Chapter 50
DANIEL
Daniel sits on Tom’s cold bathroom floor, legs folded, back pressed to the wall. His knees ache, but he doesn’t move. The only sound is the slow, steady drip from the tap that won’t quite shut off.
Each drop lands like a countdown.
Tom is slumped in front of him, his body half-curled against the bathtub, wrists bound behind the back of the toilet with duct tape. His head hangs forward, chin to chest. Unconscious, but breathing.
Daniel watches him. He doesn’t hate him—not exactly. Hate requires distance, perspective. What Daniel feels is closer, sharper — like a wire pulled tight between them.
He reaches out and touches Tom’s shoulder gently. “Tom?”
No answer.
He waits, counting under his breath. When the first flicker of movement comes—a shallow inhale, a twitch of fingers—Daniel exhales, relief and dread mixing in his chest.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re back.”
Tom groans, disoriented. His head lolls, eyes half-opening. The confusion hits first, then fear, visible as a tightening around his mouth.
“Daniel?” His voice is raw. “What the hell—what are you doing?”
Daniel keeps his tone calm. Patient. “You’re fine. I just needed you to stop panicking before we talked.”
“Talk?” Tom struggles against the tape, wincing. “You tied me up in my own bathroom.”
“I had to,” Daniel says quickly. “You weren’t listening.”
Tom lets out a short, disbelieving laugh that dissolves into a cough. “Jesus Christ, Daniel, this isn’t how people get heard.”
Daniel ignores that. His heart is hammering, his palms slick.
“What has happened to you?” he says. “There was a time when you would do anything for me. But now, look at you, won’t even give me the time of day. Yet, you’ll become pals with a crook like Emma Christianson!”
“How do you know her?” Tom asks.
Daniel sighs. “I was her lawyer briefly. I was assigned to her a few months back when she was charged with arson,” he explains.
“Although, it didn’t last long when I realised that she was a compulsive liar.
She lied about everything and anything she could.
Completely untrustworthy and not worth my time.
Or yours, for that matter, but maybe that’s just who you are these days. ”
Tom doesn’t respond.
“Look, I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and the words are true in the moment. “But I’ve run out of time. We can no longer do this civilly when you won’t listen to me.”
Tom tugs his arms, but the duct tape is holding him tight.
“I need my money, Tom.”
Tom blinks at him, still dazed. “What?”
“I know your dad died.” Daniel leans forward, searching Tom’s face. “I know what that means. The inheritance. You’ve come into money, haven’t you?”
“Yes, you know I have.”
“I need my fair share of it,” Daniel says calmly. “My settlement. And I need it now.”
“What are you talking about? My inheritance came through well after our divorce was finalised.” Tom swallows hard. “You’ve completely lost it.”
“No.” Daniel’s breathing quickens.
At first, Daniel had planned to do things properly.
The formal route. He’d even drafted the beginnings of the application—his claim to financial relief as a former cohabitant under the Inheritance Act.
The respectable, legitimate way to get what he was entitled to.
But they are way beyond that. Now, it’s just about making it through the night.
“I’ve done my research. I’ve seen the filings, the probate application. It’s public record, Tom. Don’t insult me.”
Tom closes his eyes like he’s praying for this to stop. “You’ve been digging through legal records?”
“I had to,” Daniel says. “You wouldn’t talk to me. You blocked my number, you ignored every message. What choice did I have?”
“Every other choice than this!” Tom snaps, voice breaking.
Daniel’s jaw tightens. He looks down at Tom. “Four hundred thousand pounds,” he says quietly. “That’s what I need.”
Tom laughs—a high, incredulous sound. “Four hundred thousand? Are you out of your mind? I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t.”
Daniel crouches again, his face inches from Tom’s.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, voice trembling now.
“You inherited your father’s estate. He was a multi-millionaire.
I’m not an idiot. You think I didn’t check?
I’ve been looking through your files, your laptop.
I know it’s there somewhere. Maybe property investments. Maybe hidden accounts.”
Tom shakes his head, desperation creeping in. “Daniel, listen to yourself. You’re talking like — like a criminal.”
Daniel laughs softly. “I’m not a criminal. I’m just getting a share of what’s mine.” He looks past Tom, eyes unfocused, as if explaining to someone else entirely. “When you walked out, you took everything. You left me with nothing but debts I couldn’t pay.”
“Your debts. From your gambling, not mine!” Tom screams back.
Daniel ignores that. “I was loyal to you, Tom. I fought for us. You shut the door and pretended I didn’t exist.”
