Keith Acland's penthouse was darker than usual, the blinds drawn as if to shut out the city itself. He stood by the window, phone in hand, jaw tight, heartbeat louder than he would admit.
"She's alive, sir," his investigator reported for the third time that day. "We've confirmed she's in the city—but not her exact location. Every trace she's left points to deliberate misdirection."
Keith's eyes, always sharp, now flickered with something unfamiliar: frustration. Rage simmered beneath the surface, but he controlled it with a steel edge.
"Impossible," he said quietly. "She shouldn't be able to move this fast. She shouldn't…"
His voice trailed.
"She's faster, smarter, and more careful than you give her credit for," the investigator continued. "She's taking precautions—security cameras, phone burner numbers, travel under aliases. It's surgical."
Keith slammed the phone down on the desk. The sound echoed across the penthouse, sharp and final. He was used to controlling outcomes. Used to people moving according to his design. Not this. Not her.
Across town, Jasmine moved with deliberate grace, her laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard. Data compiled, emails filtered, contingencies calculated. Every action taken in the past weeks was now converging on one purpose: control the narrative before he could strike.
Her phone buzzed—unknown number. She didn't flinch.
Text:You're running out of time. – K
A small, private thrill passed through her. He was looking. Panicked even, though he wouldn't admit it.
She typed back a single line, precise and cold:
I don't answer to you.
Send.
She leaned back, stretching, letting the city lights wash over her. Every plan she had put in motion—the apartment, the new job, the secrecy around the pregnancy—was a shield. And soon, it would be a weapon.
That evening, Keith's office was tense, silent except for the occasional tap of a keyboard. He had called in his most trusted aides, yet their words were cautious, almost fearful.
"Sir," one finally said, clearing his throat. "We've mapped her likely routes. Patterns suggest she's testing your response, seeing how far you'll go to find her."
Keith's eyes narrowed. "Testing me?"
"Yes. And—"
"Enough," he interrupted sharply. His usual cold, measured tone returned, but it carried something new: the weight of a challenge he hadn't faced in years. A challenge he couldn't simply command away.
Meanwhile, Jasmine left the office, blending into the evening crowd. Nothing flashy. No cameras. No traceable habits. Just a woman walking with purpose, aware of every pair of eyes on her yet untouchable.
She paused at a quiet café, slipping inside. Laptop opened. Notes spread. Her plans were moving faster than he could anticipate.
And then she allowed herself a small smile.
Soon, he would realize the rules had changed.
The wife he thought broken was now a force in motion.
She sipped her coffee and whispered to herself:
Let him come. I'm ready.
Back at the penthouse, Keith's phone buzzed again. A single photo attached: Jasmine, smiling casually outside the café, laptop on the table, coffee untouched.
No text. Just the image.
His hand tightened around the phone.
She wasn't hiding. She was taunting him.
A low growl escaped him. Pride, fury, and disbelief tangled together. The first real loss of control he'd ever faced.
And now… he had a choice. Strike recklessly, or watch everything he thought he controlled slip through his fingers.
The reckoning had begun.