Just when you and Brooklyn started to get somewhere—he showed up.
Maxwell.
She likes him. You see it. That little smile when he talks. That pause before she answers. Whether it's a fleeting crush or something more? You don't know yet. But you know one thing: he's a problem.
Which means he has to go.
How? You don't have that answer yet.
But you will. You always do.
You start with patterns. People think they're unpredictable. They're not. They bleed habits. Routines. He's no different. You follow him for days until his life lies open like a dissected animal.
Gym. 8 a.m. sharp.
History of Art lecture at Kingsmere.
Evenings at the pub with friends—pints and powder lined up like communion.
You watch him laugh. Watch him drink until his face turns glassy and his soul leaks out through his pupils. You see him drag himself home at 3 a.m., head tipped back like he's begging for a bullet. Then wake up clean, polished, perfect for the next day—like last night never happened.
Maxwell lives like a man outrunning something with teeth.
And it's catching up.
Every pint, every pill—just another way to drown the screaming in his head. You see it, even if she doesn't. Last thing Brooklyn needs is another broken man orbiting her life. Last thing she needs—is him.
You tell yourself it isn't murder. It's mercy.
You wanted him gone, not dead. But life has a sense of humor. Sometimes mercy wears the face of murder.
The plan forms slowly, piece by piece, like bone knitting after a break. Your hands are about to close his story. You tell yourself it's for her. To save her life. And if anyone asks later—call it an accident. Call it patriotism. Hell, call it whatever helps you sleep, Detective.
Now look at him. Standing by his Bentley like a crowned prince. Who the fuck even drives a Bentley?
You'll kill him. Stuff his body into the backseat of his overpriced coffin. Drive it out to the forest. Bury him so deep the worms will need a map. Then let the tabloids spin their fairytales: rich boy disappears after a three-day bender.
The coke in his glove compartment? That'll help sell it.
Daylight's a bitch for this kind of thing, but the sooner you erase him, the sooner you can get back to Brooklyn.
Getting here wasn't easy. Spiked gates. A fortress disguised as a neighborhood. Privilege wrapped in barbed wire. But today's a bank holiday, and the place is dead. Guards gone. Cameras dead. Silence thick enough to choke on.
And you—dressed in black under a sun that wants to strip your skin off. Sweat crawls down your spine as you crouch low against a hedge, breath hot in your throat.
Then you hear it.
A low hum slicing through the quiet.
A white Mercedes rolls into the driveway. Polished so bright it could blind God.
Door opens. Legs first—bare, glowing in the morning light. Heels hit the pavement like gunfire. Dress sways—short, but not cheap.
Brooklyn.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
"Hey, Maxwell!"
Her voice is a melody you'd burn for. And it's aimed at him.
"You coming to Aureate House tonight?"
Aureate what?
Why is she inviting him somewhere you've never heard of?
Then it clicks. Aureate House. London's altar for the rich and rotten. Velvet ropes. Gold walls. Ten grand just to breathe the air.
Ten grand you don't have.
"I'll be there if you'll be there," Maxwell says.
Her laugh floats across the heat, light as smoke, and something inside you fractures.
Ten grand. For what? Music, champagne, a DJ who thinks pressing play is a personality?
Think. You've always been good at that. There'll be a bouncer. A list. Some gilded bullshit invitation.
Six hours. That's all you've got. Not much time—but enough.
Library? Cover for digging. Internet? Better. The web never lies, especially about people who think the world deserves their highlight reel.
You find them fast. Ethan—Maxwell's golden boy. Preaches sobriety while drowning in sponsorship deals. Theo—the human relapse. Claims he's clean, but his eyes twitch like a bomb with a broken timer. And Miles. Wolves in Italian wool. Shameless, the lot of them.
And the key. A literal key. Gold, with a naked woman carved into the metal like a joke no one asked for. If feminism were a gun, this thing would be the bullet.
Breaking in? Suicide. This isn't a nightclub. It's a military installation dipped in champagne. Five guards inside. Dozens of cameras. A fortress built on secrets.
Bribery, then.
That's the move.
"I'd like to withdraw £8,000."
Your voice doesn't even sound like yours. It sounds like someone else—someone rich, someone untouchable.
The cash hits your palm like blood money.
Nothing hurts worse than emptying your account, but you don't care. You'll make it back. Steal it. Earn it. Bleed for it. Doesn't matter. Because Brooklyn makes money meaningless.
If she asked you to burn the world, you'd light the match and smile.
But first—you need to blend in. These people can smell desperation from a mile away. To survive their kingdom, you need a crown.
A suit.
Not black—you're not pouring champagne.
Not loud either. Grey. Simple. Forgettable. The kind of grey that erases you from the room.
"Sir, have you made up your mind?"
"Yes. The grey one."
"That'll be £1,500. Cash or card?"
What the fuck is this suit made of? Angel wings? Unicorn hair? You should be disgusted. You want to be. But instead, you hand over the card like a good little aristocrat.
"Have a good day, sir."
Sir. Funny.
If Kingsmere was hell, Aureate is the ninth fucking circle.
You stare at your reflection in the shop window. The suit fits like sin, sleek and silent. You almost look like one of them. Almost.
And that's enough.
Because Brooklyn's already inside their world.
And wolves like Maxwell have their teeth in her skin.
All it takes is one cut. One move. One death to pull her free.
But then the doubt creeps in.
What if you're wrong?
What if she doesn't want saving?
What if the girl crying in the Student Union was just an act? What if she's already one of them?
You shake the thought off like water. No. You saw her hands tremble that day. Saw the way she hid her face like pain was something shameful.
She cried like the world had no room for her hurt.
And in that moment, you made a promise.
You'd take it from her.
Lift it so high she'd never feel its weight again.
Her light is being swallowed whole by men in velvet suits. You can't let that happen.
It's almost time.
You look at the clock. Six hours gone. Everything is set.
Tonight, you're walking into their kingdom.
Tonight, you're going to erase Maxwell from existence.
And when it's done—
Brooklyn will be yours.
.
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Author here. Here's your next batch of questions.
1. Does Brooklyn need to be protected?
2. Is Dan too obsessed?
3. Early predictions on who Dan will turn out to be.