"Always."
I hang up before he can say anything else. "Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone onto the seat beside me.
Work never stops. Not even when I'm trying to reclaim the only thing that matters.
Alexei glances in the rearview. Says nothing. Smart.
We drive in silence for another twenty minutes. East London gives way to industrial sprawl—warehouses, shipping yards, places where sound doesn't travel and people don't ask questions.
Alexei pulls up to a nondescript building. Corrugated metal. No windows. Single door. Guard posted outside—one of ours, ex-Spetsnaz, doesn't speak unless spoken to.
"Wait here," I say.
"Yes, boss."
I step out. The night air is cold, sharp, cuts through the lingering warmth of the car. The guard nods as I approach. Opens the door without a word.
Inside smells like rust and old concrete. Single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shadows pooling in corners. Oliver is in the center of the room—zip-tied to a metal chair boltedto the floor, duct tape over his mouth, eyes wide with terror that's had forty minutes to ferment into pure panic. Konstantin stands off to the side. Arms crossed. Watching. Oliver's jacket is gone. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Shoes removed. Barefoot on cold concrete. Vulnerable. Perfect.
I walk in slowly. Let my footsteps echo. Let him hear me coming. His eyes track my movement. Pupils blown wide. Breathing fast through his nose—the only airway he's got with that tape over his mouth.
I stop a few feet away. Hands in my pockets. Casual. Study him. Venture capitalist. Old money. The kind of guy who's never been told no in his life. Who thinks the world exists to serve him.
And he thought he could have her. My jaw tightens.
"Oliver." I say his name like it tastes bad. "Do you know who I am?"
He shakes his head frantically. Tries to talk through the tape. Muffled sounds. Desperate.
I smile. "No? Let me introduce myself."
I pull out my phone. Swipe to a photo. The one from two years ago—me and Alena, her laughing at something I said, my arm around her shoulders. Happy. Together. I hold it up so he can see.
His eyes go wide. Wider. Recognition and horror mixing into something beautiful. Then something else flashes across his face. Annoyance. Frustration. Interesting.
"That's right," I say softly. "I'm the ghost you thought you'd replaced." I pocket the phone. Take a step closer. "Let's establish some ground rules. I'm going to ask you questions. You're going to nod or shake your head. Lie to me, and this gets worse. Understand?"
He nods. But there's something in his eyes now. Not just fear. Something harder. Angrier.
"Good." I reach up. Grab the edge of the duct tape. "Let's have a chat." I rip it off in one motion.
He gasps. Chokes. Sucks in air. Then—
"You fucking psycho! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!"
Not what I expected. His face twists with rage—not fear anymore, but pure entitled fury. The kind that comes from a lifetime of never facing consequences.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" he repeats, spittle flying. "My family will bury you! The Sutherlands don't just disappear! We have connections! Lawyers! People in Parliament! The fucking Prime Minister owes my father favors! You think you can just—"
I laugh. Can't help it. "Your family?"
"Yes! My family!" His voice rises. "We OWN half of London! My grandfather was knighted! Do you understand what that means? You're NOBODY! Some tattooed thug who thinks—"
I crouch down. Eye level with him. Still smiling. "Oliver. Let me explain something. Your family? Your connections? Your lawyers? The Prime Minister?" I lean closer. "They mean nothing here. This isn't the world you know. This is my world. And in my world, you're just meat."
His face reddens. "Fuck you! You can't touch me! When I get out of here—and I WILL get out—I'll have you hunted down like a dog! I'll—"
"When you get out?" I tilt my head. "Interesting assumption."
