2026-06-05 17:39:16I was back in Kingston three days later. It had been the best "vacation" of my life, though it was the only one I’d ever had. Helen was a revelation; between sharing my bed and the quiet moments in the penthouse, she had taught me more about the Van Alen Dynasty than any textbook could.
"You need to learn how to shoot, Carter," she said as we rode in a matte-black Bugatti toward the estate.
"Someday," I replied dismissively. I had no desire to touch the cold steel of a weapon again.
"You’re going to need it. Range practice. Tomorrow," she insisted. I looked at her, but her expression was a deadpan wall.
"Fine," I surrendered. "But it doesn't mean I’m going to start carrying one."
She just smirked. "You'll get the hang of it."
"I won't. Right now, I need a new wardrobe. I’ll find the nearest boutique and—"
"Christ, you don't need to 'find' anything," she interrupted, looking horrified. "Tell me what you need, and I’ll have the designers deliver a seasonal collection by tonight."
"I’m my own man, Helen. I do my own shopping, okay?" I felt the old habits of my life as a commoner pulling at me.
"Fine," she sighed, clearly realizing I hadn't fully adapted to the Van Alen skin yet. "But at least shop at a boutique under the company's umbrella. It’s safer."
I nodded. "Sure, as long as I don't have a horde of guards swarming me."
Helen cleared her throat and looked out the window.
"The fuck? I do?" I asked, bewildered.
"You didn't notice the three-car convoy behind us?"
Following her directions, I drove to a massive, glass-fronted boutique. I bypassed the main entrance, heading for the private garage at the back. As I reached for the door handle, Helen stopped me.
"Something for you, Mr. Van Alen."
"We’ve spent the last three nights together and you’re still calling me Mr. Van Alen?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Old habits. Here." She handed me a sleek black card with gold-foiled edges. My name, CARTER VAN ALEN, was embossed in elegant, minimalist lettering.
"What’s this?"
"Your limitless card, Carter. You’re currently holding the buying power of a small nation in your hand."
"No way..." I gasped. The card felt heavy, as if it contained the weight of the world.
"This is who you are now," she remarked.
We stepped into the boutique, and I froze. At the far end, in the high-end bridal and formal section, two familiar faces were standing amidst a sea of silk. Julian was critiquing a row of charcoal suits while Elara stood nearby, talking to an attendant who held a white lace wedding gown.
My blood turned to ice, then boiled. Of all the places in Kingston, they were here. I walked straight to the receptionist, ignoring her polite greeting.
"Those two over there," I said, tilting my head toward them. "I’m covering their entire bill."
Helen squinted at me, sensing the sudden shift in my aura. "What’s the matter?"
"Just a ghost from my past," I replied grimly.
Julian turned then, his eyes landing on me. A mocking, triumphant grin spread across his face. I was dressed casually in a polo and slacks, while he looked "dashing" in a tailored vest.
"Look who it is!" Julian called out, strolling over. "What are you doing in a place like this, Carter? Can't you see the price tags are higher than your annual salary? Or..." He squinted. "Do you work here now? Are you the new valet? Or maybe the driver for this lovely lady?" He pointed at Helen.
Helen’s eyes flashed with a lethal spark. She was about to tear him apart when I put a hand on her arm. I didn't say a word to Julian.
"Your boss is a little quiet today," Julian teased as Elara joined him.
"What's going on?" she asked. When she saw me, her face contorted. "Are you stalking me, Carter? This is pathetic. It’s creepy!"
"I guess the dumbass didn't want to miss our wedding shopping," Julian snarled. "You said something about my wedding, didn't you, punk? You want the invite so bad? Give me an address for that trailer you’re living in, and I’ll send one your way. I want you to see what you lost."
I smirked. Without a word, I took a pen and a slip of paper from the desk and scribbled down an address. Julian snatched it from me, his eyes scanning the paper with a sneer.
"It’ll be our wedding, but your funeral," he said with a ferocious glint. He grabbed Elara’s arm and walked back to the counter to settle up.
"That will be sixty-four thousand dollars, sir," the receptionist said.
Julian’s jaw dropped. "What? That’s outrageous!"
"Not to worry, sir. Your bill has already been covered in full," she said metallically. "We’ll have your items packaged immediately."
Julian was stunned. "By who?"
"I’m not authorized to disclose that, sir."
He glanced at Elara, who shrugged in confusion. When he looked back, I was gone. He looked down at the address I’d written. The Green Heights Estate.
His eyes widened. That was the most exclusive gated community in Kingston—home only to the ultra-wealthy.
"The bastard is playing games," Julian muttered. "He gave me a fake address because he’s a coward. A trailer-park king playing make-believe. Fine. I’ll send the invite anyway just to prove I can find him."
--- --- ---
"Carter, why did you let them talk to you like that?" Helen asked, frustrated as we walked back to the desk. "You’re the owner of the fucking building!"
"I do things my way, Helen. I’d rather they be comfortable before I take everything away." I handed my limitless card to the receptionist.
When she saw the name—Carter Van Alen—her jaw hung loosely. "No way!”
--- --- ---
The next morning, I was in the dining room of my mansion, still in my pajamas. My butler, Alfred—a man who took punctuality as a religion—marched in with a silver tray.
"An envelope was delivered to the gate, sir. Addressed to you," Alfred said, bowing.
I tore it open. Inside was a heavy, cream-colored card embossed with silver lilies. A wedding invitation. I stared at it for a long beat before a low, dark laugh escaped my throat.
