I could destroy him with a phone call. Could make every creditor come calling at once, could ensure he never works in this city again. But that would be crude, and it would raise questions I don't want Eve asking. Better to let him flounder, let him chase shadows while the real predator moves unseen.
This is why she needs me. The world is full of men like Rivers—well-meaning but utterly inadequate. Men who think they understand danger but have never truly stared into its face. Men who couldn't protect her from a stiff breeze, let alone from the vultures circling her success, her beauty, her soft heart.
Only I can keep her safe. Only I understand the depths of darkness required to shield something precious and pure.
Even if that darkness was learned in a kitchen where love meant fists and silence meant complicity.
I push the thought away and focus on the screens. On her.
***
The city lights spread out below me as I stand at my penthouse window, watching the world move. Somewhere out there, Eve is probably trying to sleep, her mind racing with fear and questions.
Tomorrow, those questions get answered.
All of these years. Years of watching, waiting, planning. Years of learning every detail of her life, eliminating threats, positioning pieces on the board. And now, finally, the endgame approaches.
I've dismantled her career—or rather, I've revealed its fragility. The textile supplier, the vicious review, and the financial pressures from Fred Greyhound's looming takeover. All of it designed to strip away the armor of professional successshe's built around herself. To show her that the empire she's constructed can crumble in an instant.
I've removed her support system. Bryce, discredited and spiraling. Leo, the intern who made her laugh, gone without explanation. Even her attempt to fight back through Rivers has led nowhere. She's isolated now, utterly alone.
She's ready. The canvas has been wiped clean, primed for me to paint our future across it.
The game of whispers and shadows is over. It's time for the king to step onto the board.
I pull out my phone and send a single text to Bjorn: "Tomorrow. Initiate final phase."
His response is immediate: "Understood, sir."
I pocket the phone and allow myself a moment of pure anticipation. Tomorrow, Eve Sinclair will learn that the ghost haunting her life has a name, a face, a purpose. Tomorrow, everything changes.
***
The tailor's shop on Savile Row is hushed and reverent, the kind of place where money whispers rather than shouts. Giovanni greets me at the door, his aged face creasing into a professional smile.
"Mr. Hale. Your appointment is ready."
I follow him through the shop, past bolts of fabric that cost more per yard than most people make in a month. This is a temple of craftsmanship, of tradition, of power made tangible through cloth and thread.
In the private fitting room, Giovanni's assistant has already laid out fabric samples. I run my fingers over them, feeling the weight and texture of each. For this meeting—for her—everything must be perfect.
"The midnight blue," I say, selecting a fabric so dark it's almost black, with a subtle sheen that catches the light. "Three-piece. Traditional cut, but modern lines."
Giovanni nods approvingly. "An excellent choice, sir. Shall we do the fitting?"
I remove my jacket and allow him to take my measurements, the familiar ritual oddly meditative. He works in silence, his hands efficient and precise. This suit will be armor and art, a second skin designed to project exactly the image I need Eve to see.
Power. Control. Absolute certainty.
I study my reflection in the three-way mirror as Giovanni pins and adjusts. The man looking back at me is a far cry from the broken, guilty boy with the skater pants. That boy died in the wreckage. What emerged was something harder, sharper, more purposeful.
A man who knows what he wants and will stop at nothing to claim it.
But am I also the fifteen-year-old boy on the kitchen floor, learning that devotion looks like violence? That care means control?
The thought makes my jaw tighten.
"The shoulder line," I say, and Giovanni adjusts minutely. "It needs to be perfect."
