Jack Lewis wasn’t supposed to feel things like this. Not him — not the youngest boss in South London, not the kid who turned street corners into empire before he even hit twenty. But there he was, parked in his matte black Audi, engine humming low, and all he could see was her.

Gemma Morgan. The one that got away.

It had been two years since she vanished, slipping out of his life just as he was rising. Back then, before the roads pulled him in deep, she was the only thing that made him think about more than traplines and turf wars. She made him dream of clean money, of getting out. But dreams don’t last on these streets.

She left, and Jack stayed. And in that space she left behind, he built walls out of cash, fear, and power. Now, at twenty, he ran South London. His name carried weight — in whispers and in warnings. But all his muscle couldn’t change one thing: Gemma Morgan was still the only thing he couldn’t control.

And now she was back.

Jack crushed his cigarette and flicked it out into the rain. Word was, she’d come home — back to her mum’s flat on Clifton Rise. The roads could wait. Tonight, he wasn’t chasing money.

He was chasing her.

His phone buzzed. Rico, his right-hand man, chatting about a new shipment. Jack barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the flats ahead.

“Handle it,” Jack muttered, killing the call.

Then he saw her. Hood up, head down, carrying bags like she could blend in. But Jack would’ve known her in any crowd. She looked different — older, tired maybe — but still her. Still the girl who used to call him Jay and tell him he was better than this life.

Their eyes met. Just for a second. Long enough to hit him like a shot to the chest.

She turned away fast, fumbling for her keys, like she hadn’t seen him. Like she could pretend.

But Jack Lewis didn’t get ignored. Not now. Not ever.

He killed the engine, shoved open the car door, and stepped out into the rain.

South London was his kingdom. But tonight, all he wanted was Gemma Morgan.