Talia
Talia woke up at 7 AM. She didn't jolt awake with anxiety. She... drifted.
She lay in the soft, floral-scented bed in Elara's guest room, a slow, warm, and utterly dazzling smile spreading across her face.
It wasn't a dream.
The kiss. His hands in her hair. His voice, a rough, desperate rasp: "It's not a holiday, Talia."
He was real. The ghost, the king, the colleague... they had all merged into this one, perfect, complicated, and real man. And he was, in one week, coming to London.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, her heart doing a silly, youthful flip. It was already there. A text. Sent at 6:30 AM.
Jadon: Good morning. I'm... not entirely sure I didn't dream last night.
She laughed, a small, bright sound, pulling the blankets up to her chin. She typed, her thumbs flying.
Talia: Good. Then you know how I've felt for this entire, insane week. :)
Her phone buzzed, instantly. Jadon: I'm already counting the minutes.Jadon: ...which is a problem. This is going to be the longest week of my life.
Her heart ached. A sweet, wonderful, hopeful ache. "Oh, my God," she whispered to the empty room. "He's... real."
She got up, showered, and packed her small roller bag. She was wearing the new cream-colored cashmere sweater. Her "Jadon" sweater.
"Well," Elara said, standing at the kitchen counter, a knowing, smug smile on her face. She was holding two mugs of coffee. "The bashert seems to have... firmed things up."
"He's... he's coming to London, Auntie," Talia said, her voice a hushed, reverent whisper, as if saying it too loud would break the spell. "He's... he's leaving his old life. He's... he's starting over. For... for himself."
"And for you," Elara corrected, her eyes shining. She handed Talia the coffee. "A man doesn't burn down his old life unless he's found a new one. I told you. You... you are a force, Talia Solomon. He never stood a chance."
"I... I have to go," Talia said, looking at the clock. 8:30 AM. "My coach."
"Right," Elara said, grabbing her keys.
The ride to the station was a blur of happy, excited chatter. Talia kept checking her phone, but there were no new texts.
"He... he didn't... he's not... he's not coming to see me off," Talia said, her voice small, a tiny pinprick of her old doubt returning.
"Good," Elara said, pulling up to the curb. "He's not a... a teenager. He's not needy. He's a man. He... he's letting you go. He's trusting you. And... he's probably, as he said, 'packing.'"
Talia smiled. Her aunt was right. It was... mature.
She got out, and Elara hugged her, a fierce, bone-crushing embrace. "You came here a ghost, bubbeleh," she whispered in her ear. "You are leaving... a queen. Do not let them, or anyone, take your crown again. You call me. Tonight."
"I will," Talia laughed, tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Auntie. For... for everything."
She got on the coach, found her window seat, and pulled out her phone. 9:00 AM. As the coach hissed, pulling away from the station, a new text came in. It was perfect.
Jadon: You're on your way, aren't you. I can feel it.
Talia's heart melted. She settled in for the four-hour journey, her gaze fixed on the screen, her heart in London, her mind already, impossibly, in one week.
Jadon
The text alert flashed on the screen. Talia: On the coach. I miss you already. This is crazy.
He smiled. A cold, tight, and utterly triumphant smile.
He was in his penthouse, standing in front of the wall-mounted screen. He was watching her.
He was watching the live feed from the National Express bus.
Kael's team had planted a small, magnetic, audio-visual bug under her assigned seat. He was watching the back of her head. He was watching her, on her phone, smiling as she texted him.
The "Jadon" who was shy and packing was a lie. The Jadon who was a possessive, all-seeing, and terrifyingly efficient monster... he was real.
The moment Kael's operative, "Tango," had confirmed her bus was on the M6, southbound, Jadon had sprung into action.
He was packed. A single, dark, expensive duffel. He was in his uniform—a sharp, dark suit. He was ready.
He picked up his "Asher" phone and dialed Ari.
"Ari," he said. No greeting.
"Sir!" Ari's voice was a gust of pure, panicked relief. "The board... the Le Monde crisis... I've been..."
"Irrelevant," Jadon cut him off. "I am on my way back to London. I am two hours behind you. By the time I arrive, I need the following, executed. No questions. No failures. Am I clear?"
"...Yes, sir."
"One," Jadon said, his voice a low, rapid-fire command. "I need a new residence. Leased. Under my name, Jadon Asher. I want... Marylebone. Something... modest. A two-bedroom penthouse. Something a... a 'successful, independent consultant' could afford. I want it furnished. Warm. Not my style. I want... I want books. I want... life. By tomorrow."
"...A... a flat, sir? In... in Marylebone?" Ari sounded like he was having an aneurysm.
"Two. I need an office. The same area. A small, two-person lease. A 'consultancy' space. Stock it. Laptops, a high-end coffee machine. The name on the door will be 'Jadon Asher, Sourcing & Logistics.' Not 'The Asher Group.' It needs to be real. By Wednesday."
"Sir, the permits for—"
"I don't care about permits, Ari. Buy them. Handle it. Three: The blue Volvo I had procured in Manchester. It's in the penthouse garage. I'm driving the Range Rover back. I want the Volvo picked up, transported, detailed, and registered to my new Marylebone address by tomorrow night. It's... it's my new car."
There was a long, stunned, terrified silence.
"Ari?"
"...A... a Volvo, sir."
"Four," Jadon continued, ignoring him. "My schedule. Clear it. All of it. For... indefinitely. Tell the board, tell... everyone... that I am personally, and on-site, handling the acquisition and integration of our new 'Culinary Guild' project. It is... my new, sole focus. All other business goes through you. I... am... dark. Understood?"
"...Yes, sir." Ari's voice was a faint, broken whisper.
"Good. I'll be in London in four hours."
Jadon hung up.
He looked at the screen. He saw Talia, her head now resting against the window, her phone clutched in her hand. She was probably... dreaming about him.
He grabbed his duffel bag. He walked to his private elevator.
He was a liar. He was a monster. He was in love.
He got into the high-powered Range Rover, the "ghost" car, and shot out of the private tunnel. He hit the motorway, southbound.
Talia had a two-hour head start. He would be in London, in his real penthouse, before her coach even hit the suburbs.
The race was on.