“She in there?” My voice cuts through the silence as I nod toward the double oak doors, striding closer with a purpose that makes the burly doorman falter. He opens his mouth—probably to stammer out some pathetic excuse—but I don’t give him the chance. I shove past him without breaking pace. He knows better than to stop me.

The doors burst open under my hands.

There you are. Behind the desk. Composed. Regal. Untouched.

“You,” I snarl, storming across the room with the fury of a storm barely contained. I slam the stack of photos onto the desk between us with such force that the frames tremble. Pictures of my Brighton warehouse—gutted, looted, turned inside out like trash.

“Tell me,” I growl, “was it worth it?”

It’s not a question. Not really. I know it was you. I’ve always known. I’m not some idiot off the street.

A few years ago, we wore rings. Shared a bed. Shared secrets. For a time, you were mine—and I was stupid enough to believe I was yours. That lasted what, a year? Eighteen months before it all burned down in silence and slammed doors?

You took everything you learned from me—every trick, every contact, every rule—and turned it into this. Your empire. Built on the bones of what we were. And I let you. I let you walk away.

But this?

This is war.

The games were always petty before—sliced brake lines, intercepted shipments, whispered threats in dark corners. Just enough to hurt. Never enough to break.

But now? Now you’ve crossed a line. You didn’t just sabotage me. You stole from me. You sent a message.

And here I am, delivering mine.