“I didn’t pretend—”
“Yes, you did!” Daniel’s voice cracks. “You erased me. But this—” he gestures around, at the bathroom, the house, all of it—“this is mine too. You don’t get to move on and build a life on my bones.”
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of their breathing.
“I need that money. And I need it tonight.”
Daniel thinks about the men he owes and feels his stomach knot, the kind of dread that makes breathing feel like swallowing glass.
They’re not loan-sharks in the cliché sense—no tracksuits or baseball bats—but worse. They wear suits that fit too well, drive cars that don’t look expensive until you check the badge. They call themselves investors, consultants, “private facilitators.”
He met them through an online gambling forum—people who promised fast liquidity when he was already chasing losses he couldn’t name out loud.
At first, they were polite, professional even, transferred money within the hour.
Five grand here, ten there, and he always swore it was temporary.
He’d win it back. He always did—until he didn’t.
Now the balance sits at four hundred thousand pounds and time is up.
He’s heard stories about what happens when people don’t pay.
A man in Bath, found in his car with two broken hands and a warning carved into his chest with a rusty knife.
A man in Manchester had his leg sawn off below the knee while he was pinned down.
Another had his ear and nose sliced off.
Plenty of others who disappeared entirely—“relocated,” they said, though no one ever heard from him again.
They don’t just ruin lives; they erase them. Daniel thought he was different, smarter. He thought charm and legal know-how would buy him time. But gamblers always think they’re the exception right up until the table eats them whole.
Now every vibration of his phone feels like a countdown, every passing car outside like the sound of fate pulling up to collect. If he doesn’t come up with the money, he’s not just losing his flat or his credit rating—he’s losing his life.
And Tom is his last, desperate roll of the dice.
Daniel pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through something. “I’ve been looking for proof,” he says absently. “Emails from your solicitor, confirmation letters, bank balances. Tell me, tell me how much you have stashed away!”
Tom stares at him. “So, you have been breaking into my house?”
Daniel looks at him sharply. “Our house! You paid for this with that inheritance, half of that should be mine – half of this house is mine!”
Tom’s voice rises. “That was my Dad’s money, none of it is yours!”
Daniel slaps him. The sound is small, sharp, shocking even to himself.
Tom’s head jerks to the side, his breath catching. The room tilts with silence again.
Daniel lowers his hand slowly. “I didn’t want to do that.” His voice is shaking. “But you need to stop talking to me like I’m crazy.”
Tom blinks hard, fighting tears. “You are crazy.”
His tone softens, cracks. “I just need help, Tom. I’m drowning.”
Tom looks at him then, really looks, and for a moment there’s pity in his eyes. “I can’t help you,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”
Something inside Daniel curdles. Pity is worse than hatred. Pity makes him feel small, powerless.
He crouches again, face close. “You could fix this. Right now. Just transfer me the money now. I’ll get your laptop.”
“I don’t have access to that kind of money!”
Daniel exhales sharply through his nose. “Wrong answer.”
“I can get you something tonight.” Daniel hears the desperation in his voice. “Maybe thirty at a push!”
“Thirty! Are you having a laugh with me! I know you have millions hidden away!”
“I don’t!” Tom screams.
Daniel stands, pacing, thinking. He’s running out of time. The men he owes—people you don’t name, not even in your head—gave him until midnight. It’s nearly morning. He can almost feel the noose tightening.
His mind scrambles.
Tom is lying. He just needs some persuasion.
He spots the towel hanging on the rack. White, soft, unassuming. Then his eyes slide to the shower head.
The thought arrives before the morality does.
He turns on the tap, lets the water run warm, then hot, then back to cold. The hiss fills the small room, drowning out Tom’s voice.
“Daniel, stop. What are you doing?”
Daniel doesn’t answer. He grabs the towel, folds it twice, and steps closer.
“Daniel, don’t—please.”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” His voice is almost gentle. “Just tell me you’ll transfer me four hundred tonight and this is over.”
Tom just stares up at him, frozen in fear.
He presses the towel over Tom’s face. Tom thrashes instantly, shouting, muffled. Daniel tightens his grip and lifts the showerhead.
Water pours down. The fabric darkens instantly, plastering to Tom’s skin.
Tom jerks, sputters, chokes. The sound is awful—gurgling, frantic, animal. Daniel’s arms tremble but he doesn’t stop. Not yet. Not until he’s sure.
“Where is it?” he shouts over the water. “Tell me!”
Tom can’t answer.
He can’t breathe.