Chapter Twenty-Two Khai
Chapter Twenty-Two
Khai
As much as every instinct in me tells me not to, I leave her in my bed.
Jaxon is already on his way, and I need answers. I need to know what’s in that file, the one my father deemed dangerous enough to have a man killed over just for reading its title. Whether the story we were told was true. Whether the rot goes deeper than I already know it does.
I pull on jeans, a t-shirt, my boots. Familiar armour. Necessary distance.
The penthouse is silent as I move through it, my steps measured, controlled. I close the bedroom door softly behind me, but not before I look back.
She’s still asleep.
Curled into my sheets. Bare. Unaware.
Little Heaven.
Mine.
The thought lands heavy and electric in my chest, thrilling and terrifying all at once. It feels like temptation and confession wrapped into one. Like something I should never have let myself claim.
Tonight, night, I finally gave in.
I let myself want her without calculation. Without contingency. I shut the world out, the danger, the work, my father, and for a few stolen hours, it felt good. It felt like stepping into warmth after living too long in the cold.
Too good.
Because now there’s a weight sitting low in my gut, dark and unyielding, telling me I’ve done something unforgivable, not to myself, but to her.
I didn’t just let her close.
I may have condemned her.
Condemned her to a life of watching shadows, of second-guessing footsteps, of being seen by people who don’t forgive attachments. Worse, I may have tied myself to losing yet another person to the world I was born into.
The idea tightens around my throat.
There’s only one way to make sure she survives this.
One way to ensure that choosing me doesn’t become the reason she’s destroyed.
I have to end this at the source.
And whatever is inside that file, whatever my father is so desperate to keep buried, I need it to be the key.
Because if it isn’t…
Then last night wasn’t a beginning.
It was a mistake I’ll never be allowed to undo.
I’m sitting at the breakfast bar, a glass of whisky cradled in my hand, when Jaxon lets himself in like he owns the place.
“Wow,” he drawls, letting out a low whistle as he takes in the penthouse. “Didn’t realise you were planning something this intimate. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me.”
I don’t look at him. “Shut up,” I mutter. “You told me to stay out of the city. So I did.”
The humour drains from his face as he clocks the details, the open bedroom door, the stillness, the way something changed in the air.
“Don’t downplay this,” he says slowly. “You and I both know you’ve never brought anyone here. Not like this. Not anyone who wasn’t me or Keys.”
He heads for the fridge, grabs a beer, but he doesn’t open it right away. His eyes flick back toward the hallway.
“This girl,” he continues, quieter now. “She’s not just a date, is she?”
“She’s more than that,” I say. It’s all I give him.
That’s when he notices the handbag.
His brows knit together. “She’s still here?”
“Yes.”
The answer is final.
My jaw tightens. “Did you bring it?”
He doesn’t need to ask what it is.
Jaxon takes a long pull from his beer, then walks over to where he dropped his riding bag. He crouches, unzips it, and pulls out the manila envelope like it weighs more than paper ever should.
“Khai,” he says carefully, straightening again. “I didn’t open it. But I need to ask you one last time, are you sure you want to dig this up?”
He hesitates, choosing his words. “Some things stay buried for a reason.”
I take a slow sip of whisky, welcoming the burn.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”
I glance down the hallway, toward the bedroom.
Toward her.
Jaxon follows my gaze, understanding dawning in his eyes. He doesn’t say it, but we both know the truth now:
I have leverage.
And my father will see it the moment he realises she exists. If he doesn’t already.
Jaxon crosses the room and hands me the envelope, his expression tight with concern. I set my glass down and take it, the paper warm from his grip.
I walk into the living room, the city stretching endlessly beyond the windows, and lower myself onto the couch. The envelope rests in my hands, unopened, like a confession waiting to be spoken.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t have to look to know who it is.
Father:
I need you and Jaxon here. Now.
A humourless smile curves my mouth.
“Well,” I say quietly, dropping the envelope onto the coffee table, “looks like he knows the file’s gone already.”
I stand and head for the door, grabbing my motorbike keys on the way. “Let’s go. You know he hates being kept waiting.”
Just before we leave, I detour, quick, deliberate.
I write two notes. One for the bedside table. One for the coffee machine. I switch the coffee maker on, listening to it hum to life.
I hate the idea of her waking up and thinking I left without a thought.
Because the truth is far worse.
