Escape wasn’t an option.
Waiting was.
Harris stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate.
His suit was immaculate—black fabric pressed perfectly, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Not a speck of dirt clungto him, as if he had stepped into a different world from this decaying room.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like one might examine a damaged asset.
“Whom did you think had you kidnapped while your six brothers were trying to smuggle you to New York seven years ago?” he asked.
His voice was smooth. Amused. Almost conversational.
The words hit deeper than the tone.
My jaw tightened.
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze despite the tremor in my body.
My heart hammered so violently I could feel it pounding against my ribs.
“You?” I asked.
It wasn’t fear that shaped the question.
It was suspicion.
He smiled—thin, calculating.
“No.”
The door hissed open behind him.
The sound sliced through the room like a blade.
“Me,” a new voice said.
The temperature in my veins dropped.
My breath stalled.
I knew that voice.
Harris stepped aside without protest, making room as if the real authority had just entered.
Hargrove walked into the dim light.
The same greasy smile.
The same predatory glint in his eyes.
He looked older now—thinner, sharper around the edges.
His gaze traveled over me deliberately.
Like I was property he’d reclaimed.
“You kicked me in my office until I passed out,” he said, stopping a few feet away.
