Talia
The café was warm. The air was thick with the smell of old books and roasted coffee. For three hours, Talia had talked.
She had shared things with this man, Jadon, that she hadn't even told her aunt. She spoke about the heavy burden of her father's legacy, the pressure of the numbers, the guilt she felt over her own failure, and the strange "rescue" by her family.
In return, he had listened.
He hadn't given her solutions. He hadn't talked down to her. He simply watched her, his intense blue eyes filled with deep understanding. He spoke about his own time away, the pressures of family, and a life that had become overwhelming.
He was a version of her—more expensive, more masculine, and infinitely more mysterious. The connection was so strong it was almost frightening.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, and her stomach sank.
"Oh my God," she gasped, covering her mouth. "It's almost 5 PM. I've been gone for three hours. My aunt is going to think I've been kidnapped."
Jadon gave a small, sad smile that sent waves of confusion inside her. "I guess time got away."
"I have to go," Talia said, sliding out of the booth. Her body buzzed with a strange, nervous energy. "Really. She'll send a search party."
"Okay," he said, rising too with a smooth, graceful motion. He was so tall.
He paid at the counter, fumbling with his wallet before opening the door for her. They stood on the damp pavement, the real world rushing back.
An awkward silence hung between them.
"Well," Talia said, gripping her bag strap. "This was... I'm really glad I accused you of being a stalker."
He let out that low, rough laugh, a sound that resonated through her. "Me too. It was good to talk, Talia. Really good."
He just looked at her, his gaze steady.
Ask for my number, she begged inside. Please. Ask for my number.
But he didn't. He kept his large hands deep in the pockets of his dark trousers. He was like a locked vault.
"You too, Jadon," she said, her smile feeling a bit forced. Disappointment hit her sharply. "I guess I'll see you around. Maybe."
"See you around, Talia," he replied, his voice soft and final.
She turned away, her heart a confusing mess, and walked off. She didn't look back. She couldn't.
He hadn't asked.
The man from the same industry, from her city, staying in her neighborhood, hadn't asked for her number.
Her mind raced. He wasn't interested. Or he was married. Or he was just being polite. Elara's words from last night echoed in her head: he's very smart.
The mystery that had seemed so clear in the café became a thousand times more complicated.
Jadon
He stood on the pavement until she rounded the corner.
He didn't move. He listened to the sound of her fading footsteps, his entire body tense like a raw nerve.
He wanted to ask for her number. He felt a desperate need to be the "Jadon" she thought he was—the normal colleague on leave who would say, "Hey, can I text you? Maybe we could do this again tomorrow?"
But he couldn't.
The lie was too deep. Asking for her number would be the most unnecessary act of all.
Because he didn't need her number.
He knew her aunt's address. He knew her mother's name. He knew the name of her shop. And he had her under constant surveillance.
The self-loathing hit him like a wave, making him dizzy.
He was a monster. He was toying with her. He had just spent three hours absorbing her honesty and truth, while he was, in every way, a liar.
He got into the Audi, the scent of her—faint, like tea and spices—already lingering in the space. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
The act had been exhausting. But it had been a stunning, terrifying success. He had her. She was intrigued. She felt connected to him. Their meeting felt like a masterstroke.
And now, he had to make a choice.
He could drive to the airport. He could board his private jet, fly back to London, and end this. He could let her live her "miracle" life. He could walk away, leaving behind the man who had secretly atoned and vanished. That would be the right thing to do. The decent thing.
He thought of her face when she laughed. He thought of the trust in her eyes when she spoke about her father.
He couldn't do it.
He was addicted. He was obsessed. He was, he admitted to himself, already too far gone.
He drove not to the airport but back to the cold, glass-and-steel cage of his penthouse.
He walked to the desk and picked up the "Asher" phone. His hand shook. He was choosing the lie. He was choosing darkness. He was choosing her in the only way he knew how.
He dialed Kael.
"Sir."
"Reactivate. Full assets. Now."
"Understood, sir."
Jadon walked to the huge wall-mounted screen. He hit a command. The screen, once dark and reflective, flickered to life.
A live feed showed the street outside Elara Levine's house.
He watched and waited.
Five minutes later, he saw her. She was walking, head down, hands in her pockets. He watched her walk up the path. He watched her pause at the door, her hand on the knob. She was smiling, a small, confused smile.
Then he saw her disappear inside.
His phone buzzed. A text from Kael.
Audio active. Inside the residence.
Jadon put in a single, black earpiece. He sat down in his chair, in the dark, his gaze fixed on the screen.
He heard her voice, faint at first, then clearer. "...Auntie? I'm home..."
He closed his eyes, the guilt and thrill mixing into a toxic cocktail in his blood.
He was the man who had built her cage. And now he was listening to her sing.