The discovery of the bank statement sat inside Jace like a cold, dense stone. It didn't thaw or dissolve. Instead, it became the new core of him, a hard and silent center around which he rebuilt his every action, his every word, his every smile.
He became a study in artifice. When Damian's hand brushed his lower back, Jace didn't just accept it he leaned into the touch, a subtle arch of his spine, a soft sigh. When Damian spoke about a troublesome board member, Jace listened with rapt, flattering attention, his head tilted as if hanging on every word. He was no longer just compliant; he was engaging. He was reflecting back exactly what Damian wanted to see: a masterpiece of successful re-education.
"You seem… settled," Damian remarked one evening over dinner, swirling a glass of red wine. His gaze was assessing, but the sharp edge of suspicion had softened into a possessive sort of pride.
Jace looked up from his plate, letting a small, genuine-seeming smile touch his lips. It was easy to fake when fueled by a secret. "It feels less like a storm," he said, his voice carefully measured between relief and vulnerability. "More like… a direction."
Damian's eyes darkened with satisfaction. He reached across the table, his fingers intertwining with Jace's. "I knew you'd understand. Chaos is for those who can't afford order."
Jace squeezed his hand back, the perfect pressure. Liar, his mind whispered. You bought order with a lie.
His new laptop became his battleground. During the days at the office, while ostensibly reviewing gallery catalogs or charity portfolios, he began his silent investigation. He created hidden, encrypted folders. He used Damian's own Wi-Fi to research corporate structures, offshore account basics, and most importantly the timeline of his father's debts and the hospital's billing.
He started small, testing his access. He 'accidentally' opened a shared drive folder labeled ARCHIVES – PERSONAL, clicking away with a murmured "oops" when Damian glanced over. The next day, he tried again, this time finding a subfolder named FAMILY. It was password protected. He didn't try to hack it. Not yet. He just noted it.
His true target was the "L. Agreement." He needed context. Who was L? What were the terms? He began a methodical, invisible audit of his own life from three years ago. He cross-referenced the date on the bank statement with his own memories, with old text backups he'd synced to a cloud years ago. He looked for the exact week the hospital "miracle" occurred, then scrolled through his messages with Luca from that time.
The messages were a painful read. His own texts, panicked and bleak. Luca's replies, filled with frantic, emotive reassurance that now read completely differently.
Jace (3 yrs ago): They're talking six figures, Lu. It's over.
Luca: Don't say that. It's NOT over. Things will work out. I PROMISE. Just have faith.
I PROMISE. The words screamed at him now. Luca hadn't been offering platitudes. He'd been reassuring Jace about a deal he'd already made with the devil.
The most telling gap was the two-day period right after his father's death. Luca had been oddly, uncharacteristically quiet. No check-ins. No "how are you holding up?" texts. Now Jace knew why. He'd been negotiating with Damian.
The final piece clicked into place one afternoon. Damian was on a long international call, speaking in low, urgent French. Seizing the moment, Jace used his laptop to access the penthouse's smart-home system a system Damian had casually given him access to for controlling lights and music. He navigated to the admin logs, a function buried deep in settings. He wouldn't understand most of it, but he scanned for familiar names or dates.
And there it was. A log entry from over three years ago: GUEST ACCESS GRANTED: LUCA MOREAU.
Moreau.
The air left Jace's lungs. The stone in his gut turned to pure, white-hot fury.
Luca Moreau.
It wasn't just an initial. It was a last name. A shared last name.
Luca and Damian weren't just acquaintances. They were family.
The lie wasn't just financial. It was a vast, foundational conspiracy. His best friend was the cousin of his captor. The "miracle" was a family transaction. Every piece of advice, every worried look from Luca… it was all tainted. They had been playing him from both sides.
Jace closed the browser, his hands steady despite the inferno raging inside him. He looked through the open office door at Damian's back, the man's powerful shoulders tense as he dealt with his overseas crisis.
A new, cold clarity settled over him. This wasn't just about a debt. This was about being a pawn in a game between cousins. A game where he was the prize.
His revenge would no longer be just about the money. It would be about the betrayal. And it would target them both.
He stood up, walked to the office bar, and poured two fingers of Damian's best Scotch. He carried it to the doorway, leaning against the frame, waiting for the call to end. When Damian finally hung up, rubbing his temples, Jace stepped forward and offered the glass.
Damian looked up, surprised, then pleased. He took the drink, his fingers brushing Jace's. "Thank you."
"You looked like you needed it," Jace said, his voice a soft, caring murmur. He let his hand rest on Damian's shoulder, feeling the strong muscle beneath the crisp cotton. "Big problem?"
"Nothing I can't handle," Damian said, taking a sip, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
I know, Jace thought, his smile perfectly gentle. But can you handle me?
He had the name. He had the connection. The stone of his fury was now being carved into a weapon. The obedient pet was gone. In his place stood the apprentice, studying his master's every move, learning the game, and waiting for the perfect moment to checkmate the king… and his treacherous knight.