CHAPTER 1


    The rain arrived without apology, a gray shroud draping the city since dawn. It wasn’t a grand storm—just a steady drizzle, seeping into everything, unnoticed until it weighed heavily on the world.


    Through the fogged windows of Rosenthal & Co. Books, the street outside blurred into motion and shadow. Horse-drawn carts creaked over wet cobblestones, their wheels groaning against stone worn by centuries of footsteps. A couple of men passed by, silhouettes beneath crooked umbrellas, their faces ghostly in the mist. A gas lamp flickered, its light dissolving into the gloom like a half-spoken secret.


    Inside, the bookstore was a world apart—quiet, but not peaceful, more like a weight pressing against your ribs. The shelves rose like sentinels, packed with books that smelled of old ink and faded paper, their spines like gravestones for lives now distilled into paragraphs.


    Behind the counter stood a woman. She wasn’t striking, but there was a quiet elegance in her—a symmetry like frost on glass. Her dark hair framed a face too still to be serene, shadows carving out her high cheekbones.


    Her name, etched in marble on the counter, read: Harlyn Rosenthal, Proprietor. But it didn’t need to be there. The shop was a reflection of her—worn yet enduring, filled with things unspoken.


    Beside her, Salem, her black cat, stretched languidly, amber eyes tracing the slow crawl of raindrops down the window. Time moved differently for cats. They knew things we didn’t.


    The door creaked open, the bell above jangling. A woman entered—old, wrapped in a crimson coat, her umbrella dripping onto the wooden floor. She carried a worn book, its cover frayed like a letter read too often.


    Placing it on the counter, she asked, “How much for this?”


    Harlyn didn’t immediately respond. Her gaze drifted past the window, as if searching for something unseen. Her fingers tapped softly on the wood, a rhythm only she could hear. Finally, her voice broke the silence.


    “Twelve francs,” she said quietly.


    The woman frowned. “Twelve? For this? It’s falling apart.”


    Harlyn’s lips curved slightly. “Most things worth having are.”


    The woman studied her for a moment, then paid, dropping a few francs onto the counter. Her voice was laced with forced sympathy as she added, “I heard about your separation. Have you filed for divorce?”


    Harlyn’s voice turned cold. “Not yet.” No more was said. The woman left as quietly as she had come, her footsteps lost in the fading hum of the rain.


    Then the phone rang.


    An old rotary, shrill and jarring in the stillness. Harlyn stared at it for a moment, then picked it up, as if afraid it would vanish when touched.


    “Rosenthal & Co.,” she said, her voice colder than before.


    A man’s voice answered, flat and precise. “Lucas is dead. He was murdered last night.”


    The words landed like an echo Harlyn had been waiting for. Her face remained unreadable, but her grip on the receiver tightened.


    “Meet me at four. Blue Café. Don’t be late.”


    The line went dead.


    The shop felt heavier, the silence now thick with the weight of those words. Salem stretched, then slinked off into the shadows, leaving the room as still as it had been before. Outside, the rain continued, indifferent to the unraveling beginning inside the bookstore.


    CHAPTER 2


    (One year before the murder)


    The weather was a rare, perfect balance—warmth softened by a gentle breeze, a day that didn''t demand attention but quietly earned it. The park, tucked away from the city''s chaos, was a sanctuary. Its cobblestone paths led nowhere in particular, just to solitude. Trees stood like old philosophers, their leaves whispering to each other. A pond shimmered in the distance, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a bird.


    On a bench worn smooth by time, Harlyn sat, poised yet effortless. The sunlight, filtering through the leaves above, traced fleeting patterns on her face. Beside her, Lucas leaned back, his eyes distant, lost in thought. He wasn’t remarkable at first glance—just a man in his thirties—but his eyes held a heaviness, like an unread letter, tucked away.


    "Do you think love changes us?" he asked, his voice low.


    Harlyn considered the question before answering. "No. I think it reveals us."


    Lucas chuckled softly. "That sounds dangerously insightful."


    She smiled, not wide, but faintly, like sunlight slipping behind a cloud. "People think love makes them braver, kinder. But it just peels away the layers we''ve hidden beneath."


    “Maybe you’re right,” Lucas said. “Life feels different now.”


    “Really?” Harlyn asked. “What do you see?”


    "An unspoken joy," Lucas replied. "Like a child walking over the corpses of regret."


    There was a pause. Then, his voice softened. "There''s something I should’ve told you sooner."


    Harlyn didn’t react, her gaze steady, waiting. Lucas exhaled slowly.


    "I was married before. But this... this was the first time I was revealed."


    The words hung between them, fragile and heavy. Harlyn didn’t look away. She studied him, her expression unreadable.


    “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.


    Lucas rubbed his neck. "Maybe I thought it didn’t matter. Or maybe I was afraid it still did."


    Harlyn turned her gaze back to the trees, her fingers tracing the bench’s armrest. "We all carry things we don’t want to name. Sometimes secrets are just remnants."


    After a moment, Harlyn stood, brushing dust from her dress. She walked to an old oak tree, its gnarled bark ancient and wise.


    "Okay, Lucas," she said, a playful glint in her eyes, "If you really love me, carve my name into this tree."


    Lucas blinked, surprised by the request. "Now?"


    "Now."


    He pulled out a pocketknife and, with quiet reverence, etched H-A-R-L-Y-N into the bark. When he finished, he stepped back, breathing unevenly—not from the effort, but from something else.


    Harlyn approached, her fingertips grazing the fresh carving. She smiled warmly, then wrapped her arms around him gently, like an anchor that kept him steady. Her face pressed against his shoulder, eyes half-closed, as if memorizing the moment.


    The tree stood as a witness, its bark now holding her name—simple, yet weighty with the unsaid. The leaves whispered, but only the wind knew their secret.


    CHAPTER 3


    (Present Day)


    Blue Café sat in a quiet corner of a narrow street, its worn sign creaking in the breeze, reflecting the aging city. Inside, dim brass lamps cast shadows over scratched mahogany tables, the air thick with unspoken conversation.


    Harlyn sat alone, her coffee cooling beside her, untouched. The rain had stopped, leaving the windows fogged, blurring the city beyond.


    The scrape of a chair drew her attention. A man settled across from her, his charcoal-gray overcoat damp at the shoulders, a cigar glowing in his hand.


    “Harlyn Rosenthal,” he said, exhaling smoke. “You’re even more striking than Lucas described.”


    His voice was rough, his face rugged, not handsome but compelling. Harlyn studied him, her gaze cool.


    “Hopefully, that was a compliment. And you are?”


    “Senior Inspector, Thomas Huntsman,” he replied, tapping ash into a saucer. “Old friend of your husband. We were classmates.”


    Harlyn''s brow furrowed. “You were friends with Lucas?”


    “We had mutual interests,” he said, his smile cold.


    She leaned forward. “Why are you here?”


    “I’ve just come from the scene of Lucas’s murder,” Thomas said, his tone low.


    Harlyn’s breath caught, but her face remained composed. “I know,” she whispered. “I was told.”


    “It was brutal,” he continued. “Stabbed deep. Blood everywhere. Everyone visited, but you didn’t.”


    Her grip on her cup tightened slightly, betraying her calm. “If you’re here to offer condolences or investigate, I don’t know anything.”


    “I’m not here for that,” Thomas said with a dry chuckle. “I’m here for a photograph.”


    “A photograph?” Harlyn echoed, confusion flickering.


    Thomas nodded. “Lucas had something of mine—a photograph. I want it back.”


    “Why would Lucas have your photograph?”


    “Because he was blackmailing me with it.”


    The words landed heavily, and Harlyn’s pulse quickened, though her face remained unreadable.


    “Blackmail?” she asked softly. “I don’t know anything about that.”


    Thomas studied her with a sharp gaze. “I think you do. I see terror in your eyes.”


    “Even if he had it, how would I know where it is?”


    Thomas smiled, but it was all teeth and no warmth. “You have two days to find it. After that… I’ll show you exactly what kind of man I am.”


    He stood, adjusting his coat. “Two days,” he repeated, his voice soft, then walked out, leaving the faint trace of cigar smoke in the air.


    Harlyn sat motionless, her heart racing. A photograph. Blackmail. Murder. The ground beneath her shifted, and she knew things were about to get complicated.


    CHAPTER 4


    (Two weeks before the murder)


    The dim green lamp flickered over Lucas’s cluttered desk, casting restless shadows in his study. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco, ink, and a fading ambition. The brass clock on the mantle ticked steadily, its sound sharp in the heavy silence.


    Lucas stood, tense and strained, behind his desk. Across from him, Thomas Huntsman, still damp from the rain, stood with his sharp gaze, studying him like a predator.


    Lucas slid a photograph across the glass. It caught the light for a moment—a damning, shadowed image.


