Chapter 4

The black Rolls-Royce crawled through the narrow, filthy alleyways of the industrial slums.

Tires rolled through stagnant puddles, splattering murky sludge across the curb.

Sitting in the back, Victoria held a scented handkerchief over her nose in pure disgust.

"What a repulsive dump. I can't believe Chloe could stomach staying in a sewer like this."

"The minute we drag her back, she's taking a bath in disinfectant."

Lucas stared out at the decrepit shacks, his eyes full of scorn.

"Lowborn trash will always gravitate toward the gutter."

Julian sat silently in the passenger seat.

His long fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his knee.

A quiet tell that he was far from as calm as he pretended to be.

He had assumed I would hide in some cheap motel.

Or perhaps crash at an old acquaintance's apartment.

He never anticipated a transaction would pop up in a squalor-ridden wasteland barely registered on GPS.

It gave him a sickening sensation that things were slipping from his iron grip.

The car finally ground to a halt outside a dilapidated pharmacy.

Julian shoved the door open and stepped out.

His Italian leather shoes hit the oil-slicked concrete with a dull thud.

Adjacent to the pharmacy stood a makeshift shack pieced together from rusted corrugated iron.

The door was ajar, spilling a faint, sickly yellow light into the muck.

His assistant pointed toward it, speaking in a low murmur.

"Mr. Hayes, the GPS tracker shows the card was swiped right here."

Julian drew a long, measured breath.

He straightened his suit jacket, pulling his mask of aloof arrogance firmly back into place.

He expected to kick that door open and find me trembling, filthy, and broken.

He had already prepared his opening line:

"Game over, Chloe."

He raised his foot and slammed it into the rickety iron door.

BANG!

The metal sheet smashed hard against the rotting frame.

The interior of the shack was laid bare for all to see.

Julian said coldly, "Chloe, you—"

The words choked in his throat.

I wasn't in the room.

There was no trembling fiancée waiting for his mercy.

The cramped space was crammed ceiling-high with flattened cardboard and crushed plastic bottles.

The air reeked of suffocating mildew.

An elderly, hunched scavenger in tattered rags was crouched on the dirt floor.

Clutching a garment under the dim bulb, he was desperately trying to dig something out of its pocket.

Startled by the crash, the old man jumped out of his skin.

Whatever he was holding slipped and clattered onto the floor.

It was a sleek black credit card.

The black card Julian had given me—the very symbol of his ownership and favor.

And that garment...

Was a white button-down shirt.

Only now, it was soaked in massive, spreading stains of dark, crusted crimson.

The fabric was stiff and brittle from dried blood.

Under the pale light, it looked like a shroud.

Julian's eyes locked onto that shirt.

He recognized it instantly.

A month ago, when I was dragged away to be bled dry, I was wearing that exact shirt.

Pinned to the collar was a delicate white bellflower brooch he had personally given me.

Now, that white flower was dyed a sickening, blackened brown.

Faced with this gang of pristine, wealthy strangers, the old man cowered into the corner, trembling.

"I... I found that card! I didn't steal it! I swear I didn't steal anything!"

Lucas scowled, kicking aside an empty plastic jug as he stepped inside.

"Where is Chloe? Did she hand you that card to pull this pathetic prank?"

The old man waved his hands frantically, his voice cracking with tears.

"I don't know any Chloe!"

"I found that shirt and the card a few days ago in a biohazard waste bin behind the city hospital!"

"I saw the fabric was nice, so I wanted to wash it and wear it..."

"Then that card fell right out of the pocket!"

Julian's pupils shrank to microscopic points.

All the air was violently sucked from his lungs.