I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.
I left because everything I care about is now in danger.
The ride to my father’s estate is fast and reckless, the kind that only happens in the dead hours of the night. The roads are empty, the city asleep, and Jaxon and I take advantage of both. We don’t bother with speed limits. We never do.
Rules are for people without protection.
The police wouldn’t touch us anyway. Not once they realise who we are. My father made sure of that long ago.
The estate rises out of the dark like a mausoleum, vast, isolated, unforgiving. We cut the engines and step inside, the air immediately colder, heavier. The house is mostly dark, stripped of warmth, looking even lonelier at night.
We don’t ask where he is.
We already know.
We head straight for his office and walk in without knocking.
My father stands behind his desk, shoulders rigid, fury radiating off him in waves. The room looks like a storm passed through it, papers scattered, ashtray overflowing, half-empty bottles littering the surface where order usually reigns. He’s been pacing. Spiralling.
Good.
He looks up, eyes blazing. “Where the fuck were you tonight?” The words spit out like poison.
Jaxon answers first, unfazed. “Buried deep in pussy at home,” he says with a lazy smirk. “Did you want pictures?”
My father doesn’t rise to it. He never does.
His attention shifts to me, cold, calculating, furious. The kind of look that dissects instead of explodes.
“At home,” I say evenly. “All night. Until this asshole decided to crash my evening.” I gesture vaguely toward the chaos around us. “Care to explain what this is about?”
His chest rises and falls too quickly. He’s breathing hard. Close to panic.
The sight of it is deeply satisfying.
For a moment, no one speaks. The silence stretches, thick and volatile, the kind that precedes something breaking. My father’s gaze sharpens, searching for weakness, for cracks he can exploit.
He won’t find them tonight.
Not here.
Not with what I now have to lose.
And as he stands there in the wreckage of his own control, I realise something with quiet certainty:
Whatever is in that file has already done its job.
It’s shaken him.
And for the first time in a very long time, my father isn’t the most dangerous man in the room.
He finally speaks.
“Someone broke into my safety box tonight,” he says, voice low and measured as he pours himself another drink. Ice clinks against glass. He lights a cigarette with shaking fingers, inhales too deeply. “They took documents that were never meant to leave that vault.”
Jaxon arches a brow. “And you thought that was us?”
I don’t say anything. I just watch my father unravel in real time, the cracks spider-webbing through the mask he wears so carefully.
He doesn’t answer Jaxon.
His gaze locks onto mine instead.
“You find the asshole who thought they could steal from me,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “And you bring me proof they won’t do it again. I want their severed hands.”
He takes a slow sip, smoke curling around his head like a crown.
“You have seventy-two hours.”
I nod once. No argument. No hesitation.
Jaxon and I turn toward the door, already done with this conversation, when my father’s voice cuts through the room again.
“Khai. Stay.”
I stop immediately.
I give Jaxon a subtle nod to keep moving. He hesitates just long enough to let me know he doesn’t like this, then disappears down the corridor.
I turn back.
My father studies me in silence, his expression unreadable, eyes sharp and assessing. Then his mouth curves, not into a smile, but something uglier.
“You know,” he says conversationally, taking another drag of his cigarette, “it’s interesting what people choose to hide.”
My pulse slows. Dangerous.
“I don’t know who you think you’re protecting,” he continues, exhaling smoke. “But secrets have a way of making themselves visible.”
I say nothing.
He leans back against the desk, eyes never leaving mine. “If you fail to fix this problem,” he says lightly, “I’ll start looking for leverage of my own.”
The words settle heavy in the air.
“That pretty little thing you’ve been so careful with,” he adds, voice almost amused. “She might just become… educational.”
The room goes cold.
I feel it immediately, the blood draining from my hands, a tremor threatening at the edges of my control. Rage flares sharp and blinding, but I bury it where he can’t see it.
I don’t respond.
I don’t trust myself to.
Instead, I turn and walk out of the office without another word, my steps steady, my expression blank.
Because if I give him even a fraction of what I’m feeling,
He’ll know.
And I won’t give him that satisfaction.
Not when the only thing standing between her and his attention
is how fast I can end this.
Jaxon is waiting outside, leaning against his bike, smoke curling lazily from between his fingers like he has all the time in the world.
I reach my own bike and my phone vibrates again.
I don’t need to see the name to know who it’s from.
Father: