THE LAST DAY OF MERCY

CH 6

Dawn broke with blood still crusted on Lucas's face.

He pushed open the shed door—Vivian hadn't bothered locking it again after the show—and stepped into air so cold it burned his lungs. Glass fragments still glittered in his skin. His shirt was stiff with dried blood. He looked like something that had crawled out of a grave.

Vivian stood on the back porch, coffee in hand, watching him with the detached interest of someone observing an insect.

"You look terrible," she said. "Good. Now get inside and clean this entire mansion. Top to bottom. The party's tomorrow and I won't have my guests seeing filth."

Lucas climbed the porch steps. "I need bandages."

"Bandages?" Vivian laughed. "Use toilet paper. That's all you're worth."

"Mrs. Ashford—"

"Did I stutter? Toilet paper. Or better yet, don't bother. Let the cuts get infected. Maybe you'll take the hint and leave before the party."

She went inside. Lucas followed, his hands leaving bloody prints on the doorframe that he'd have to clean later.

The mansion was a war zone from last night's planning session—papers everywhere, champagne bottles, the detritus of people celebrating someone else's destruction. Lucas found cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink and started in the foyer. Every movement pulled his cuts open fresh. Blood mixed with soap water. He kept working.

Six years. Six years of this. Three days left.

The front door opened around ten. Derek walked in with a briefcase and a man in an expensive suit—lawyer, based on the predatory smile and the way he eyed the mansion like he was already calculating its value.

"There he is!" Derek's voice boomed fake friendliness. "Lucas! Got something for you to sign."

Lucas straightened, mop in hand. His face felt tight where blood had dried.

"This is Thomas Wright, my attorney." Derek gestured to the suit. "He's drawn up some paperwork. Just cleaning up loose ends before the divorce."

Wright set the briefcase on a table Lucas had just cleaned, popped it open, pulled out a thick document. "Mr. Reed, this is a simple release form. You're waiving all rights to any Sterling family assets, present or future, and agreeing to vacate the premises immediately following the divorce."

"I already agreed to that," Lucas said quietly. "The prenup—"

"This is more comprehensive." Wright's smile never reached his eyes. "It also includes an admission of fault clause and a non-disparagement agreement. You admit the marriage was fraudulent on your part and agree never to speak publicly about the Ashford or Hartley families."

"Or what?"

"Or we sue you for everything you'll ever earn. Which, given your employment history, isn't much, but still." Wright clicked his pen. "Sign here. And here. Initial here."

Lucas read the first page. Then the second. Hidden in the legal jargon was poison—clauses that would make him personally liable for Sterling Corp's debts. Millions in corporate losses that Vivian had been hiding. They were trying to transfer the liability to him before declaring bankruptcy.

"This isn't a release," Lucas said. "This is a death sentence."

"It's whatever we say it is." Derek moved closer. "Sign it. Now."

"After the party. Let me keep some dignity."

Derek's fist came out of nowhere. It caught Lucas in the stomach, drove the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, and Derek's knee came up, caught his face, sent him sprawling onto the floor he'd just mopped.

"You don't get dignity!" Derek kicked him in the ribs. Once. Twice. "You're nothing! A parasite! Sign the fucking papers!"

Lucas curled on his side, tasting blood. Six years. Three more days.

Victoria appeared at the top of the stairs. "What's going on?"

"Your husband's being difficult." Derek grabbed Lucas by the hair, yanked his head up. "Tell him, baby. Tell him what happens if he doesn't sign."

Victoria descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. She wore a white dress that probably cost more than Lucas's fictional yearly salary. Her makeup was perfect. Her eyes were empty.

She leaned down. Looked at Lucas on the floor, blood dripping from his nose. And she spit in his face.

"Sign it," she hissed, "or we'll make your life even worse than it already is."

Lucas wiped the spit from his cheek with his bloody hand. Looked at her. Really looked. Tried to find any trace of the woman her father had wanted him to protect.

Nothing. She was gone. If she'd ever existed.

"No," he said.

The room went silent.

"What?" Derek's voice was dangerous.

"I'll sign after the party. Not before."

"You don't get to negotiate!" Derek pulled Lucas up by his shirt, slammed him against the wall. "You're nobody! You have nothing! Sign or—"

Vivian's voice cut through: "Or what, Derek? Are you going to kill him in my foyer?" She appeared from the dining room with her phone out, filming. "Please continue. This will be excellent entertainment for tomorrow's party."

Derek's face lit up. "You're recording?"

"Of course. The world should see what happens to gold-diggers who overstay their welcome." Vivian moved closer, getting a better angle. "Hit him again. Make it good."

Derek's fist connected with Lucas's jaw. Then his stomach. Then his ribs. Lucas slid down the wall, each impact calculated to hurt but not seriously injure. They'd practiced cruelty for six years. They were experts.

Victoria watched. Wright the lawyer watched. Vivian filmed it all, her smile getting wider with each punch.

