Jadon
The sound of her laugh, the genuine one that followed her confession, felt like a shot of pure acid in his veins.
He had done that. He had taken that light, that warmth, and nearly extinguished it.
"Two idiots."
He was the villain.
He was in the dark, she was in the light, and he was, without a doubt, the man who had put her in this prison of guilt.
He couldn't breathe. The air in the dark, wood-paneled bar felt thick and suffocating. He had to get out.
He didn't signal the waiter or ask for a bill. His hand moved sharply, clicking off the listening device. He pulled a 50-pound note from his wallet—far too much for the single, untouched espresso on his table—and dropped it onto the wood.
He stood, his chair making no sound on the thick carpet. He was a shadow, a ghost. He slipped through the bar's exit into the grand, carpeted hotel corridor, quickening his pace with every step. He didn't run—Jadon Asher never ran—but his long, controlled strides felt almost like a panicked flight.
He skipped the lift and took the staff stairs, two at a time, his mind stuck in a catastrophic loop.
She's a refugee. You made her a refugee. She hates the driver. (That was him.) She hates the CEO. (That was also him.)
He burst out of a side door into the cold, damp Manchester air. The city's noise was a welcome shock to his system. He didn't wait for the valet. He had parked the Range Rover himself, a block away, in an anonymous garage.
Inside the car, doors locked and engine off, he finally let himself feel.
He leaned his forehead against the cold, leather-wrapped steering wheel, his eyes squeezed shut.
He was checkmated.
For his entire 29 years, he had operated on a simple rule: control or be controlled. He was the controller. He was the strategist. He saw every angle.
And he had, with terrible efficiency, checkmated himself.
He was obsessed with a woman who, with every reason, despised him.
He couldn't approach her as "Jadon Asher" the CEO; she hated him. He couldn't give her the contract back; she would see it as a cold corporate move (which it was), and he couldn't be the man to say, "By the way, I also almost ran you over. Forgive me."
And he couldn't approach her as "Jadon" the stranger, the man from the market. Because that man... he was a lie. He was a ghost. And if, by some miracle, she let him in... the truth would eventually come out. The betrayal would be much worse.
He was trapped. He was the creator of his own perfect, inescapable prison.
He sat in the silence of the garage for ten minutes, his mind a cold machine processing new, impossible ideas.
The splinter was no longer just a splinter. It was a gaping wound.
He had been right. She was an anomaly. But his motive was wrong. He had convinced himself he was 'neutralizing' her, 'controlling' her.
The truth was he was drawn to her. He had been from the moment he saw her haunted eyes.
And if he was the villain... then he had to be something else.
A new plan started to form. One so complex, so subtle, and so manipulative that it was terrifying.
He couldn't give her the contract. He couldn't apologize.
But he could... atone.
He could, as a ghost, fix what he had broken. He could give her the 'miracle' she deserved. He would use his power, not to control her, but to free her. He would orchestrate her comeback from the shadows without her ever knowing he was the one pulling the strings.
He picked up the "Asher" phone. He powered it on. The screen lit up, a beacon of his power.
He dialed Ari.
"Sir!" Ari's voice was a rush of relief. "Thank God. The board is—"
"Silence, Ari," Jadon commanded, his voice low and cold with newfound purpose. "I have a new directive. Solomon's Spices."
"Sir? It's... it's terminated. It's handled."
"It is not handled," Jadon said. "You are going to reinstate the contract."
"Reinstate? Sir, after Chef Arnaud's...?"
"Arnaud will be... re-briefed," Jadon snapped. "But here are the terms. This reinstatement cannot, under any circumstances, come from me. It cannot come from 'The Asher Group.' It cannot actually be a reinstatement."
"...Sir?" Ari sounded completely lost.
"I want a new contract drafted. Immediately. For double the original retainer. And I want a new, third-party LLC created. A shell corporation. Something warm. 'Artisanal Provisions Ltd.' 'The Culinary Guild.' It will be the one to offer 'Solomon & Daughters'—"
"Sir, it's 'Solomon's Spices'—"
"It's 'Solomon & Daughters,'" Jadon said, already three steps ahead, remembering the two women. "You will create this company. You will fund it from my personal, non-Asher accounts. And you will make them an offer so good, an offer of such 'miraculous' good fortune, that they cannot refuse it. They will never know it was me."
Talia
In the bright, fancy tea lounge, Talia had just taken a bite of a scone.
It was warm, light as air, and covered in thick clotted cream and strawberry jam. The taste—sweet, rich, buttery—exploded on her tongue.
It was joy. It was simple, physical pleasure.
She hadn't tasted anything in three years. She had eaten, yes. For fuel. But she hadn't truly tasted.
A slow, genuine smile—the one she'd given her aunt at the market—returned. "Oh my god," she whispered, her mouth full. "That's... that's good."
"Of course it is, bubbeleh," Elara beamed, her face full of triumph. "See? This is what I'm talking about. This is life. Not dust. Not numbers."
Talia laughed, a real, uncomplicated sound.
Then a strange, inexplicable chill shot down her spine. It was a cold draft, but the room was warm. It was the feeling of being watched.
She shivered, her laugh dying in her throat.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the dark, polished wood partition of the bar next door. It was all shadows and dim light, a stark contrast to their bright, sunlit dome. She saw nothing but the outline of a man's shadow, moving quickly, disappearing from view.
She must have imagined it.
"What is it, Matok?" Elara asked, her mouth full of a tiny fruit tart. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Talia turned back, forcing a smile. "No... nothing," she said, shaking her head and dismissing the strange feeling. "Just... a shiver."
She picked up her teacup, her hand steady for the first time that day. "Now," she said, her voice lighter. "Tell me about Cousin Ben's new girlfriend. Is she still that awful vegan?"
Elara roared with laughter, and for the first time, Talia felt... almost normal.