CHAPTER 37
Roxanne
Iwoke up feeling heavy in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion. My body felt wrong. My throat burned, my chest felt tight, and there was a lingering pressure behind my ribs like a stone had settled there overnight, unmoving, suffocating.
Everything hurt. And then it came back. The way I had pushed him away. The way his expression had changed—how he had gone completely still, like I had shattered him. A look closer to defeat.
I squeezed my eyes shut as tears threatened to slip free.I wasn’t doing this. Not now. Not when a far worse nightmare awaited me.
Darius.
The name alone was enough to change everything. The ache in my chest didn’t disappear. It just changed shape—twisting colder. An older wound I recognised.
Fear.
My phone sat on the bedside table, silent. I stared at it for a long moment before reaching for it, my fingers slower than they should have been. I looked over the message again, like it would’ve changed overnight, inevitable—like death foreshadowing in the distance.
The location. The time. And a simple see you soon message.
My stomach twisted violently. I didn’t want to see him. Not after what he had done. Not after everything he had turned me into.
But I didn’t have a choice. People like him didn’t let go. They didn’t forget. They waited. And I had walked straight back into his reach.
The drive passed in silence. No music, no distraction—just the steady hum of the engine and the weight of everything I wasn’t allowing myself to think about.
I didn’t let my mind go to Santino, didn’t let it linger on the way things had ended, because if I did, I knew exactly what would happen.
Because if I thought about the look on his face when he walked away—I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to walk into this. And I had to.
The warehouse appeared sooner than I expected, sitting at the edge of nothing, isolated in a way that made it feel detached from the rest of the world.
It looked abandoned and forgotten—an old brick structure, weather-worn with damp and neglect.
Moss clung to the lower walls, creeping into the cracks, and the windows were either boarded up or shattered, leaving dark, hollow openings.
I parked a little further away than necessary and stayed there for a moment, my hands resting on the steering wheel, my pulse steady in a way that felt unnatural.
This was it. No turning back. No one to intervene. No one to help, if I needed it.
I unlocked my phone and hovered over Marcello’s name before I could stop myself. He hadn’t called back. Marcello never didn’t call back. Unless something mattered more. Or things had already gone awry. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
For a second, I thought about calling him again—telling him everything, letting him hear it from me before someone else twisted it into something uglier. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Instead, I typed. Stopped. Erased. Typed again.
I stared at it longer than I should have. Then, before I could think too much—
My thumb hovered. Then pressed send.
My screen stayed lit. My thumb hovered again before I could stop it.
His name.
Asshole.
I opened the chat. His profile picture stared back at me—unchanged. Unbothered. Air locked in my lungs. For a second—just one—I almost typed. Then I locked the screen. Like it hadn’t happened.
When I stepped out, the air felt heavier, like it carried a charge beneath it that didn’t belong. The stillness didn’t feel empty. It felt watched.
My footsteps echoed faintly as I walked toward the entrance, each one grounding me further into the decision I had already made. My gaze shifted instinctively, men moved about like they were placed there. My stomach tightened. Darius hadn’t just called me here. He’d prepared for it.
A burly man stood at the entrance.
“Phone.”
He extended his hand, waiting. I stilled for a moment before handing it over. And just like that, whatever control I thought I had left—was gone. Along with any easy way out.
The door shut behind me with a dull, final thud. I didn’t hear footsteps—but I knew he hadn’t left.
The air was thick with damp, the scent of wet concrete and rust sitting heavy in my lungs.
The space opened into a wide, hollow interior, the ceiling stretching high above, supported by rusted beams. A narrow metal staircase ran along the side wall, leading up to a second-level walkway that overlooked the ground floor.
There were two men there, leaning against the railing, watching. Like they were waiting for the decimation to begin.Unease prickled at the back of my neck. Their gaze didn’t feel casual. It felt like being stripped bare beneath it.
I forced my attention forward.
To him.
Darius leaned back against a table as though I’d merely inconvenienced him. A small blade spun lazily between his fingers, catching what little light filtered in. A slow smile spread across his face when he saw me.
“There you are,” he said, voice smooth, almost pleased. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come get you myself.”
My spine locked, but I didn’t stop walking.
“I’m not here to play games,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
He pushed off the table, the blade still turning between his fingers as he stepped closer.
“You always did try to sound in control,” he said. “It never quite suited you.”
“I want this over with.” My jaw tightened. “What do you want?”
This time, he didn’t deflect.
“Everything that was meant to be mine. Your father made sure he left everything in your name like I didn’t exist.”
He went on, voice tightening just slightly.
“You always were his favourite investment.”
He tapped the file on the table. I opened it, flipping through pages I recognised instantly—my father’s investments, everything he had secured for me and my mother.
“My father’s assets were never yours.”
“They weren’t meant to be yours either,” he said lightly. “A temporary inconvenience.”
He stepped closer. “One I’ve been patient enough to tolerate. But patience runs out.”
“Then you’ve waited for nothing.”
Interest flickered in his expression. “And yet, here you are.”
My stomach dipped because he was right.
“I can send those pictures to Marcello,” he continued, almost casually. “Let him decide what to believe.”
“They’re out of context.”
“Are they?”
The warehouse felt entirely drained of air.
“What do you want?” I asked again.
