shed. At Lucas. At her mother.

"Mom, this is—"

"Perfect," Vivian finished. "This is perfect. Unless you'd prefer we kick him out entirely?"

Victoria's mouth opened. Closed. If they kick him out, she won't have the right to inherit her late father's properties, but she looked at Lucas with something that might have been guilt or might have been nothing.

"No," she said quietly. "This is fine."

"Wonderful!" Vivian handed Victoria the padlock. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Victoria took the lock. Held it. Lucas watched her decide whether she was still human.

She locked the door.

"Enjoy your new home, peasant," she said, but her voice cracked on the last word.

They left him. All of them. Walked back to the mansion and their champagne and their plans to destroy what little dignity he had left.

Lucas sat in the darkness. The shed smelled like rot and old paint. Water dripped through a hole in the roof. He'd slept in worse. Done worse. Survived worse.

His phone buzzed.

Mitchell just lost two fingers. Torres won't last the week. Please, sir. Give the order.

Lucas stared at the message. Mitchell's wife. Torres's mother. All the people who'd trusted him to keep their sons and husbands safe.

Four more days. Hold the line.

He started to put the phone away when something hit the shed wall. Hard. Then another impact. Laughter outside.

Derek's voice: "Wake up, delivery boy! You've got visitors!"

More impacts. Rocks. Bottles. Something shattered—the shed's only window, glass exploding inward. A shard caught Lucas's cheek. He felt blood but didn't move.

"Come on!" Another voice—one of Derek's friends. "Fight back! Be a man!"

They pelted the shed for an hour. Lucas sat against the wall and let them. Blood trickled down his face. His hands. Small wounds. Meaningless wounds.

"Get a picture!" Derek was laughing. "This is going online. #GoldDiggerExposed. The world needs to know."

Camera flashes through the broken window. Lucas didn't hide. Didn't cover his face. Let them take their pictures and build their narrative and seal their fate.

Eventually they got bored. Left. Their laughter faded into the mansion's warm lights.

Lucas pulled out his phone to check Dustin's latest update and saw something else—Sophie Laurent's number. She'd written it on his receipt at the gallery. "In case you need anything."

He shouldn't look. Shouldn't care. But he opened social media just once.

There it was. Derek's post. Pictures of Lucas in the shed, blood on his face, surrounded by trash bags. The caption: "Meet the gold-digger who tried to trap my fiancée. Six years of fraud exposed. #GoldDiggerExposed #JusticeServed"

Four thousand likes already. Comments pouring in. Most of them vicious.

Then Sophie's name appeared in his notifications.

She'd found the post. Her comment: "This is abuse. Someone call the police."

Lucas's phone buzzed. Sophie calling.

He didn't answer. What could he say anyway?

Ten minutes later, headlights swept across the shed. A car door slammed. Voices raised in argument.

Lucas moved to the broken window. Sophie stood at the mansion's front door, Vivian blocking her path with security guards on either side.

"I know he's here!" Sophie's voice carried across the lawn. "Let me see him!"

"You're trespassing," Vivian said. "Leave or I'll have you arrested."

"He's bleeding! You locked him in a shed and you're posting it online like it's entertainment!"

"It's discipline. He's my daughter's husband. This is family business."

"This is abuse!"

"This is none of your concern." Vivian nodded to security. "Remove her."

Two guards grabbed Sophie's arms. She struggled, still shouting, but they were bigger, stronger and practiced at removing inconvenient people.