Chapter 24
H assan sat in his car, eyes locked on the penthouse window like it was the only thing holding him together.
He was supposed to be meeting Roman at Jules' gym—Jules claimed he had an update—but Hassan couldn’t move.
Not without checking in first. Not without pulling up to the place he used to feel her warmth, her peace.
He knew damn well she wasn’t up there. But telling his mind otherwise was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.
His hands trembled, blood hot and violent beneath his skin. Every day without Sevyn was a war. And every day, he was losing.
He didn’t remember the last time he cried. Probably when he was six, watching the life slip from his mother’s eyes. But this—this was different. This pain dug deeper. It was guilt slicing through him like glass, reminding him with every breath that Sevyn was gone... and it was his fucking fault.
No matter which way he turned it, it all came back to him.
He’d sworn to himself—once he found her, once he saved her— he’d stay out of her life.
Let her go. Let her breathe without the shadow of his demons dragging her down.
He knew the day he met her that he didn’t belong anywhere near her light.
But that didn’t stop his heart. That didn’t stop the pull of her voice, her mind, her softness.
He remembered it all—her office, the sharp grace of that black Dior pantsuit, the warm scent of her perfume that clung to his skin long after he left.
The way she looked at him like he wasn’t broken, like he was still salvageable.
Those memories haunted him more than any nightmare.
And right now, they were eating him alive.
“You hurt me.”
The voice made him flinch.
He blinked, hard. And there she was, sitting beside him in the passenger seat—curls piled into a messy bun, white tank top clinging to her soft frame, bare legs crossed in those little shorts she loved to wear on Sundays. She was looking out the windshield like she wasn’t just a ghost.
He knew she wasn’t real. Knew she was another crack in his psyche.
But still, he looked at her like she was made of air and salvation. “I know, baby,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “I’m sorry. ”
She turned to face him, and the hurt in her eyes gutted him. Her lashes were wet, cheeks streaked with tears that stabbed at his soul.
“This is all your fault!” she snapped, her voice laced with pain and betrayal. “They’re hurting me, Hassan. And it’s because of you!”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight, heart clenching so hard it felt like it might give out. He didn’t want to hear it—couldn’t take hearing her scream like that—but her voice didn’t fade.
“You did this to me!”
His hands shook. Then the rage took over. His fists slammed into the steering wheel again and again, metal creaking under the weight of his fury.
“FUCK!” he roared, his voice echoing through the car like thunder. But when the silence fell, she was still there. Her tear-soaked face. Her broken eyes. And the unbearable reminder that she wasn’t safe.
Not yet.
Not until every motherfucker responsible was buried six feet deep. “I just wanted to heal you,” she whispered, tears streaking her face. “But you ended up hurting me.”
Hassan dropped his head, eyes closed in defeat. Her voice broke him. Her presence shattered him.
“Hassan!”
His head shot up at her scream.
Blood poured from Sevyn’s stomach, soaking her tank top as she clutched herself in agony. “Nooo!” he cried, reaching out, desperate to hold her—but there was nothing there. His hands sliced through air. She wasn’t real. Just another twisted hallucination.
“You did this!” she screamed, face contorted in pain before vanishing completely.
“Fuck!” Hassan slammed his fist against the dash, his own chest caving under the weight of grief. But just when he thought he was alone again, something shifted in the seat beside him.
It was him. A bloodied version of himself now sat there—his same age, same build, same face—but drenched in crimson, his expression cold and merciless.
“Lift your head up, nigga,” the bloodied version growled. “Wipe them weak-ass tears.”
Hassan blinked, his throat tight as he did what he was told, wiping his face with a trembling hand.
“I fucking failed her,” Hassan muttered. “I’m the reason she in this shit.”
“Then go get her the fuck out,” the hallucination snapped. “Go fight for your woman. Kill every motherfucker in your way.”
Hassan’s eyes shifted to the soaked shirt his other self wore. “That her blood on you? ”
Silence.
His jaw clenched. “Don’t make it be.”
The bloodied version didn’t blink. “You don't deserve her.” Hassan looked down, his chest heaving.
“I know.”
“But you need her, bruh. And she loves you. Leaving her after all this? That’ll kill her quicker than any of them niggas ever could.”
“She’s in this because of me!” Hassan shouted, slamming his fist on the steering wheel again. “She don’t need a nigga like me dragging her down.”
The bloodied version let out a dark chuckle, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “Nigga, you ain’t hear shit mama told you. Go save your wife. And make that shit right.”
Just like that, he vanished.