Lucas's vision blurred. He saw figures outside the window—Dustin's men, he knew their shapes even through the haze. Saw the glint of scopes. One gesture. That's all it would take. One hand signal and Derek Hartley would be a memory.

He kept his hands still.

"Enough!" Vivian finally called. "Derek, darling, save some for tomorrow. Our guests will want a show."

Derek stepped back, breathing hard, his knuckles bloody. "You're dead, Reed. You know that? After tomorrow, you're dead."

They left him on the floor. Lucas lay there, counting his broken ribs—two, maybe three—and waiting for his vision to clear. The mansion settled into afternoon silence. Somewhere upstairs, Victoria laughed at something Derek said.

A car pulled up outside. Lucas dragged himself to the window.

Sophie's car. She got out with two police officers trailing behind her.

"I'm telling you, there's a man being held against his will!" Her voice carried through the glass. "I have proof—the photos online, the locked shed—"

"Ma'am," one of the officers said, bored, "we've been over this. Mr. Reed is free to leave anytime. This is a domestic situation."

"It's abuse!"

"It's complicated."

Vivian appeared at the front door. Said something to the officers. Pulled out her phone. Showed them something—probably a bank transfer, based on how quickly their expressions changed.

"Miss Laurent," the first officer said, "you need to leave. Now. This is your second warning. If you come back, we'll arrest you for harassment and trespassing."

"You're letting them get away with—"

"We're doing our jobs. Go. Home."

Sophie looked at the mansion. At the windows. Lucas pressed his hand against the glass. She saw him—saw the blood, the bruises, the broken man he'd become.

Her hand went to her mouth. Tears streaked her face. The officers grabbed her arms, started walking her back to her car.

Something in Lucas's chest cracked. Not his ribs. Something deeper. Something that had been holding together for six years through every humiliation, every blow, every moment of being less than human.

Sophie had fought for him. Twice. A stranger who owed him nothing had risked arrest to save him.

The dead thing in his chest started breathing again.

Lucas pulled out his encrypted phone. Typed three words: Protocol Reaper. Standby.

Dustin's response was instant: FINALLY. All divisions ready. Give the word and we mobilize.

[After the party. I want them to see.]

[Sir?]

[I want them to see who they've been breaking. I want them to understand. Then we dismantle everything.]

[Understood. What are your orders?]

Lucas looked at Sophie being forced into her car. At Vivian laughing with the corrupt cops. At Derek's Rolls Royce in the driveway. At six years of humiliation crystallized into this single moment.

Tomorrow night. After the party. Come prepared for war.

He powered off the phone. Stood. His ribs screamed but he ignored them. Picked up the mop. Started cleaning again because that's what they expected. Let them think he was broken. Let them plan their celebration.

Just twenty-four more hours. Then they'd learn what happened when you pushed a king too far.

Victoria found him in the kitchen around sunset. She'd changed into something casual—jeans and a sweater that probably cost what most people earned in a month. Derek stood behind her, his hand possessive on her waist.

"We have an announcement," Victoria said.

Lucas kept washing dishes.

"Derek proposed. In Paris. I said yes." She held up her hand, showing off a diamond the size of a small planet. "We're getting married next month. The day after the divorce party, actually. Perfect timing."

Derek pulled her closer. Kissed her neck. "Congratulate us, delivery boy."

Lucas turned. Looked at them. At their smug faces and designer clothes and complete certainty that they'd won.

"Congratulations," he said. His voice was flat. Empty. Dead.

Victoria's smile faltered. "That's it? No begging? No crying?"

"Would it change anything?"

"No, but it would be entertaining."

"Then there's no point." Lucas returned to the dishes. "Will that be all, Mrs. Ashford-soon-to-be-Hartley?"

"You don't even care," Victoria said, and there was something strange in her voice. Disappointment? Anger? "Six years and you don't even care."

"You taught me not to."

"I—what?"

"You taught me that caring is weakness. That love is something to be mocked. That humanity is a flaw to be beaten out of people." Lucas set down the dish. Turned. Met her eyes with something that made her step back. "Congratulations on your engagement. I hope you find the happiness you deserve."

The words landed like a curse.

Derek laughed but it sounded forced. "Come on, baby. Let's leave the help to his cleaning."

They left. Lucas heard them whispering in the hallway—Victoria asking "What did he mean by that?" and Derek telling her not to worry, the freak was just being weird.

Lucas dried his hands. Walked to the window. Outside, in the darkness beyond the garden, he saw movement. Dustin's team. Fifty men. Maybe more. Waiting for a signal.

Tomorrow night, they'd get it.

His phone buzzed one last time.

[Mitchell died. Torres won't last the night. Sir, please. Let us end this.]

Lucas stared at the message. Mitchell's wife. His three kids. Torres's mother who'd begged Lucas to keep her son safe.

”Tomorrow,” he typed. ”We honor them properly. We burn it all down.”

[With pleasure, sir. The Reaper rises.]

Lucas looked at his reflection in the window. Twenty-four more hours of being nobody. Then the world would remember exactly who Lucas Reed really was.

And God help anyone who'd ever made him bleed