Chapter 29
Kirill
I trace my finger along the edge of the estate on the satellite image, searching for a weak spot.
Only I see none.
Cameras cover every inch. Precise patrols loop, never crossing or leaving a gap. The Hearst mansion squats at the center of its little kingdom, all pale stone and money, surrounded by armed men and protected by the most dangerous assets.
Wealth and influence.
The type of armor you can’t peel off with a knife or a code.
My bow tie hangs loose around my neck. Behind me, the bedroom breathes with quiet life as Jordan reapplies the layers of her “mask.” I catch the whisper of fabric, the click of fastening jewelry.
She’s leaving me behind, bit by bit, as she becomes someone else.
Someone who used to belong in that estate.
The glass coffee table serves as our command center now. Stacks of surveillance reports, blueprints, and photos litter the surface. These are slick, glossy society photos, the kind you can pluck off the internet. Focusing on people.
I stare at their faces. None of them are targets, at least not officially. But they are the walls I need to climb to reach my objective.
I analyze them, searching for habits. Weaknesses. Patterns. Openings.
I pick up a photo of Richard Hearst, Jordan’s stepfather.
Thin hair. Square jaw. Graying mustache. The body of a former golfer or tennis player. Industry giant, tech millionaire, and married to Eleanor. In every shot, he’s gripping a politician’s elbow, a drink balanced just so, his cufflinks flashing like signals. I don’t admire him. I look for the tell.
Vanity. Ego.
A man who built his empire and won’t let go. The sort who packs his home with cameras, guards, and locked doors. Who never expects someone like me to walk right through the front with nothing but charm and a fitted jacket.
Eleanor’s next. Jordan’s mother.
Perfectly styled brown hair, tailored pantsuits, and tanned skin that belies her mid-fifties age. She’s carved from ambition, all deliberate lines and that cold, gym-polished glow. Not a single smile brightens her green eyes. Not once.
Her weakness is control.
In photos with her husband, she stands with her hand on his sleeve like she’s anchoring him in place, every gesture rehearsed. She leaves nothing to chance. She’s the type of woman who’d rather destroy something than let it slip her clutches.
Alexei’s schematics from this afternoon are on the tablet, detailed enough to believe. I try to connect the dots and map out the backup plans. Weapons to grab, escape routes to run, in case our borrowed masks don’t hold.
I tap my fingers against the screen. “Which room has the safe?”
Jordan glides through the bedroom door while putting in her earring, as if this is just an ordinary night.
A deep burgundy long-sleeved dress with a high collar molds to her curves.
A stunning yet tasteful gown she chose for herself.
Her hair hangs in careless, beachy waves that took effort to create.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s a whole new weapon.
The old Jordan, the one with crystals and half-believed dreams, has disappeared.
The woman who walks out now belongs in rooms thick with wealth and power.
Still, she looks like fire. If we had time, I’d bend her over the coffee table and fuck her until she turned to mush. Then I’d throw her on the bed and fuck her again. Maybe I’d be nice enough to come down her throat this time. To let her feel a bit of control before I—
“I don’t know where it is anymore.” Her fingers fall away from her ear and smooth the front of her dress in a small, nervy gesture. “But it was on the third floor. West wing. An unused space.”
I nod, trying to concentrate on the job and not picture her with my dick in her mouth as she screams out her orgasm.
Deep breaths. Focus.
Safes are often bulky and difficult to transport. The model number indicates her father uses the heavy-duty, old-school type you buy from a department store and bolt to the floor.
I trail my finger over the blueprints, hunting around the third floor until I spot a room in the corner, cut off from the main flow of traffic.
Secluded. Unremarkable to anyone who doesn’t have a keen eye.
Jordan grew up in this giant beast of a mansion. In the lap of luxury. And she still chose to run away. Why? She could have lived a soft, sheltered life. The kind most people dream about.
A mystery, my woman.
Stop that.
I start flipping through the photographs again, intent on steering my thoughts away from that train.
As I do, the third photo nails me in the chest.
A stiff Jordan, maybe ten years old, stands beside her mother at a garden party, a champagne pyramid behind them. Tables sag with tens of thousands of dollars in food in a setting that screams abundance.
But her eyes—the same green as now, but rounder and emptier—appear starved.
Desperate and ravenous amid all that luxury.
“This life. All that money. The power.” I hold the photo up. “Most people would kill for it, yet you ran away. Why?”
She glances at the photograph for a heartbeat, then averts her gaze before drifting to the mirror by the door and checking her lipstick to buy herself a second.
When she answers, her voice is flat. “It wasn’t a home. It was a museum of perfection. And I was supposed to be one of the exhibits.” Her hand traces the diamond necklace at her throat. “But people aren’t pieces of art. I didn’t belong there.”
She doesn’t mention a silver lining. She doesn’t talk about personal growth or energetic alignment, the way she does for her followers. Just the naked, unvarnished truth.
“You could have taken the easy way. Played the game.” I set the picture down, the hollow-eyed kid still staring up from the table. “All that money, all that opportunity…just waiting. Like you always say. ‘Attracting’ whatever you wanted. Would have been simple for someone like you.”
I think of the men who would have lined up for her. A collection of unworthy boys who’d never even recognize the storm brewing inside.
She swallows hard before moving closer.
Close enough that if I reached out, I could trace the shape of her shoulder, but I don’t. I half-expect her to fight back, to recite some script about authenticity or the yearning for meaning. The standard wellness bullshit.
Instead, she grasps the loose ends of my bow tie, her fingers sure as they knot the accessory into place. “I learned how to do this when I was eleven. So many parties. So much talk.”
Up close, I catch a hint of her perfume. The subtle whisper that’s replaced her usual earthy scent of lavender screams money.
Another layer of disguise. Another mask.
She hesitates while smoothing the silk. “It wouldn’t have been easy for me.”
Ah. Now I understand.
She picked the cold and the streets over the lie of comfort.
She picked real, gnawing hunger over feasts with too many strings attached.
Struggle, with every risk and scar, over a gilded life choreographed by someone else’s hand.
A life where all the luxury and excess in the world couldn’t fill the void in her soul.
That’s what she does. She chooses. Again and again, she selects pain over surrender, truth over comfort, even in an ocean full of sharks.
And I’m the one she chose.
That thought is a clarifying shock of ice water to my system.
My plan was to get the files and neutralize the witness.
But now I know that neutralizing her means protecting her rather than ending her. Keeping her at arm’s length and shielding her from myself. Cutting her free before I ruin what makes her special.
She’s all hard choices, each one her own. I’m just a receptacle for orders that I execute without thought or mercy.
The two can’t coexist.
I slide my palms down her arms and absorb her heat. “We get in and out. As smoothly as possible.”
She almost manages a smile. “Right.”
I brush my thumb over the back of her hand. Strange how that small act is more intimate than everything that happened in this room yesterday.
Jordan leans into me, her lashes kissing her cheeks. She trusts me with her safety, her escape, her future.
I memorize every detail of her face. Last night, I held her, marked her, and claimed what I wanted. But this moment—the silent trust and open vulnerability—is sharper, reaching deeper than any physical claim.
“Go on. Get ready. Let’s end this.”
In response, she disappears into the bathroom.
The second the door shuts, my phone’s in my hand.
My jaw tightens, but I shove away any doubts. None of this is about how or what I feel.
This is all about survival.