Hassan sat in the stillness, heart pounding, mind racing. Every breath reminded him of Sevyn—her warmth, her laugh, the way she looked at him like he was more than just Ice.
And now she was gone.
His phone rang, slicing through his thoughts. Jules.
“San, where the fuck you at?” Jules barked.
Hassan looked up at the penthouse one last time, then started the engine. “On the way,” he said, voice low and steady, then hung up.
He peeled out, engine roaring through the city as he sped toward Jules’ gym. He couldn’t afford to think anymore. He couldn’t afford to break. Sevyn needed him. And this time, he wasn’t stopping until she was back in his arms, safe, protected, and his.
No matter who had to die for that to happen.
Hassan walked into Jules’s gym, jaw tight and shoulders squared like he carried the weight of the whole city on his back.
He went straight for the office, pushing the door open without a word.
Roman was already inside, leaning back in the chair with a blunt between his fingers.
Even though they’d just seen each other, they dapped up—no words exchanged, just a mutual understanding.
Life had been hitting hard, and losing Sevyn reminded them both just how deep their bond ran.
Hassan sat down, his face a mask of stillness, but Roman and Jules could see it in his eyes.
The fire, the guilt, the war brewing inside him.
Seconds later, Norman walked in, and the room shifted.
Roman raised a brow in surprise, and even Hassan, who didn’t flinch for shit, sat up straighter.
Jules was the only one who didn’t seem fazed.
“Gentlemen,” Norman greeted with a stiff nod, his eyes bouncing between them.
“I’m not getting involved in whatever you’re planning with Braxton or DeVille,” he said firmly, tossing a thick file on the table.
“But after watchi ng that nigga spiral, I had one of my FBI friends to dig into his background. Something felt off. This confirmed it. Do what you want with it, but don’t let my name come up in shit. Period.”
Hassan gave a subtle nod and picked up the folder. Norman left without another word, and the second the door clicked shut, the room tensed.
“Braxton?” Roman asked, confused. “Thought that nigga was old news. He ain’t even a prosecutor anymore.”
“Nah,” Jules said, voice low. “That nigga got everything to do with this.”
Hassan didn’t respond. He flipped open the file, his face unreadable as he scanned each page. The deeper he read, the darker his eyes turned. Then, without a word, he passed the file to Roman. Roman’s expression shifted instantly—shock, then disgust.
“Man, what the fuck…” Roman muttered as he handed it off to Jules, who let out a cold chuckle and leaned back.
“Make sense now,” Jules said with a smirk. “We been lookin’ at the wrong angle.”
Inside the file was the truth: Braxton wasn’t just obsessed, he was connected—by blood.
Grayson, the man Hassan killed, wasn’t just Carlos DeVille’s nephew by marriage—he was family.
His mother was Lena DeVille’s older sister.
When she died, Lena took Grayson in and raised him like her own. And Braxton? He was Grayson’s son.
A DeVille by blood. Hassan hadn’t just killed Braxton’s father—he ignited a family war.
“That nigga is a DeVille!” Roman said, louder this time. “That’s why he been on our ass like this. It’s deeper than a damn case. He avengin’ his pops, and Carlos avengin’ his nephew.”
Hassan leaned back in his seat, fists clenched, jaw grinding as it all sank in.
They weren’t just playing chess with a bitter ex or a corrupt prosecutor.
This was blood war. And they’d taken Sevyn to make him bleed. “That’s why we ain’t put two and two together,” Roman muttered, running a hand down his face. “Grayson kept the DeVille name, but Braxton stuck with his father’s maiden name—Henderson. Didn’t want nobody to know who he really was.”
“And San killed his pops,” Jules added, shaking his head slowly. “Now that nigga want revenge.”
Hassan stayed quiet, his energy unreadable, but cold as fuck. He was listening, calculating, piecing shit together faster than anyone in the room.
“That nigga Carlos not gon’ be happy when he finds out his nephew been stealing from him, right under his nose,” Jules said, slidi ng another file across the table.
Hassan grabbed it and flipped it open. The moment he saw the name, his brows dipped. Bank statements from Caldwell Credit Union, wired transfers—fat ones—pushed into offshore accounts. But the account wasn’t under Braxton’s name.
It was under Ariel Caldwell.
Hassan’s head snapped up. “This shit say Ariel. Not Braxton.” Jules nodded. “Exactly.”
“Ariel?” Roman echoed, brows furrowing—then his eyes lit up. “Aye! That’s the bitch Dorian beat up outside the bank!”