Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
He withdrew her photograph—a grainy image from some government database the Volkovs found. Despite the poor resolution, arresting resolve in her eyes. Not beauty, though beauty was there, it was her eyes that gave him pause.
Captivating.
He recognized that look.
She had an accidental way about her, like she didn’t know she was pretty because no one ever told her. He imagined her humble yet strong. Endearing in the rawest, human way.
Jack set the application in the approved pile and rose to refill his glass, only to reconsider his dinner waiting on the desk. The soup was ice cold now, but no less delicious.
His phone buzzed, and his jaw tightened at the caller ID. Geoffrey Ashworth.
He let it ring twice more, taking his time to wipe his mouth on a linen napkin before answering. “Thorne.”
“J.” Ashworth’s voice was fraught with relief. “Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
Jack said nothing, lifting his glass, letting silence stretch.
“I need to talk to you. As a friend.”
“We’re not friends, Geoffrey.”
“Of course, we are. The club, the dinners—”
“Transactions. Don’t mistake proximity for intimacy.”
“S-sure.” A shaky exhale. “But I need your advice. I don’t understand what happened. One day, I had everything, and then...” His breathing turned frantic as he shifted the phone. “Someone’s been sabotaging me. My investors all pulled out overnight. Lisa took the children to her mother’s. I’m living in a fucking budget hotel, J. Christ, I had to sell my art just for some pocket change.”
“And?” Pocket change to billionaires was a fortune to others. Ashworth still had a ways to go.
“And I need help. The banks won’t talk to me. You know people. If you could make a few calls—”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we—”
“Don’t say we’re friends.”
“But we’ve known each other for years, J.”
More than enough time to discover what kind of man Ashworth was. Jack took a slow sip. “Do you remember our dinner at Mayfair’s three years ago? You’d had too much wine and offered to arrange something for me.”
“I don’t.”
“Think hard, Ashworth. You called it…entertainment.”
“Is that what this is about? I can try to pull some strings—”
“What makes you think I would want to be entertained like that, by a child?”
Silence.
“You’re a stain, Geoffrey. A cancer. When you abuse your power, you cease to deserve it. There are always consequences.” Jack’s voice remained level. “You deserve to suffer. Enjoy what you have left. It won’t be long until even that’s gone.”
“J, what are you saying? Did you have something to do with this?”
It was what Jack did best, but that was privileged information Geoffrey Ashworth hadn’t earned. “Goodbye, Geoffrey.” Silence. “Don’t call this number again.”
Jack ended the call and set the phone face-down—hand steady, pulse unchanged. He felt nothing for men like Ashworth. Not pity, not rage. Just the quiet satisfaction that the world would soon contain one less monster.
Chapter Four
Seeds of Doubt
Daisy awoke on Tuesday with a dull throb in her mouth, easily ignored beneath the weight of her responsibilities. But by Thursday, that dull ache sharpened into a persistent gnawing that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She went to sleep with a headache and woke up on Friday with a migraine that made it impossible to think of anything beyond the consistent pounding of everything above her shoulders.
She’d chewed on the left side for three days, avoiding anything too hot, too cold, too sweet, too hard. Which left approximately nothing on the menu except lukewarm tea and the soft centers of day-old bread.
Two weeks had passed since she’d visited the library. Fourteen days of checking her phone for emails before truly giving up hope. Stupidity crept in with each unanswered refresh. Believing, even for a moment, that she might be spontaneously rescued from her circumstances was a level of foolishness she couldn’t afford.
This was reality. Not some fanciful romance book that promised a happy ending.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the front stairs to her flat.
The stench of mildew and someone’s burnt dinner greeted her in the foyer as she stepped out of the cutting wind. A fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. The mailboxes, as always, were overflowing with takeaway menus and bills, but a flash of emerald made her pause.
Her heart stuttered. There, polished and glinting against the grey, perched atop the pile of rubbish, sat a deep emerald envelope with gold filigree calligraphy.
“Oh, my God.” She rushed to the mailboxes and lifted it with shaky hands.
* * *
Daisy Burdan
* * *
They knew her name now. The game was changing.
Her hand trembled as she reached forward, half-expecting it to dissolve like a ghost, but the paper was solid beneath her fingers. Heavy. Real. Thick as a promise and stiff enough to break.
She stared down at the emerald linen envelope as if it held more than paper inside, and her fluctuating doubts renewed to hope. Somehow, the wait had made its appearance that much more meaningful.