    “You’re not the only one who knows how to play this game,” Lucas murmured, his voice low with controlled rage.


    Thomas picked up the photo and flicked through it indifferently, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his annoyance. “Blackmail for blackmail?”


    Lucas let out a dry chuckle, leaning forward, his reflection fractured on the glass. “You thought you had me cornered. Threatening to expose my business dealings? I’ve been in the dark world for years.”


    Thomas raised an eyebrow, slipping the photo back onto the desk. “Business dealings? You’re no saint, Lucas.” He lit a cigarette with a casual defiance. “And neither am I.”


    Lucas’s eyes darkened. “A true businessman is always ahead of his enemies.”


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    “Then why do you look so desperate?” Thomas shot back.


    The clock ticked loudly in the suffocating silence.


    Lucas straightened, his face hardening. He jabbed at the photograph. “It’s evidence of your affair. It could ruin your career. Twenty lacs in two days, or it goes public.”


    Thomas stared at him, his face unreadable. “Twenty lacs? You’re insane.”


    Lucas slammed his fist onto the desk, causing the lamp to flicker. “I need the money. That’s all you need to know.”


    Thomas studied him for a moment before leaning in, his voice soft but curious. “Why, Lucas? Why the hell do you need that much money?”


    Lucas’s jaw tightened. “None of your business.”


    Thomas smirked, flicking ash onto the floor. “Business fraud wasn’t enough? Debts, maybe? Or something else? You’re not as ahead of your enemies as you think.”


    Lucas’s breathing quickened, but he said nothing. The tension thickened.


    Thomas stood and crushed his cigarette underfoot. “You’ll get your answer when I decide you’re worth it,” he said, turning toward the door. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re in Hell now, and I am its keeper.”


    “Two days, Lucas. But don’t expect me to play by your rules.”


    The door clicked shut, leaving Lucas alone with the photograph, his reflection fragmented in the glass. The clock kept ticking.


    CHAPTER 5


    (Present Day)


    The old cathedral loomed against the grey sky, its stone spires cutting through the morning mist. Inside, stained glass windows filtered muted light onto polished pews, and the distant toll of the church bell marked the farewell of Lucas Rosenthal.


    Mourners, draped in black, blended into the sorrowful atmosphere. The priest’s voice murmured verses, fading into the cavernous silence, while the scent of incense mixed with lilies beside the closed casket.


    The grand doors creaked open just as the priest spoke of eternal rest. Harlyn Rosenthal stepped in, a dark figure framed by the dim light outside. Her heels echoed sharply as she moved down the aisle, a silent presence in black. Her black dress clung to her slender frame, and dark sunglasses hid her eyes, reflecting only shadows. A small basket, carrying her cat, hung down her arm.


    Reaching the front, she paused to embrace Clara, Lucas’s sister. Their exchange was wordless, just the quiet transfer of grief. Clara’s sobs muffled against Harlyn’s shoulder, while Harlyn’s grip remained firm, as if afraid to fall apart.


    After releasing Clara gently, Harlyn moved toward Thomas Huntsman, seated in quiet reflection. His gaze flicked up as she sat beside him, the shift in his demeanor barely noticeable.


    Beneath the priest’s sermon, Harlyn leaned in, whispering, “Please, Thomas, I just need more time.”


    His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at her. “You have until tomorrow,” he said flatly. “I’m done waiting.”


    The words sank deep, heavier than any prayer. Harlyn remained still, her face a mask, though something inside threatened to splinter.


    The funeral passed in a blur of rites, and when it ended, the congregation moved outside, shadows stretching beneath the reluctant sun.


    The churchyard opened into a park, autumn leaves scattered like faded memories. Harlyn wandered aimlessly, her steps slow, until her eyes caught a tall tree standing apart from the others. There, etched into the bark, was her name: “HARLYN.”


    A sharp breath caught in her throat. Memories of Lucas, his laugh, the warmth of his touch, the knife scraping against bark as he carved her name, flooded her mind.


    Her fingers traced the worn letters. With a brittle smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she pulled out a penknife and carved another name beneath hers: “LUCAS.”


    As the final letter was etched, a tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, denying its existence, as if it could erase the debts, threats, and secrets buried under the earth.


    But names carved into trees last longer than people, and sometimes, longer than the truth itself.


    CHAPTER 6


    (One week before the murder)


    The room was dim, lit only by a flickering candle casting soft shadows. Velvet curtains let in streaks of amber light, mingling with the haze of cigarette smoke.


