Chapter Twenty-Two Khai #2
While you’re at it, I want the head of security at my bank erased. By midday.
I stare at the screen, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache. For a split second, I’m not sure if the phone will survive my hold.
Behind me, Jaxon exhales slowly. He’s close enough to read it over my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he mutters, flicking the cigarette away and crushing it beneath his boot. “We knew he’d be pissed.” He looks at me, eyes sharp now. “What’s the move?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because there are too many truths colliding in my chest at once.
“He threatened Emmy,” I say finally, the words tasting like rust. “If this doesn’t get handled.”
Jaxon stills completely.
“And now,” I continue, voice low and controlled, “we’re supposed to make a man disappear to cover something we set in motion.”
Jaxon’s hand lands briefly on my shoulder, not comfort, just grounding. “We don’t have to end him,” he says quietly. “We just have to remove him from the board. From here.”
I nod once.
Outwardly calm.
Inside, I’m tearing myself apart.
Because I don’t want blood on my hands for a mess I started. And I don’t want my father realising I hesitated.
If he does,
The first place he’ll look isn’t me.
It’s her.
Little Heaven.
The thought alone is enough to harden something cold and final in my chest. I swing my leg over the bike, jaw clenched, the engine roaring to life beneath me.
There is no version of this where I walk away clean.
There is only the version where I move faster than my father,
or the one where Emmy pays for my failure.
And I will not let the world take her because I wasn’t ruthless enough to protect what I chose.
There is no plan.
There never is when it comes to my father.
Just a name. A location. And a man who doesn’t deserve to be standing at the centre of my storm.
Every mile we put between ourselves and the estate, the weight in my chest grows heavier. Every time I consider finishing this the way my father expects, her face intrudes, uninvited, relentless. Not pleading. Not stopping me.
Just there.
It doesn’t absolve me. I know that. I’ve ended lives before and slept through the aftermath. But now, now that she chose me, knowing I wasn’t clean or safe or good, the guilt settles differently. Deeper. Like something has finally grown roots where there was only rot before.
I wanted to be better.
Not redeemed. Not forgiven.
Just… better than the man my father shaped.
When we reach the house, I know immediately I won’t be able to do it.
The lights are on. Laughter spills faintly through a window. A life unfolding, unaware. A woman. Two children, twins, boys, chasing each other across the yard while their father watches from the porch, smiling like this world has never demanded blood from him.
Something breaks in me.
I send Jaxon away without argument. He doesn’t fight me on it. He knows that look. The one that means I’ve already crossed a line I can’t step back over.
I wait.
Hours pass. Eventually the house empties. The laughter leaves with the woman and the children, taillights disappearing into the dark. When I’m certain they won’t return, I approach the door.
The knock is calm. Measured.
He opens the door.
What happens next isn’t clean. It isn’t gentle. I don’t kill him, but I make sure he understands how close he came. I leave him shaken, bruised, very aware that staying here will end badly for everyone he loves.
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t threaten.
I don’t need to.
Fear does the work for me.
I give him the means to do it. Money transferred from an account that doesn’t exist on paper. Enough to vanish without questions. Enough to start over somewhere my father will never think to look.
No goodbyes. No explanations. Just gone.
My father doesn’t know his name. Didn’t care to learn it. In his rage, he didn’t look past the position, only the punishment. I take some comfort in that as I leave, though it doesn’t settle the knot in my chest.
I hope it’s enough.
By the time I get home, it’s just after two.
The lift crawls upward, and I lean back against the wall, exhaustion dragging at my bones. I count the floors as they pass, my thoughts locked on one thing, her. The need to see her coils tight in my chest, sharp and restless.
I don’t want quiet. I want confirmation. I need to know she’s where I left her.
The doors slide open.
Silence.
Too much of it.
I step into the penthouse and my pulse spikes. No movement. No sound. I move faster, checking the living space, the bedroom, the bathroom, every second stretching thinner than the last.
She’s not here.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the word ripping out of me.
A discarded coffee mug sits by the sink, still warm. Evidence of life. Of choice.
My phone is already in my hand when I see it, a message I missed.
Emmy:
Morning. I got called into work. I had to go.
Work.
The word hits like a release valve.
Not taken. Not followed. Not touched by my father’s reach.
Just… work.
Relief crashes through me hard enough that I have to brace myself against the counter. I breathe again. For exactly one heartbeat.
Then anger floods in behind it.
She left.
After I told her not to.
I grab my keys and turn right back toward the door. I don’t think. I don’t slow down. I need to see her, now.
The hospital parking lot is chaos, and I add to it, double-parking without a thought. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the lift, ignoring the looks, ignoring everything that isn’t her.
The ICU floor opens up in front of me, all glass and fluorescent light.
I don’t hide.
I move like I belong here.
As I pass the nurses’ station, I catch Ryan’s eye. He freezes when he sees me. I give him a slow, deliberate smirk, one that tells him exactly how far out of his depth he is, before I keep walking.
Then I see her.
She’s coming down the corridor, head bowed, fingers absently twisting a loose strand of hair. Unaware. Unprotected.
I step into the nearest empty room and wait.
She passes the doorway.
I move.
My arm hooks around her from behind, firm and sudden, pulling her off balance before she can turn. The door closes behind us with a soft, final click as I guide us into the dark.
She makes a startled sound, sharp, frightened. The sound making me hard.
My hand covers her mouth, steady and controlled, not cruel but absolute. I lean close, my voice low, meant only for her.
“Quiet,” I murmur. “Little Heaven.”
She freezes.
I kiss her neck. My other hand settles at her waist, anchoring her there, not hurting, but not letting go either.
“I told you not to leave,” I say softly, a warning threaded through every word.
The room holds its breath.
And so does she.