Talia
The Octagon Lounge was overwhelming.
It was a dazzling dome filled with gold plasterwork, marble pillars, and potted palms. A string quartet played softly in the corner, creating a refined atmosphere that felt like a judgment. The air was quiet, filled with the soft clink of silver on fine china.
Talia felt a chill on her skin. She felt like a fraud. Her family was struggling to pay the landlord at that very moment, while she sat on a carpet thicker than her own mattress.
"Auntie," she whispered, gripping Elara's arm tightly as a hostess in a sharp black suit approached them. "This is... this is too much. I can't. Let's just... let's go get a sandwich somewhere."
"Nonsense," Elara replied quietly, her smile unwavering as she spoke to the hostess. "Elara Levine. Reservation for two. At two."
"Of course, madam. Right this way."
They were led to a plush, velvet-covered table in the center of the room. Talia sank into the chair, feeling as if it was swallowing her whole. She noticed her own hands, nails short and cuticles faintly stained with spices, as she placed them on the pristine, white linen tablecloth.
"Now," Elara beamed, her eyes sparkling as she surveyed the room. "This is life. You see? Civilized."
"It's... terrifying," Talia murmured.
A three-tiered tower of tiny, perfect sandwiches, jewel-like pastries, and warm scones was placed between them. It was an absurd, beautiful excess of food.
"Pish," Elara waved dismissively. "What is money? It's for making memories. You, my dear, have forgotten how to make memories that don't involve bills. Now, try the cucumber sandwich. It's divine."
Talia took one. It was perfect. The bread was impossibly thin, the cucumber crisp. It embodied pure, ridiculous luxury. Yet it tasted like ash in her mouth.
"So," Elara said, her tone shifting from elegance to focus as she poured their tea. "Now that you are fed, and you are not allowed to be a martyr, we need to talk. This... 'Asher Group.' This ghost who fired you."
Talia's brief moment of luxury vanished. The memory of the cold, indifferent voice on the phone replayed in her mind.
"What about him?" Talia said, tightening her grip around her teacup. "He's a coward. A faceless, corporate jerk. Just like the man in the car."
"Two jerks," Elara said, nodding. "One messes up the delivery, the other fires you for it. The universe," she sighed, "has a terrible sense of humor."
"The worst part, Auntie," Talia confessed, her words spilling out—words she had never even shared with her mother—"is that I can't... enjoy this. I feel sick. You're spending all this money on me, and I'm... I'm just thinking about the lease. I feel like... like I'm broken. Like I'll never be able to just... sit... and not worry, ever again."
"Oh, sweetheart," Elara said, her voice softening. She reached across the mountain of pastries and took Talia's hand. "That is why we are here. That is why I took your phone. Your only job for the next nine days is to heal. I am paying. You are on a rescue mission. You are not a fraud. You are... a refugee. And you are safe here."
Talia looked at her aunt, her eyes filling with sudden, grateful tears. "I love you, Auntie."
"I know. Now, for heaven's sake, eat the scone before I do. We are behind schedule."
Talia laughed. It was a real, genuine laugh, emerging from a place that had been untouched for years. She felt lighter. She felt safe.
She picked up the scone, a tiny, perfect, warm thing, and for a moment, she forgot about being a fraud.
Jadon
Jadon did not enter the Octagon Lounge. Kael, skilled at his job, had arranged something better.
He was taken to The Wyvern, the hotel's bar. It was a nearby room, a cozy space filled with dark, polished mahogany, green leather, and stained glass. It was, importantly, separated from the bright, feminine lounge by a tall, polished-glass partition.
It was a one-way mirror. A panopticon.
He was a ghost, watching from the shadows into the light.
"Is this to your satisfaction, sir?" the hotel manager, who had suddenly appeared and looked pale, asked.
Jadon didn't respond. His gaze was already fixed.
He had found her.
She was sitting in the center of the room, and his breath caught.
This was not the grey, haunted woman from the market who had been hidden under a hoodie. This was not the girl he had imagined.
This was... a woman.
She wore a silk blouse the color of a deep forest, which made her skin glow and her dark hair look like polished wood. Her hair was tied back, showcasing the elegant line of her throat. She was... stunning. Breathtaking.
The contradiction hit him hard. The file in his mind—Ruined. Fired. Broke.—did not match the woman before him. She looked elegant and poised, as if she belonged in that room.
He sat in the darkest booth, his heart pounding with a low, angry, confused rhythm. Kael had been right. She was here. But why? Was the file wrong? Was Solomon's Spices just a hobby? Was she some heiress pretending to be poor?
His anger returned, sharp and cold. He despised being played. Chloe had just played him. Was this another? A woman pretending to be a simple, haunted girl in a market, only to sit in a Michelin-starred hotel laughing?
He watched her. He saw her speak, her face animated. And then, he saw her laugh.
It was the small, genuine smile he had witnessed in the market. It was not the laugh of an heiress. It was... something else. It was the same laugh that had struck him like a physical blow.
He needed to listen.
He pulled out his "Asher" phone—the one he'd powered back on. It was not just a phone. It was a weapon. He engaged a discreet listening function, aiming the microphone at the glass.
The sounds of the string quartet filtered in, distant. Then... voices.
"...I can't... I can't enjoy this. I feel sick. You're... spending all this money on me, and I'm... I'm just thinking about the lease... I feel like I'm broken..."
Jadon's blood, which had been boiling with suspicion, turned to ice.
He had been wrong. Completely, devastatingly wrong.
She wasn't celebrating. She wasn't an heiress. She was exactly who he thought she was: the haunted girl from the market. And she was here, in this temple of luxury, feeling sick with guilt.
Then, he heard her aunt's voice. "...Your only job for the next nine days is to heal. I am paying... You are a refugee..."
A refugee. He had done that. He had made her a refugee from her own life.
The guilt, which had been a cold, intellectual problem, became a hot, suffocating weight. He tasted shame in his mouth.
He was a predator. He had stalked his victim to a hotel, just to... what? See her suffer?
He couldn't breathe. He had to get out. He had seen enough.
He was about to rise and flee when he heard her voice again, low and filled with venom that stopped him cold.
"...that man in the car... and then this 'Jadon Asher.' Two jerks. One messes up the delivery, the other fires you for it."
Jadon froze, his hand hovering over the table.
She had just connected her two ghosts. She had accurately described him. Two jerks.
She hated the man in the car. And she hated "Jadon Asher."
He was both.
He was no longer just an obsessed man. He was no longer just a guilty CEO.
He was, he realized with dawning, sickening horror, the villain. In the story of the one woman who had made him feel anything in a year, he was undeniably, the villain.