    Harlyn sat on the edge of an unmade bed, a glass of red wine in hand, its dark liquid swirling like blood-red storms. The silk sheet slid carelessly down her legs, revealing skin that felt both warm and distant.


    Lucas reclined beside her, his white shirt crumpled, chest rising and falling in exhaustion. A faint lipstick smudge stained the collar.


    Silence stretched between them. Harlyn broke it, her voice low. “The wine’s bitter.”


    “Maybe it’s the company,” Lucas replied with a dry chuckle.


    Harlyn offered a brittle smile, her eyes meeting his. “We pretend well, don’t we? As a happy couple.”


    Lucas stared at the ceiling, lighting a cigarette. “It’s not pretending if it worked once.”


    Harlyn turned away, her eyes catching the cracked mirror. Two broken reflections stared back. She took a slow sip of wine. “You loved me once, didn’t you?”


    “I did,” Lucas admitted, his voice heavy. “Maybe I still do. Or maybe I miss the idea of us.”


    “The idea was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Harlyn whispered.


    Lucas laughed softly, but it was more of a sigh. “It was easy. Easy things are beautiful until they’re not. Back then, we had words we couldn’t say, now we can, but we don’t.”


    Another silence filled the room, thick with what they didn’t say.


    Finally, Lucas shifted, his tone colder. “I’m in trouble, Harlyn. Business is bad. Life’s been unkind.”


    She didn’t flinch. “What kind of trouble?”


    “Debts. People who don’t ask twice when they want something back.”


    Harlyn’s gaze remained steady. “And you think I can fix that?”


    He studied her, as if searching for the woman she once was. “I think you’re smarter than me. Desperate people are easy to outsmart.”


    Her heart clenched. She took another sip of wine. “Maybe we’re both desperate, just in different ways. I don’t think the magic is working anymore.”


    Lucas didn’t argue, his eyes empty. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his lips to her shoulder—not out of passion, but habit.


    Harlyn closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep in. In that dim room, with bitter wine and broken promises, they clung to the illusion—not out of love, but out of fear of letting go.


    CHAPTER 7


    (Present Day)


    The studio was a chaotic mix of colour and paint, tucked away from the city''s noise. Large windows filtered waning light, casting fragmented shadows across wooden floors stained with years of spilled paint. The air smelled of oils, ash, and something metallic—like blood lingering beneath the surface.


    Harlyn sat on a cracked leather couch, Salem, her cat, curled in her lap. Across the room, Simie stood before an enormous canvas, her brush strokes precise yet violent, as if she were carving herself into the paint.


    Simie hadn’t spoken to Harlyn for over an hour. The silence pressed against Harlyn’s ribs, thick and heavy. Finally, Simie’s brush halted, and her voice broke the quiet.


    “Why are you here, Harlyn?”


    Harlyn stroked Salem’s fur before answering. “I thought you might’ve come to the funeral. Lucas is no more.”


    Simie let out a short, sharp breath, part laugh, part scoff. She set the brush down and turned to face Harlyn.


    “Funerals are for the living, not the dead,” she said. “I don’t waste time on rituals that pretend to mean something.”


    Harlyn’s jaw tensed. “He was your husband once.”


    Simie shrugged. “Was. That’s the important part.” She stepped closer, her bare feet soundless on the floorboards. “I hadn’t spoken to Lucas in over a year. No letters. No calls. No regrets.”


    Harlyn shifted, her fingers absently brushing Salem’s ear. “Whatever happened in the past… it’s the past. But you loved him once. Doesn’t that count for something?”


    Simie’s laugh was brittle, like glass breaking. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.


    “Love’s a trick the heart plays on the mind. Temporary insanity we dress up with promises. It’s bullshit. And Harlyn, have you come to advise me on life choices?”


    Harlyn wanted to argue but held back. After a moment, Simie’s gaze sharpened.


    “Did Lucas ever give you a photograph? Something old, something personal?”


    The question hit with unexpected force. Harlyn’s heartbeat faltered, but she replied calmly. “No.”


    Simie watched her, then nodded slowly, as if confirming something. She turned back to her canvas.


    Harlyn stood to leave, Salem stretching and leaping from her lap. At the door, Harlyn paused, her hand on the frame.


    Simie didn’t turn. Her voice softened, almost reflective. “Some secrets are safest when they’re never found, Harlyn. I’ve learned this from my own life.”


    Harlyn’s pulse quickened, her grip tightening on Salem’s carrier.