"Thank you, Alfred. You’re dismissed."
I examined the card again, my thumb brushing over Elara and Julian’s names. "Well, well," I whispered. "Time to crash a wedding."
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CHAPTER 224
The afternoon sun climbed higher, flooding the backyard of 412 Maple Street with a brilliant, golden warmth that made the changing leaves of the ancient maple tree seem to catch fire in the breeze. True to our newly established, profoundly unclassified civilian schedule, Elena and I had forgone all tactical responsibilities, opting instead for a pair of folding lawn chairs set up on the emerald-green grass beneath the sprawling branches.A light breeze carried the faint, distant scent of woodsmoke and autumn chill from somewhere deeper in the neighborhood, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of pastries we had picked up from the corner bakery earlier that morning.Sloane was still stationed out in the garage, blissfully lost in the mechanical labyrinth of the Ford F-150’s engine compartment. Every few minutes, a rhythmic clank of metal against metal would drift across the lawn, punctuated by the muffled strains of 1991 classic rock playing from the truck’s stubborn cassette player.
CHAPTER 223
The following morning arrived with a cool, autumn mist clinging softly to the manicured lawns of Maple Street, blurring the edges of the neighborhood into a canvas of muted grays and pale gold. Inside 412 Maple Street, the house was already alive with the gentle, rhythmic cadence of domestic routine. Calvin had established his command post at the kitchen island well before sunrise, meticulously reviewing a spreadsheet detailing our projected utility consumption and grocery expenses for the upcoming quarter.I stood by the kitchen counter, wrapping my hands around a ceramic mug of dark roast coffee while watching the early morning light catch the rusted hood of our newly acquired 1988 Ford F-150 parked proudly in the driveway.A moment later, Sloane pushed open the kitchen door, wearing a heavy canvas work jacket and carrying a massive wrench he must have unearthed from the deepest recesses of the garage storage shelves."Morning, team," Sloane announced brightly, pouring himself a cup
CHAPTER 222
The triumphant, rumbling exhaust of the 1988 Ford F-150 echoed down Maple Street as Sloane proudly steered our newly acquired vehicular asset into the driveway of 412 Maple Street. With a final, dramatic rev of the engine that rattled the old side-mirrors, he threw the gearshift into park and killed the ignition.The neighborhood was bathed in the soft, golden light of mid-afternoon. A few houses down, Mrs. Gable was dutifully inspecting her prize-winning chrysanthemums, pausing only to cast a brief, curious glance over her hedge at the battered, midnight-blue truck that had just materialized in our driveway. Sloane offered her a theatrical, sweeping wave from behind the steering wheel, as if presenting a royal carriage to a visiting monarch. Mrs. Gable blinked twice, offered a polite, deeply bewildered nod in return, and went back to her flowers."Well," Sloane announced, pushing open the squeaky driver’s-side door and hopping down to the asphalt with the smug satisfaction of a conqu
CHAPTER 221
The short drive across the capital sector’s residential grid was a masterclass in domestic anticipation. Sloane spent the entire journey leaning forward in the passenger seat, expounding upon the mechanical virtues of late-eighties truck chassis while Calvin calmly fact-checked him from the back seat using an offline automotive database cached on his tablet. Elena sat beside me in the driver's seat, one elbow resting casually on the center console, occasionally offering a dry, witty counterpoint that sent Sloane into another round of animated theatrical defense.I kept my hands steady on the steering wheel, glancing occasionally in the rearview mirror to watch the peaceful neighborhood streets slip past. There were no surveillance tails, no encrypted radio pings, and no secondary escape routes to memorize. Just traffic lights turning green, pedestrians crossing at designated crosswalks, and the steady, reliable hum of a standard four-cylinder engine.Yet, beneath the easy banter and t
CHAPTER 220
The following morning broke with a crisp, brilliant clarity, painting the autumn sky in vast strokes of pale cerulean and soft apricot. The morning sun poured over the manicured lawns of Maple Street, chasing the overnight frost from the grass and warming the red-brick pathway leading up to the front porch of 412 Maple Street.Inside, the house was already humming with a quiet, purposeful energy. True to his word, Calvin had risen well before zero-seven-hundred hours, establishing his customary command post in the kitchen. The rhythmic, precise sound of the coffee grinder hummed through the air, followed by the familiar, aromatic blooming of freshly ground dark roast beans meeting hot water at precisely ninety-four degrees Celsius.I walked down the hallway just as Sloane emerged from the guest quarters, fully dressed in a rugged canvas jacket and jeans, looking less like a former intelligence operative and more like a rugged contractor preparing for a major structural overhaul."Morn
CHAPTER 219
The rich, savory aroma of slow-simmered chili lingered long after the dinner bowls had been washed, dried, and neatly stacked back into the wooden cabinets with military precision. Outside 412 Maple Street, the deep indigo of evening had settled over the neighborhood, turning the quiet suburban street into a canvas of soft shadows and warm, amber porch lights. A gentle autumn wind rustled the golden leaves of the ancient maple tree, sending dry whispers across the lawn and tapping lightly against the double-paned glass of the living room windows.We had migrated from the kitchen into the living room, trading the bright overhead glare for the soft, cozy glow of a small reading lamp beside the sofa. The room was spacious, comfortable, and mercifully devoid of tactical status boards, encrypted radio relays, or blinking red warning indicators.Sloane was sprawled out comfortably across the large armchair in the corner, idly flipping through a thick home-improvement magazine he had scaveng
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