Talia
Talia sat on the cold kitchen tiles, laughing.
It was a strange, giddy, half-hysterical sound. She was laughing, crying, and trying to breathe all at once. The phone was back in its place, her mother's joyful sobs still ringing in her ears.
She was safe.
That word felt unfamiliar and enormous; she couldn't grasp it. Safe. It wasn't the fragile "safe" she had chased month after month. This was a deep, lasting safety.
The lease was paid. Maya's tuition was paid. They had money.
"Well," Elara said, her voice filled with a stunned awe. She stood by the counter, holding a now-cold teabag. "That... that is quite the holiday, bubbeleh."
Talia finally looked up from the floor, her face a mess of tears and mascara. "He... he just... doubled it, Auntie. A total stranger."
"A guardian angel," Elara breathed, her eyes shining. "A mensch. 'Mr. Arie.' I like him already." She grabbed Talia by the arms and pulled her to her feet with surprising strength. "Right. This... this changes everything."
"I... I should go home," Talia stammered, her mind snapping back into its old, responsible mode. "I should... I should be there. To sign. To... to..."
"To what?" Elara interrupted, her joy suddenly shifting to that familiar drill-sergeant tone. "To worry? To stare at the bank transfer? To count? Talia, your mother and sister are CEOs. They are handling it. You have just been given a gift. You've got nine more days of freedom. This time," her eyes sparkled, "you're not a refugee. You're a queen."
Elara's whole demeanor changed. "High tea was for healing. This... this is a celebration. This calls for champagne."
"Auntie..."
"No! I will not have it!" Elara declared, already marching toward the stairs. "We are not sitting here crying on the floor. We are going out. And you are not wearing my old clothes. You are going to buy something ridiculously, sinfully expensive for the first time in your life. Then... we are going to the best restaurant in this entire city. We are ordering everything. My treat. No, our treat. You can afford it now!"
Talia's first instinct was to argue. The old, frugal, scared Talia was still there, screaming for her to save and be careful.
...no.
A slow, dazzling, and slightly wicked smile spread across her face. It was a smile Jadon had never seen. "Okay," Talia said, her voice clear and strong. "Okay, Auntie. Let's go."
For the first time, she wasn't just letting go. She was leaping.
Jadon
The confirmation text from Ari lit up his phone.
Transfer complete. The Guild is funded. They are solvent. Congratulations, sir. Mr. Arie is officially a guardian angel.
As Jadon read the last three words, the bitter, metallic taste of shame rose in his throat again.
He was a liar.
He looked at the photo of Talia on his screen. The laughing, vibrant woman from the farmer's market. He had "saved" her. He had given her this new, giddy freedom she must be feeling. And he had done it from the shadows, like a puppeteer, like a coward.
He had made amends, but he had also made himself unforgivable.
He stood up; the silence of his penthouse felt like a crushing weight. He had come here to hide from his life, yet this apartment felt like the center of his self-made prison. He had never felt more powerful, and he had never felt more trapped.
He was a villain. He was a guardian angel. He was a ghost.
He was... lonely.
The thought was so raw, so vulnerable, that he almost recoiled. But it was the truth. He had just spent a fortune to make a woman he was obsessed with happy, and he couldn't even be in the same room to witness it.
He had to get out. He couldn't stay here, in this gilded cage, looking at her file.
He knew she was here. He knew she was in Didsbury, at Elara Levine's place. He felt a sudden, aching certainty that this "miracle" would be cause for celebration.
She's going out tonight.
The thought hit him like a jolt, a sharp shock. She wasn't the haunted girl in the market anymore. She was... free.
He was addicted. He was a fool. But he had to see.
He had to witness the impact of his "miracle." He had to see what she looked like when she wasn't... broken.
He grabbed his keys. Not for the vault. Not for the Range Rover.
He had another car here, one he kept for this world. A black, unmarked, impossibly fast Audi. This time, he took the main elevator, like a normal person.
He stepped into the lobby, a ghost in plain sight. He was "Jadon Asher," but in this city, he had no identity. He was just another wealthy, anonymous, handsome man.
He knew where he would go.
The Élan in London was his flagship. But his favorite was here, in Manchester. It was called Astra. It was on the 50th floor of the city's tallest, newest, glass-and-steel tower. It was his. He had designed it. It was a temple of dark, quiet luxury, with a view overlooking the entire, glittering expanse of the north.
It was the most exclusive, most expensive restaurant in the city.
He would go. He would sit at his private table in the shadows, and he would drink the most expensive whisky they had. He would be the lonely god, looking down on the city he secretly controlled, and he would try... he would try to forget her face.