Jadon
For two days, Jadon stayed completely still.
His penthouse had turned into a monitoring center. He had Kael's live feeds running on a huge wall-mounted screen. He didn't just watch Talia; he studied her closely.
He observed her as she slept, the view from the discreet, heat-sensitive camera outside her window showing a pale, ghostly image. He watched her enjoy breakfast with her aunt, laughing at the older woman's stories. He followed her at the art gallery and noted the exact moment she "shivered."
He replayed that clip. 14:32:04. Subject shows physical sensitivity. A shiver. A head-turn.
He called Kael immediately, his voice sharp and cold. "She saw you."
"Impossible, sir. My operative was 40 yards away, reading a plaque. He didn't make eye contact until she engaged him."
"She sensed you," Jadon insisted. "Pull back. Widen the perimeter. I want a 100-yard bubble at all times."
He knew he was losing control. He was a billionaire CEO who influenced global markets, yet here he was, analyzing the micro-expressions of a spice merchant from London. He told himself it was for "protecting his investment" and "atonement."
But that was a lie.
He was a voyeur. He was obsessed. He had, in his own cold way, "saved" her, and now he felt a dark, primal, deeply unsettling sense of ownership. He had freed this vibrant, beautiful woman, yet now he kept her in a digital cage, watching her pace.
He was sipping his third black coffee of the morning when the secure line buzzed. It was Kael.
"Sir. We have movement."
Jadon's attention snapped to the live feed. The black Volvo was still. "She's on foot?"
"Affirmative. Subject is mobile, alone. Aunt is still at the residence on a video call. Subject is... walking briskly. Heading south."
A jolt, sharp and electric, surged through Jadon. Alone. She was off-plan. This was not part of Elara's approved itinerary for "re-civilization." This was Talia.
"Where is she going?" Jadon demanded, his hand moving to his mouse to pull up her real-time location on the map.
"She just boarded the 142 bus. Heading... toward the city center. Sir, this is... unexpected."
Jadon monitored her digital icon as it moved along the bus route. He knew exactly where she was headed. It was instinct, a gut-punch. She wasn't going shopping or to a museum.
She was going back to the one place that felt real.
"She's going to the market," he whispered, a mix of awe and anticipation in his voice.
He couldn't watch this unfold on a screen. He couldn't see her in his territory, his world, from a glass tower on the 50th floor.
"Kael," he commanded, his voice filled with urgency. "Pull all ground assets back. Full perimeter. I only want eyes on the exits."
"Sir? You want us to... go blind?"
"No," Jadon replied, standing as his heart pounded with a heavy, steady rhythm. "I'm going in. I'm taking over."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked to his closet and put on an anonymous outfit. The dark hoodie. The faded cap. His "ghost" costume.
He was heading back to the spice hall. He was going to see Talia in her natural environment. This time, he wouldn't be "surprised."
Talia
She felt trapped.
Talia loved her Aunt Elara. She appreciated the pampering. She liked, in theory, being a "queen."
But being a queen was tiring.
It required constant performance, gratitude, and "re-civilization." She had to act happy and show she was recovering. The dress, the art, the high tea—all of it was wonderful, but it felt like wearing a costume. The "gilded cage" wasn't just about being watched; it was the pressure of her new, miraculous freedom.
She felt more like herself when she was hauling sacks and covered in dust.
She waited until Elara, engrossed in a three-hour global Zoom call for her favorite charity, was completely distracted.
Then she just... fled.
She pulled on her jeans, her boots, and her old, comfortable sweater. She didn't leave a note. She simply walked out the door, into the cold, crisp air, and breathed.
She had no plan. She just... walked. She boarded a bus, her heart racing with a childlike thrill.
Her feet, as if they had a mind of their own, brought her... here.
New Smithfield Market.
She stepped off the bus and into the 2 PM lull. The chaos of the morning's 5 AM rush was long gone. Now, there was just the quiet, steady hum of trade.
Drawn by an irresistible force, she walked past the fruit, past the butchers, and into the spice hall.
The scent.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her lungs. Turmeric. Cumin. Cardamom. Ginger. It was her childhood, her father, and her essence.
This was her true north.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, the first one that felt real. This was where she belonged.
She walked with her hands in her pockets, simply looking around. She wasn't a "refugee" here. She was a professional. She ran her hand through a barrel of star anise, the woody, licorice scent lingering on her skin. She picked up a perfect, dried chili, admiring its deep, crimson color.
She wasn't thinking about the "miracle." She wasn't thinking about Jadon Asher. For the first time, she wasn't even thinking about the mysterious "king" from the restaurant.
She was just... Talia.
She stood in front of the sumac stall, the one her aunt had bought from, wearing an expression of pure, uncomplicated peace.
A shadow fell over her.
She sensed it before she saw it. The same electric awareness from the restaurant. The cold prickling on her skin.
Her smile vanished. Her heart stopped.
Slowly, she turned.
He stood ten yards away, next to a pillar.
It was the "ghost" from the market.
He wore the dark hoodie, his face hidden by the cap. He just stood there, watching her.
This was the third time.
The market. The restaurant. And now, here.
This wasn't coincidence. This wasn't "fate." This...
"Are you... are you following me?" Talia asked, her voice a low, trembling whisper filled with anger.
The man didn't move. He didn't speak. He only watched her. This time, his eyes were not sad or haunted.
They were, she realized in a jolt of raw fear, hungry.