Jadon
One hour and four minutes.
Jadon paced the grey stone floor of his penthouse, his hands clenched into fists. He was a man who lived by the clock, and Kael was four minutes late.
He was furious, but not at his security chief. He was angry with himself. He felt an itch—an irrational, childish obsession.
He had built a global empire on cold logic. He didn't act on impulse, nor did he let obsession take over. He controlled variables.
He tried to convince himself this was different. This woman was an anomaly, an unknown in his controlled environment. He was just gathering data. It was control, not obsession.
He was kidding himself.
His reaction to Chloe's betrayal had been cold and strategic. It was a calculated anger, the anger of someone who had been outmaneuvered.
This feeling was different. It burned. It was a splinter, just as he feared, lodged deep under his skin, festered. The memory of her amber eyes, wide and haunted, nagged at him. He couldn't think. He couldn't rest.
He needed to know.
The dark console phone on his desk buzzed, a low, discreet sound.
He grabbed it, his voice a low growl. "You're late."
"My apologies, sir," Kael's voice came through flat and emotionless. "The subject was not in any local system. We had to widen the search. We have her."
Jadon's body tensed. He moved to the window, staring down at the city below. "Go."
"Subject identified," Kael began, his voice reading from a file. "Name: Talia Solomon."
Talia. The name was soft, Hebrew, meaning 'dew from God.' It was unfamiliar. That was good. It meant she wasn't a plant, nor was she a pawn in his family's game.
"Age: 26. Primary residence: London."
Jadon narrowed his eyes. London. She was like him—an exile fleeing something. This explained her exhaustion and the haunted look in her eyes. She mirrored him.
"She's in Manchester," Kael continued, "staying with a relative. An aunt. One Elara Levine, in Didsbury."
"Profession," Jadon commanded, impatience creeping into his voice. He needed the last piece of data, the detail that would make her simple and understandable.
"This is where the data conflicts, sir," Kael said. "She is listed as the Director and primary owner of a small private company based in Marylebone, London."
Jadon waited, the silence growing. "And?"
"The company name, sir," Kael said, "is 'Solomon's Spices.'"
Jadon's blood didn't just freeze; it evaporated. He felt the air rush out of his lungs in a single, violent wave.
Solomon's Spices.
He gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white. His vast, cold, perfect penthouse suddenly felt like it was tilting.
No. This can't be.
"A supplier, 'Solomon's Spices.' Arnaud is furious. Terminate the contract. Immediately."
The woman from the market. The anomaly. The splinter. The woman with the amber, haunted eyes was the same person whose livelihood he had, in a cold fit of rage, destroyed less than 48 hours ago.
The irony was so deep, so cruel, that he almost laughed.
He had left London to escape his demons, only to collide with the very one he had just created.
He remembered her hand dipping into the cumin, her eyes closing in unconscious expert assessment. Of course. She wasn't just 'proficient.' This was her life. The life he had just ended.
He felt... he didn't know how to describe it. It was beyond guilt. It was a nauseating vertigo. The universe was playing a horrible joke.
"Sir?" Kael's flat voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Are you there?"
"She... Talia Solomon..." Jadon's voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat, forcing the "Asher" mask back into place. "Where is she now?"
"That was the final delay, sir. She is not at her aunt's residence."
Jadon's gaze sharpened. "Where?"
"Our operative tracked her and the aunt to the city center. They are currently at The Midland Hotel."
Jadon frowned. The Midland. He knew it—old-world, expensive. "Doing what?"
"They are in the Octagon Lounge, sir. They have a 2 PM reservation."
Jadon knew the Octagon Lounge. It was the...
"They are," Kael said, his voice unwavering, "having high tea."
Jadon stared at the phone.
The file didn't make sense. The data clashed.
He had just terminated this woman's most important contract. By his own choice, he had likely just pushed her and her small company into ruin. Her world was ending at his hand.
And she was at The Midland, enjoying tiny sandwiches and scones.
The 'haunted' girl in the cheap sweater from that early morning was now, apparently, a woman in silk, enjoying one of the city's most luxurious rituals.
The contradiction left him puzzled. Was she celebrating? Did she have money? Did the Élan contract mean nothing to her?
The splinter, once just an irritation, became a confusing, painful puzzle.
He had to see.
"Kael," he commanded. "The car. I want it at the vault entrance in ten minutes."
"Sir?"
"And get me a table at The Midland."
"Sir, the lounge is certainly fully booked…"
"I don't care," Jadon snapped, losing his patience. "I don't care if you have to buy the hotel. I am not asking for a table. I am telling you. Get me in. I want to see her. Now."