Chapter 19 Ben
Ben
Some things don’t need fire to burn. They just need a little oxygen.
I stand across the road from his office, arms folded, watching the man through the glass.
Derrick Crayton, slumped in his fake leather chair like he still owns the world, barking down the phone like he’s untouchable.
Like he didn’t throw a grieving boy and his alcoholic father out of their home fifteen years ago.
No warning. No grace period. Just a notice letter and a shrug.
“Business is business,” he said.
I’ve never forgotten. Back then, I had no voice. No power. Just a mother buried too soon and a father slowly drowning in grief and whisky.
Now?
Now I have power in spades.
I didn’t need to make a scene. Didn’t need to put my name on anything.
Just a few discreet phone calls. A few well-placed whispers.
A tip-off to the right authorities. Fire safety violations.
Substandard electrical work. Illegal evictions.
Unregistered tenancy deposits. Undeclared income.
Tax irregularities. Turns out, when you’ve spent years cutting corners and screwing over your tenants, all it takes is one person to pull the right thread and the whole fucking operation starts to unravel.
The tenants aren’t going anywhere. They’re protected now.
Most of them don’t even know why the council and the housing standards team have suddenly taken such a keen interest in their building.
Why inspectors keep turning up with clipboards and stern expressions.
Why enforcement letters keep landing on Crayton’s desk faster than he can rip them open.
I’m not dismantling his business. I’m just exposing it.
The truth?
The truth will do far more damage than I ever could with a cheque.
Fines. Investigations. Frozen assets. Lawsuits.
Soon enough, his name will be poison in this town.
I could’ve bought him out. Could’ve walked in there, signed a cheque, and watched him squirm. But that would’ve been too easy. No, this way is better.
Because he won’t even know it was me.
Not until the headlines hit.
Not until his lawyer stops returning his calls and his bank account is locked down.
Not until he realises his empire is built on sand and someone just pulled the tide in.
Even then… he’ll never be able to prove a damn thing.
I turn and walk away, slipping my hands into my coat pockets. The late afternoon air is crisp, clean, and sharp.
I don’t need credit. I don’t need thanks.
I just needed justice.
Finally, he’s getting what he deserves.
Quiet. Legal. Ruthless.
Exactly how I like it.