    “Goodbye,” Simie said, her brush already carving another secret into the canvas.


    Harlyn stepped out into the cold evening air, her heart heavy with more questions than when she arrived.


    CHAPTER 8 (Two days before the murder)


    The door to Lucas’ study burst open with a force that rattled the glass panes, slamming against the wall like a gunshot. Golden slants of afternoon light crept through half-drawn curtains, streaking across the room, revealing the stale haze of cigarette smoke coiling lazily in the thick air.


    Lucas sat behind his grand mahogany desk, a glass of bourbon shake in one hand, the other absentmindedly tracing circles on the polished wood. The sharp sound of footsteps, deliberate and venomous, broke his trance. His eyes flicked upward, cold and predatory, like a wolf interrupted mid-hunt.


    Simie stood in the doorway, her silhouette fierce against the halo of light behind her. Her hair was wild, eyes sharper than the knives she claimed she didn’t need. No polite greetings, no rehearsed words, just raw, undiluted rage.


    She stalked into the room, each step like a silent accusation.


    "Where’s my money, Lucas?" Her voice was low, almost a growl, thick with disdain.


    Lucas didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink, savouring the burn as if it amused him. His lips curled into that infuriating half-smile—the one he wore like armour.


    "Simie," he purred, voice smooth as silk with edges sharp as glass. "Still mistaking impatience for urgency, I see."


    Her eyes narrowed, fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. She slammed both hands onto his desk, leaning in, the fury in her gaze practically searing.


    "Twenty lacs, Lucas. Not twenty pennies. I had given you the money long back so that you could start the business. I had trusted you. But you never bothered to return it back to me. You kept me waiting for days. I want it back. Now."


    Lucas finally set his glass down with deliberate grace, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the rim. He leaned back, studying her like one would an insect trapped in a jar—fascinated by its struggle.


    "Ah, the delicate sound of desperation," he mused, tilting his head. "Almost poetic. But poetry doesn''t pay debts, does it?"


    Simie’s jaw tightened. "This isn’t a game, you bastard."


    "Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong," Lucas replied, his grin darkening. "Life is nothing but a game. The only difference is—I play to win."


    Simie straightened, pacing now, her fury simmering just beneath the surface. "You promised six months. It’s been a goddamn year."


    Lucas chuckled softly, shaking his head as if she’d just missed the punchline of a joke. "Promises are like sketches, Simie. Some are meant to be erased for the picture to be perfect."


    She spun to face him, her voice dropping to a whisper sharp enough to cut glass.


    "I should’ve never trusted you."


    Lucas rose from his chair in one fluid motion, his smile fading into something colder, something feral. He stepped around the desk, closing the distance until they were nearly nose to nose, his shadow swallowing hers whole.


    "No, darling," he whispered, his breath warm and laced with bourbon. "You should’ve trusted me. But trust was never our currency, was it? Greed was."


    Simie didn’t blink. Didn’t move. "Give me my money, Lucas. Or I swear—my strokes are so perfect, I could kill mercilessly, and no one would ever know."


    A dangerous gleam flickered in Lucas’s eyes. Then he laughed—a low, dark sound that didn’t reach his eyes.


    "Oh, Simie," he whispered, leaning closer. "Killing isn’t an art. Living with the blood on your hands—that’s the real masterpiece."


    Silence fell, thick and suffocating.


    Simie stared at him for a beat longer, then spun on her heel, her footsteps echoing as she disappeared down the hall.


    Lucas stood alone, the echo of her threat lingering like a shadow. He poured himself another drink, raising his glass to no one in particular.


    "To masterpieces," he muttered, smirking. "And the fools who think they can paint without blood."


    CHAPTER 9


    (Present Day)


    The cold water hit Harlyn’s skin like knives. She leaned over the cracked sink, breath ragged, her fingers trembling as invisible chains settled on her. The mirror above was fractured, distorting her reflection just enough to make her look like someone else.


    But it was her. It had always been her.


    She stared into her eyes, dark with something deeper than grief.


    "Is this what’s left of you?" she whispered.


    Her reflection didn’t blink.


    "Thomas will have you behind bars by tomorrow," she muttered bitterly. "For a photograph you’ve never seen or a forgotten guilt."


    Her chest tightened as the weight of it all pressed down.


    "You should’ve been smarter. But no, you believed in love, in promises carved on trees, in men with soft words and sharp knives."


    A pause. Then a dry, hollow laugh.


