T.Lae's eyes flickered from Zeke's unyielding face to the polished table between them. The laughter in the room had died completely; even his intimates had fallen silent, sensing the shift in the air.
Slowly, deliberately, Zeke pulled out a contract from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He had ordered his secretary to prepare it beforehand—every clause, every condition designed to transfer the land with surgical finality. He placed the document on the table with a soft, decisive tap.
His hand rested on it, his long, well-groomed fingers stark against the white paper. "Sign it," he said, his voice flat, leaving no room for negotiation.
T.Lae stared at the contract as if it were a venomous snake. His earlier bluster had evaporated, leaving behind a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked from the paper to Zeke's cold, waiting eyes, then to the faces of his silent companions, who offered no support.
With a trembling, reluctant hand, T.Lae reached for the pen lying beside the document. The scratch of the fountain pen on paper was the only sound in the hushed salon. He signed his name with a ragged, defeated flourish.
Zeke didn't smile. He simply retrieved the signed contract, slid it back into his jacket, and stood up. The deal was sealed. The land was his.
"Pleasure doing business," Zeke said, his tone devoid of warmth. He turned and walked out of the salon, the weight of the signed document in his pocket feeling far lighter than the weight of the secrets waiting for him back at the hospital.
The war for the land was over. But the war for the truth—and for Jenny—was just beginning.
And he left the hotel. The bright sunny day did nothing to clear the tension coiled in his shoulders. He moved swiftly downstairs, where the car was waiting, its engine a low, patient hum in the dimly lit driveway. Without a word, he entered the back seat.
"The hospital," he told his driver, his voice clipped. "Now."
As the city blurred past the window, Zeke pulled out the signed contract. The weight of the paper was insignificant compared to the gravity of what came next. The acquisition of the land was just one move on the board. The real game was waiting in a sterile room, in the form of a wounded woman who held secrets that he was very much interested in.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Bakar's contact. The Men in Black had tried to silence Jenny. They'd failed. Now, it was his turn to listen.
The car sped through the bustling city, carrying him back to the heart of the storm.
When Zeke arrived at the hospital, he moved quickly through the hushed corridors to the VIP ward. His mind was sharp, focused—ready for answers, ready for confrontation. He opened the door without knocking.
The scene that greeted him was not what he expected.
Jenny was propped up against the pillows, a half-eaten bowl of broth in her lap. Color had returned to her cheeks, and she was smiling—a soft, genuine smile—as she spoke in low tones to a young girl seated beside the bed. The girl was slight, with sharp, watchful eyes and neat braids, wearing a simple but clean dress. Zeke did not recognize her.
The sight of the young girl sitting so familiarly beside Jenny, chatting with an easy intimacy, sent a sharp ripple of alertness through Zeke. He paused just inside the doorway, his composure settling over him like a coat of armor.
"I didn't expect you to have a visitor," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
"Oh, Mister Black!" The girl stood up immediately and offered a quick, respectful bow of her head. "Thank you, Mister Black, for saving my sister. I am Irene. Irene Sawyer."
The name hung in the quiet room. Sawyer. Jenny's surname, or a shared one? Sister.
Zeke's eyes cut from Irene's earnest face back to Jenny's. The resemblance was there, now that he looked for it—the same sharp line of the jaw, the same intelligent depth in the eyes, though Irene's held a youthful openness that Jenny's had long since sanded away into caution.
"A sister," Zeke stated, the words flat. He didn't move further into the room, his mind racing to re-calculate everything he thought he knew. This wasn't just a lone woman with a tragic story. This was a package. A liability doubled. Or a lever.
Jenny met his gaze, her hand giving Irene's a subtle, reassuring squeeze. "Irene just arrived. She was… worried."
"I see," Zeke replied, his tone giving nothing away. He finally stepped fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click that felt unnaturally loud. "Then perhaps, Irene, you can help me understand something. The men who are after your sister… are they after you, too?"
Irene's brave facade faltered for a second, her eyes darting to Jenny before returning to Zeke. The fear was real, and it was shared. The debt, it seemed, was a family affair. And Zeke was now inextricably tangled in its web.