Keith did not go back to the office.
He drove.
No destination at first—just motion, streets bleeding into one another as his thoughts sharpened into something colder than anger. Jasmine's composure replayed in his mind. The way she hadn't flinched. The way she had controlled the room without raising her voice.
And that gesture.
The hand to her abdomen.
Nothing, she'd said.
Keith didn't believe in coincidences.
By the time he stopped the car, the plan had already formed.
Jasmine felt it before she saw it.
The shift.
The way the air in her apartment seemed to tighten, as if the city itself had leaned closer. She had just finished a call with HR—routine, boring, safe—when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
She didn't answer.
A second buzz followed, this time a message.
You left something behind.
Her fingers went still.
She typed back, measured.
Be specific.
The reply came almost instantly.
The storage unit on Mercer. You closed the account, but not before records were pulled.
Her jaw set.
That wasn't money. That wasn't curiosity.
That was intrusion.
She stood and moved to the window, scanning the street below. Nothing out of place. No black sedans. No watchers she could see. Which meant if he'd crossed a line, he'd done it quietly.
Too quietly.
Her phone buzzed again.
Relax. I haven't touched anything. Yet.
The implication landed hard.
Jasmine typed once more.
You said you wanted resolution.
I said I wanted answers.
She closed her eyes.
There it was—the shift from negotiation to entitlement.
The line he thought he could step over.
Across town, Keith stood in a private records room, phone in hand, watching as a clerk finalized a retrieval request. Old documents. Archived contracts. Nothing illegal.
Just invasive.
He justified it easily.
If she's hiding something, I need to know what it is.
He told himself it was precaution.
He didn't admit it was fear.
Jasmine didn't panic.
She pivoted.
Within an hour, three calls were made. One to the clinic. One to her lawyer—not one Keith knew. One to a number saved without a name.
When the phone connected, she spoke without preamble.
"He's digging," she said. "Deeper than agreed."
A pause. Then a calm reply. "Do you want containment or correction?"
Jasmine looked at her reflection in the darkened window—steady, resolved.
"Correction," she said. "But not yet."
"Understood. Timing?"
"Soon," Jasmine replied. "But not before he proves he deserves it."
She ended the call and exhaled slowly.
If Keith wanted answers, he would get them.
Just not in the way he expected.
That night, a package was delivered to Keith's penthouse.
No return address.
Inside was a single folder.
No documents.
No accusations.
Just a photocopy of a clinic intake form—redacted except for one line circled in black ink.
Primary Decision-Maker: Patient Only
Keith stared at it for a long time.
Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
You crossed a line. Consider this a warning.
His grip tightened.
Not because of what he'd seen.
But because of what he suddenly understood.
There was a future forming without him at its center.
And for the first time, Keith Acland wasn't sure how to stop it.