JAY'S POV
London didn't welcome.
It assessed.
The moment the jet doors opened, cold air sliced through me—sharp, deliberate. I stepped onto the tarmac without breaking stride.
Black leather pants. Fitted jacket. Heels that clicked like punctuation. Sunglasses hiding everything that didn't need to be seen.
People were already waiting.
They bowed.
Not exaggerated. Not theatrical.
Correct.
The driver bowed down . He opened the door. Damian slid in beside me, silent, observant. The car moved before the jet engines even powered down.
The city blurred past tinted glass—steel, stone, history stacked on itself. London hadn't changed.
I had.
The private estate loomed behind iron gates, old money and newer power. Inside, everything smelled like polish and quiet decisions. We settled fast—rooms already prepared, schedules waiting like open traps.
Damian laid it out once we were seated.
"Next seven days are tight," he said, projecting calm. "Board briefings. JJM legal consolidation. Three private meetings—two friendly, one… not. Press is on standby, but we're keeping you out of public view until after your birthday."
I nodded.
"Watson-linked subsidiaries are behaving," he added carefully. "For now."
My jaw tightened. Damian clocked it instantly but didn't comment.
When he finished, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, frowned. "I'll take this."
The door closed behind him.
Silence settled.
I picked up my phone.
Dialed without hesitation.
The line rang once.
Then—
"JAY?!"
Amy's voice exploded through the speaker.
"Oh my god—oh my GOD—are you serious?You never call first unless you are....here...Nooo waittt the hell You're back? You're actually back in London?"
I smiled despite myself. "Missed you too."
She screamed. Actually screamed. "Where are you? When did you land? Why didn't you tell me? Do you know how many meetings I've cancelled in my head just now?"
"I landed an hour ago."
"You're dead to me," she said immediately. "I need to see you ahhh let's meet tonight ita an order..."
"Tonight?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Yess I know you love privacy here so an exclusive club. No arguments. You, me, Damian. I'll have someone killed if you say no."
"I missed this energy," I said dryly.
"Good," she snapped. "Be ready in two hours."
The call cut.
I stared at the phone for a moment.
Then exhaled.
Damian returned ten minutes later.
"We're going out," I said before he could speak.
He sighed. "I knew that tone.letme guess Amy? "
I laughed "duh"...
—
Two hours later, London had me back in its teeth.
The dress was red. Short. Cut just enough to be intentional. Leather boots. Hair sleek. Dangerous. The kind of look that didn't ask for attention—it took inventory.
Damian wore black. Always black. Clean lines. Quiet threat.
The club was invitation-only, hidden behind a façade that looked unimpressive by design. Inside—money, heat, shadows.
Amy spotted us instantly.
She crossed the room like a missile and hugged me hard enough to bruise.
"You look lethal Girlll" she said approvingly. "I missed you."
"Likewise," I replied.
We took a booth. Drinks appeared without ordering. Bass pulsed through bone.
Amy leaned in, eyes sharp now. "JJM's position is solid. The Watson deal's progressing smoother than expected."
The name hit.
Watson.
My fingers curled around the glass.
Amy noticed.
Damian coughed at her like silent warning...
I ignored...
"That's an issue," Amy continued carefully. "You've been officially invited by the Watson Head Jay.."
I looked up. "Invited where."
"The 29th," she said. "Leap Day. Wataon Heir's 18th birthday. Public takeover announcement."
She paused. Looked hesistant....
"Mark Keifer Watson."
The air shifted.
"No," Damian said instantly. "Absolutely not."
"It's not optional," Amy replied. "This deal is high-profile. Absence would be… noticed."
I didn't speak for a moment.
Old instincts flared. Old pain. Old restraint.
Then logic took the wheel.
"I'll go," I said calmly.
Damian turned to me. "Jay—"
"I won't engage," I cut in. "I won't react. I'll do what's required and leave."
Amy studied my face. "Are you sure?"
I met her gaze. "This is business."
She nodded once. "Alright."
We drank after that. Not recklessly—controlled. We danced. The music swallowed thought. Damian stayed close, protective without smothering.