“Transfer everything.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “That’s everything we have.”
“And I thought you’d be smarter.”
“Didn’t you make me suffer enough?”
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest, mock hurt twisting his mouth.
“I’m hurt, Pumpkin,” he said lightly. “I thought you enjoyed our little games.”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“No,” he said slowly, his gaze dragging over me in a way that made my skin crawl. “You’re not.”
“Sit,” he said firmly.
When I didn’t move, the hand holding the knife came up. He caught the top button of my shirt between his thumb and knife and ripped it. The sound snapped through the silence. My body reacted instantly. My lungs forgot how to work. My hands went numb.
“You sit and sign,” he continued, almost conversational, “or maybe I let them”—his chin lifted slightly toward the two men on the upper level— “get a better look.”
The blade slowly slid lower, tracing the exposed skin beneath my collarbone. Close enough to steal whatever air I had left. Because my body remembered.
Nausea rolled through me. My shoulders locked, spine going rigid as acid surged up my throat. Not here. Not again.
“Maybe, this time, I record it,” he added, voice lowering just enough to turn filthy. “Send it to your man. Let him see what you really are.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to ground me.
“You’re disgusting.”
A soft laugh left him. “You think this is only about you?”
His tone shifted. Darkened. He began circling me slowly.
“No,” he said. “If it was just you, I wouldn’t have waited this long.”
He continued, voice sharpening slightly, “Your man has been interfering in things that don’t concern him. Costing me money. Territory.”
He stopped in front of me again.
“So I thought…” he murmured, almost thoughtful. “Why not take something from him instead?”
My blood ran cold.
“Break the one thing he actually cares about.”
My throat burned, but I still spoke.
“I want the evidence,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice even as it trembled underneath. “All of it. Every copy. Before I sign anything.”
That caught his attention. A flicker of something close to amusement, maybe approval, crossed his face.
“My, my,” he murmured. “You have grown up indeed. Finally learned something.”
He snapped his fingers. The burly man stepped forward, placing a small drive into his hand. He turned it once between his fingers before holding it out to me.
“Everything,” he said.
I didn’t trust him. Didn’t believe him. But I took it anyway with unsteady hands.
“Now,” he said, tapping the file on the table. “Sign.”
As he sat in the chair opposite mine, a faint shuffle echoed from above. I looked up instinctively. The walkway was now empty. The two men were gone.
My heart stuttered. Someone else was here.
A dull roar filled my ears. I ignored it and picked up the pen, feeling heavier than it should have.
Each page blurred as I moved through them, my name forming again and again without really registering.Get through it.
End it. Walk out. My breathing stayed shallow. Measured. Forced.
Until—I stopped. My hand froze mid-signature. The page beneath my fingers shifted into focus. The Bombay house—my childhood home. Too many memories attached to it to let go.
“No,” I said, the word leaving me before I could stop it.
His head tilted. “What?”
“I can’t give this,” I said, shaking my head slightly, my grip tightening on the paper. “This… this stays.”
His gaze sharpened. “Everything transfers.”
“Not this.” My voice wavered, but I didn’t back down. “This was my mother’s wedding gift. Dad’s last memory, the last thing that still feels like him. You don’t get that.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched me. And then, his expression hardened. It wasn’t anger or frustration. Pure, clinical malice.
“And here I thought you’d learned better. Everything goes,” his voice was now stern. “I don’t think you have anything else to negotiate on.”
He paused for a beat, leaning in closer.
“However, I can always find a different kind of leverage.”
I held his gaze, my brows narrowing as unease coiled low in my stomach. Waiting. He frowned slightly, rubbing his jaw, as if he was trying to remember something.
“What was her name again…”
His eyes sharpened slightly—like he’d finally found it. He snapped his fingers.
“Kyra.”
I felt blood rush out of me, leaving me in a cold sweat. The name hit me like a gunshot. His smile grew wider.
“Pretty name,” he said. “She’ll grow into it.”
The room tilted and my vision tunnelled.
“She’s young now,” he continued lightly. “Soft. Impressionable.”
My resistance cracked. “Don’t you dare—”
“They always start that way,” he went on, like I hadn’t spoken. “Easy to shape. Easy to—”
The last restraint I’d been holding onto snapped. Everything I had buried—the rage, the helplessness, the twelve-year-old who had no voice, all the years of pretending it hadn’t happened—spilled into my bloodstream all at once.
And suddenly—I wasn’t twelve anymore. And he wasn’t untouchable. He was just a man. And men could bleed.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t hesitate. The blade sat on the table. My hand closed around it—cold, solid, absolute. And then I drove it into his chest.
Surprise stripped the smugness from his face. He blinked. Confused. As though it had never crossed his mind that I might fight back.
My chest rose and fell too fast, my grip tightening around the handle as I stared at him.
“Don’t you ever say her name.”
I pushed the blade deeper.
“Not with that filthy mouth.”
For the first time in my life, I heard no fear in my own voice.
Behind me, I heard a dull thud. My body reacted before my mind did, turning sharply, breath catching—the burly man lay crumpled on the floor.
And beyond him—a figure stepped into the dim light. Familiar. Dangerous. My pulse stuttered. I knew that silhouette. Even before he stepped fully into the light.