Jadon
The Range Rover's engine made a low, powerful hum, but Jadon couldn't hear it. The only sound was the beating of his own blood in his ears.
He was in the private vault, the massive steel door sealing him into the silence of his fortress. He turned off the engine.
The silence that filled the space was different.
Before, it had felt like a cold, empty void. Now, it was occupied. It carried the memory of amber eyes, a stray, dark curl, and the scent of cumin on a woman's hand.
He had escaped London to find nothing, to be a black hole. Yet in his first twenty-four hours, a random five-second encounter had lodged a splinter in that void.
He took the private elevator, his body moving on autopilot. He stepped into the penthouse. The vast, empty space, with cold stone and silent 20-foot windows, mocked him. He had designed this place to be impenetrable, a testament to his control.
Yet in this moment, he felt completely out of control.
"An anomaly," he said, his voice low and rough in the quiet.
He walked to the black marble kitchen island, gripping the cold edge until his knuckles turned white.
He was furious. Not at her. At himself.
What was his brain doing?
He was a man who had just been flayed. His girlfriend—the only woman he had ever trusted with his real identity—had revealed herself to be a grifting, fame-hungry viper. His own brother had been the snake she chose. His family, his entire dynasty, had watched it unfold in silent complicity.
His life was a minefield. He felt raw, exposed, and vulnerable.
He didn't want a rebound. The thought was pathetic. It was a cheap, immediate fix, exactly the kind of thing Matthias would do.
He didn't want love. Love was a weakness. Love left him open to hurt. He was done with it. He was done with attachments. He had come here to heal, to turn his heart into a scar.
And this woman, this girl, with her haunted eyes and tired smile, had just breached every defense he had with a simple, clumsy "sorry."
Why?
He tried to break it down, to reduce it to data points, stripping away its power, searching for his footing again.
1. The Context: She was in his world—the spice hall. She wasn't just a civilian. The way she handled the cumin, that unconscious, expert gesture. His brain, trained for his empire, flagged her as "proficient." A professional curiosity. Nothing more.
2. The Recognition: Her eyes reflected the same deep exhaustion he felt in his own bones. He wasn't attracted to her; his weary, betrayed mind merely recognized a reflection of its own state. A fleeting, meaningless flicker of empathy.
It was nothing. A misfire. A statistical blip.
He would dismiss it.
He walked into the minimalist bathroom and turned on the shower, the water so hot it hurt. He stood beneath the scalding spray, trying to rinse off her memory. He had held her arms. He could still feel their slender shape, their surprising solidity, and the warmth of her through her cheap sweater.
He slammed his fist against the marble wall. The dull thud was satisfying.
He couldn't dismiss it. The splinter was lodged too deep.
He was a man who solved problems. He controlled his environment. But this was an unknown variable. An anomaly.
And anomalies in Jadon Asher's world were not tolerated. They were identified, examined, and neutralized.
He couldn't let it go. He had to know. Who was she?
He stepped out of the shower, his mind, once chaotic, suddenly refocusing. The rage remained, but it now had a target. Not Chloe. Not Matthias.
Her. The anomaly.
He was in exile. He had turned off his "Barak" and "Asher" phones. He was a ghost. But even a ghost had connections.
He walked into his study, a room darker and more spartan than the rest, and sat at his desk. He touched a biometric panel. A single, hard-wired console phone, one that operated on no public network, came to life. This was his local line, his access to the invisible "Asher Group" infrastructure he had built in the city.
He dialed a number.
"Yes, sir," a voice answered. Not Ari. This was Kael, his Northern Head of Security.
"New Smithfield Market," Jadon said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the dark city lights. "This morning. Between 05:30 and 06:00."
"Sir?" Kael's clipped voice revealed no surprise.
"Pull the CCTV. All of it. The main hall, the spice hall, all exits."
"A security threat, sir?"
Jadon thought of her amber eyes and the jolt he'd felt when he touched her. "Yes," he said. "A personal one. I'm sending you a query."
He sketched her rough likeness on a digital pad, focusing on her eyes, her hair, the small, determined set of her mouth. He added a description: "Female. Mid-twenties. Dark, curly hair. Amber or hazel eyes. About 5'5". She was with an older, louder woman, mid-fifties, dark hair, wearing bright, colorful scarves. They were buying sumac. Find her."
"Find her, sir?" Kael asked, confusion creeping into his voice.
"You have one hour to get me a name, Kael. And her location. I want to know everything about her—her business, her family, her entire background. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, sir," Kael replied.
"And Kael?"
"Sir?"
"This is a Level 10 query. It does not exist. It never happened. No one, not even Ari, is to know."
"Understood, sir."
The line clicked.
Jadon leaned back in his chair. He had done it. He had broken his own exile. He had just aimed the full surveillance power of his billion-dollar empire at a girl he'd bumped into in a market.
He told himself it was to neutralize a threat, to regain control.
Deep down, he knew it was a lie.
This wasn't control. This was obsession.