By the time he drove me back to the estate, the city had softened into quiet.
In my room, heels discarded, dress hanging loose, I sat on the edge of the bed.
Leap Day.
Of course it would be poetic.
I didn't dread it.
I didn't crave it either.
I simply prepared.
Because whatever waited on the 29th—
I wouldn't be the one caught off guard....
The next day erased softness.
Meetings bled into meetings—glass rooms, cold smiles, numbers that decided who breathed easily and who didn't. Investors spoke like they owned pieces of me. Board members nodded like approval was currency.
I let them believe it.
By the time night folded over London, my head throbbed—not from exhaustion, but restraint.
I had just stepped into the estate, heels echoing against marble, when my phone buzzed.
Kyle.
> Kaizer spotted. East London. You want him?
I stopped walking.
My pulse didn't spike.
It settled.
> Bring him to the Raven, let's end it tonight.
Three dots blinked.
> On it, boss.
I didn't change clothes.
I transformed.
Black—head to toe. Matte fabric. No shine. No distractions. Tactical leather hugging every line like it was made to move with violence. The holsters were familiar weight against my ribs, my thigh.
Loaded.
Checked.
Checked again.
The Raven's building rose from the city like a secret—no signage, no windows at ground level, just steel and silence. Inside, it breathed power.
The moment I stepped through the doors—
Everyone bowed.
Not because they were told to.
Because they knew.
"Welcome, boss."
Guns fired upward in salute—sharp cracks that echoed like thunder. Not celebration.
Announcement.
I walked past them, slow, deliberate, heels clicking like a countdown. Sat on the black leather sofa at the center of the room.
Crossed my legs.
Waited.
Minutes later, the doors slammed open.
Kyle entered first, face tight.
Then Kaizer.
Or what was left of him.
Blood streaked down his temple, jaw swollen, one eye barely open. His shirt was soaked red, ribs already bruising purple. He tried to stand straight.
Tried.
They didn't let him.
Chains bit into his wrists as they hauled him forward and hung him against the concrete wall, arms spread, metal biting into flesh.
He groaned.
I stood.
The room went dead silent.
I walked toward him slowly, drawing my gun—not pointing it. Letting him see it. Letting his eyes follow every movement.
"Do you know," I said softly, "how many times I rehearsed this moment?"
He coughed. Blood hit the floor.
"Jay—" His voice cracked. "You don't understand—"
I fired.
Not at him.
The bullet shattered concrete inches from his head.
He screamed.
Fear finally took him properly—raw, animal, humiliating.
I circled him like he was already dead.
"Understand?" I repeated. "You killed my parents. You burned my house. You erased my childhood."
My gun rose.
Another shot.
Close. Too close.
He sobbed now. Ugly. Broken.
"I hated them," he spat suddenly, desperation turning to venom. "Your mother—your father—arrogant bastards. They looked down on me. Wouldn't partner with me. Wouldn't even listen."
I stopped.
Slowly turned.
"Do you know what's funny?" I asked quietly.
He shook his head violently.
"They probably don't remember you."
Silence.
That landed harder than any bullet.
My jaw tightened.
"You weren't worth their time," I continued. "And for that, you slaughtered them."
He screamed something incoherent.
I didn't let him finish.
This time, I shot him.
Once.
His shoulder exploded in red.
He howled.
Again.
His thigh.
Again.
The wall behind him painted itself in blood and fear.
I walked closer—until we were breathing the same air.
Gun pressed to his chest.
"You don't get forgiveness," I whispered. "You don't get closure."
My finger tightened.
Multiple shots.
Controlled.
Final.
His body went slack against the chains, blood pooling at my feet.
I stepped back.
Holstered my gun.
Turned without another glance.
"Clean it," I said calmly.
As I walked out, the city felt quieter.
Lighter.
But inside—
Nothing softened.
Nothing healed.
Because revenge doesn't close wounds.
It just reminds you how deep they go.
And tonight—
I was done pretending I was anything other than what they made me....