    "What did love ever give you, Harlyn? A carved name? A funeral hug? A debt you didn’t owe?"


    She slammed her hands against the sink, her reflection shuddering. Her breath quickened.


    "Maybe Thomas wins. Maybe they all do," she murmured, leaning in closer. "Unless..."


    Silence.


    Then, like a thread snapping, her eyes cleared—sharp, determined.


    "No more running." Her voice was soft, but resolute. "If the voices won’t stop, I’ll silence the ones who give them life."


    She wiped her face, straightened, and walked out, leaving the fractured reflection behind.


    CHAPTER 10


    (Present Day)


    The car stopped smoothly in front of ‘Dine in Divine’, its black exterior reflecting the flickering street lamps. The hum of conversations and clinking glasses drifted from within, warmth spilling out against the evening chill.


    Thomas Huntsmann stepped out, straightening his coat with casual authority, his face carrying that familiar smugness.


    Across the street, Harlyn emerged from the shadows, scarf loosely wrapped, her steps light and cautious. She followed him inside, the golden chandelier lights doing little to ease the knot in her chest.


    Thomas joined a lively group at a far corner table, laughter and glasses raised. Harlyn positioned herself behind a marble pillar, hidden but with a clear view. Her gloved hand brushed against the revolver in her pocket, waiting for him to leave his friends for the washroom.


    But fate had other plans.


    “Harlyn,” a voice called softly from behind.


    Her heart lurched. She spun around, expecting—what? The man she was watching? But there he stood, his face the same yet different—colder, sharper.


    “How can you be—” she stammered.


    Thomas smiled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Surprised? That’s my twin brother, Theodore. We don’t advertise it—it makes life simpler.”


    He stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You don’t have to worry about the photograph. We found what was left of it… burnt to ashes in Lucas’ study.”


    Relief mingled with suspicion, but Thomas wasn’t finished.


    “One last thing, Harlyn,” he said, his voice cool. “Did you go to Lucas’ house the night he was murdered?”


    The air pressed against her chest. She could’ve lied, but instead, she said, “Yes.”


    Thomas smiled, a slow, knowing smile. He turned to walk away but paused, glancing over his shoulder.


    “I knew, Harlyn. I was there too… handing him a cheque. Right before you came in.” He turned back to the crowd, leaving Harlyn standing there, her heart racing, her mind unraveling.


    CHAPTER 11


    (The Night of the Murder)


    The door slammed shut, leaving behind the echo of Thomas Huntsmann’s retreating footsteps. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension.


    Lucas stood by his desk, the cheque in his hand—valuable, yet fragile in a crumbling world. He muttered to himself, “Twenty lacs. A price on borrowed time. Finally, I can repay Simie’s debts and be rid of her.”


    But time wasn’t done with him.


    The door creaked open again. Harlyn stepped inside, Salem tucked under her arm. She set him down on the desk, but Lucas didn’t look up.


    “What now?” he sighed, slipping the cheque into an envelope. “What brings the Royal Highness to this pauper’s hut?”


    Harlyn’s voice was sharp. “I heard things. About you.”


    Lucas raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Oh? What thrilling gossip today? Affairs or black business?”


    She stepped closer. “Rumors. About blackmail. About your deals in the dark.”


    Lucas chuckled. “People love ugly stories. Makes their lives feel less pathetic.”


    Harlyn’s voice grew quieter but sharper. “I could’ve lived with differences, but not with a man who’s a stranger. A bloody blackmailer.”


    Lucas didn’t flinch. “And yet, here you are.”


    She turned to leave, her footsteps sharp. The door clicked shut behind her, soft but final.


    Lucas sank into silence. His eyes flicked to the envelope with the cheque, like it held answers instead of debts.


    Salem, perched on the desk, nudged the envelope with a paw. It slid toward the fireplace.


    “No!” Lucas lunged forward, but his foot caught the rug. He twisted, stumbling, crashing onto the floor.


    Fate had placed a forgotten knife perfectly beneath him. The blade sank deep. A gasp escaped him, sharp and raw. Blood bloomed across the floor.


    The door creaked open again.


    “Lucas… I forgot to take Salem with me,” Harlyn’s voice called from the doorway.


    She stood there, eyes catching the scene—Lucas on the floor, blood staining the wood. She didn’t rush to him.


    Her gaze flicked to Salem, who sat calmly on the desk. Harlyn realized too late that she had never truly wished for Lucas’s death. But destiny had its own ways of paying great debts.