Jadon
"Great," he said. His voice was low and steady, masking the panic inside his head. "It's this way."
He gestured casually toward the exit. He let her walk ahead, a deliberate act of respect.
She was ten feet in front of him. His eyes focused on her—the proud line of her back and the confident sway of her hips.
At the same time, he pulled his personal "Asher" phone from his pocket.
He was on a date with his target. His surveillance team, two dangerous men working for him, were currently watching them. He could feel their eyes on him, a prickling sensation on his skin, just as she did. He pictured them in his mind: one by the loading dock and one by the main concourse.
His thumbs, which had finalized billion-pound deals, moved with quick precision. He typed while keeping his eyes on Talia's back, so she would think he was just checking his messages.
The text was for Kael. It was not a request.
ALL ASSETS, GO DARK, NOW. I AM BLIND. YOU ARE BLIND. AWAIT REACTIVATION. CONFIRM.
He held his breath.
He saw Talia pause at the main exit, waiting for him—a small, polite, awkward gesture. She looked nervous. He smiled at her, a small, reassuring "I'm coming" smile, and motioned for her to go ahead.
His phone buzzed in his hand. A single text from Kael.
CONFIRMED. WE ARE DARK. GODSPEED, SIR.
Jadon exhaled, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He was alone. The net was gone. For the first time in his adult life, Jadon Asher was operating without a safety net. He was just "Jadon."
He caught up to her at the door, the cold, damp air of the city hitting them. "My car's just over here."
Talia
He led her not to a beat-up "spice merchant's" van, but to a car that made her stomach clench.
It was an Audi. A black, sleek sedan that looked more like a weapon than a vehicle. It was the kind of car that moved aside for the Rolls-Royces of the world.
Okay, she thought, her hand hesitating on the door handle. So, not just a spice merchant. A very successful one.
The mystery deepened. The man from the market. The king from Astra. The man with the sad, haunted eyes. And the man driving a car that likely cost more than her family's entire debt.
He opened the door for her. The interior felt like a cocoon of black leather and brushed steel. It smelled clean—like expensive soap, old leather, and him. It was intoxicating.
The journey to Didsbury was a blur of tense, electric silence. She was hyper-aware of him, of his physical presence in the small space. His large hands were light on the steering wheel. He drove like he did everything else—with silent, terrifying, and deeply attractive control.
She needed to say something. The silence felt too loud.
"So, you're really staying in Didsbury?" she asked, her voice sounding thin.
He glanced at her, a flicker of his arctic-blue eyes. "Yeah," he said, his voice smooth and deep, vibrating through her. "I have a place. It's quiet. Good for clearing my head."
"You come to Manchester a lot?"
"When I need to," he replied. His answer was smooth but completely uninformative. He was a vault.
He parked outside a small, charming, ivy-covered café: The Art of Tea. It was the opposite of Astra—warm wood, mismatched chairs, and shelves of old books.
It was disarming.
Jadon
He was acting. This was the most challenging performance of his life.
He had to be "Jadon," the slightly awkward professional on leave. Not "Asher," the CEO who could buy the building. He fumbled with his wallet as he ordered. He let his hand "accidentally" brush hers when he passed her the sugar. He watched her, his heart pounding painfully.
They found a small, secluded table in the back by a window overlooking a tiny, rain-damp garden.
He was close to her. The lie was holding.
She looked at him over her teacup, her amber eyes clear, curious, and, to his surprise, trusting.
"So," she said softly. "Your 'leave' from London sounds serious."
He had to share a piece of the truth. A piece wrapped in the lie.
He looked down into his black coffee. "It was," he said, his voice rough. "My business was all-consuming. I just needed a break. From my family. From everything."
He allowed the real exhaustion of the last few days to seep into his voice. He let her see the "haunted" man from the market.
He watched her reaction. He saw it register.
She didn't pity him. She recognized it.
"I know what that feels like," she said, her voice a soft whisper.
Jadon's gaze snapped to hers.
"The shop," she said, looking down at the table. "It was my dad's. He passed away three years ago. I've been trying to be him. Carrying it all—the bills, my sister's tuition, the weight of it. I'm here because my mom and sister fired me, basically."
She let out a small, watery laugh, shaking her head. "They call it a 'rescue.' They sent me here to my aunt's for ten days to get my head straight. This is the first time I've been out alone."
Jadon just stared at her.
Kael's file had given him facts. Dates, locations, company names.
It hadn't given him this. The raw, honest vulnerability. The tremor in her voice. The way she looked down at her hands, the hands he'd seen in the cumin.
She had just shared her truth with him, no agenda involved.
And he, the master manipulator sitting on a throne of lies, was shattered by it.
The guilt felt like a physical weight. He wanted, desperately, to tell her. I know. I'm the one who...
He couldn't. She was here, safe and free, because of his other lie.
He was trapped.
So, he did the only thing he could do. The one thing he had never done.
He just listened.
He didn't offer solutions. He didn't strategize. He didn't manage her. He just watched her. He saw her.
"It's hard," she whispered. "To be the one everyone relies on. To be the strong one. You forget how to just be."
"I know," he said. His voice was raw, filled with a truth he never shared, startling them both.
Their eyes met. The connection he'd felt in the market, the one he'd seen in Astra, solidified. It was real.
The lie was the bridge. But the connection was the truth.
He was drowning in his own deceit, and her honesty was the only real thing in the room.