Xavier stepped out of the house, keys dangling from his fingers. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read it again.
I will always be back for you.
XOXO
Blue
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He didn't understand what had happened to him—how this woman had gotten under his skin so completely. But something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Blue was too mysterious, too secretive, too strange. His mind drifted to last night. She'd been spiked, but instead of losing consciousness, she'd become someone else entirely. Vulnerable. Innocent. Delicate. Like a completely different person had been wearing her face.
"So, does that mean you're coming home?"
Arena's voice sliced through the quiet. Xavier didn't turn around.
"No." He slid into the driver's seat.
"You are a piece of shit, do you know that?" Arena stepped closer to the car, her voice sharp with agitation.
Xavier exhaled slowly, dragging the breath from somewhere deep in his chest. He couldn't deal with his little sister right now. The engine growled to life. He glanced back, ready to reverse, ignoring her completely.
His phone buzzed. Arena's name lit up the screen. He answered, still maneuvering the car backward.
"The Boss is gonna kill you tonight."
Her voice cut through the speaker, pitched so loud that Xavier yanked the phone from his ear. He set it on the dashboard, his foot slamming the brake. The engine died abruptly. His mind raced, replaying her words. He must have heard wrong. His ears had betrayed him.
He was out of the car before the thought finished.
The distance between them was barely a meter, but Arena counted three long strides before Xavier stood before her. He really did have those impossibly long legs.
"How do you know that, Arena?" His voice was low, controlled—but his eyes betrayed him.
He knew The Boss had threatened his father to deliver Blue tonight or else.
But what truly shook him was his little sister knowing anything about the underworld. At her age, he'd been a ten-year-old boy in the SA, watching his father make him blow up an enemy's car. The memory flashed unbidden—real human flesh burning to ash right in front of him. He'd carried that trauma like a stone in his chest ever since. Derek only knew about the casino, the corrupt politicians, and the sex workers. But the killings? The miserable things Xavier had done to live? He'd sworn to keep that hidden from his younger siblings.
"Well, I was at the hideout palace this morning, and he stopped by." Arena said it like she was discussing the weather.
"What?" The word came out sharper than intended.
"Since when did you know about the underworld?" Xavier's eyes narrowed.
"Don't look at me like that." Arena's voice trailed off, something flickering across her face. He was looking at her the way he used to years ago—like she was fragile. Delicate.
"Arena." His tone shifted, commanding like a father interrogating a child who'd been caught in a lie.
"Can you not be a douche again?" Annoyance crept into her voice. She'd thought telling him about the danger would make him let her in. Let her help track The Boss and put a bullet in his head before he puts one in Xavier's.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look, I hate you, but I will want to put a bullet in your head myself when there's no one onto you—"
"Arena." Xavier cut her off, realization dawning cold in his chest. The way she talked. The words she used. "When did you draw your first blood?"
"Just a year ago, when I graduated from the academy," she crossed her arms. "Please don't ask me another useless question again."
"Do you even go to school?"
"When you get sight of The Boss, call me," Arena's voice dropped to a hiss. "Let's have a hunt together."
She turned before he could say another word, disappearing into the house. Xavier stood there, watching the door close, his knuckles white around the keys in his hand.
***
Across town, Ruben was still at his desk, the office around him slowly emptying as the day wound down, as there is a big event tonight at Carlos Resort. The company's biggest event. He couldn't afford mistakes.
"I have an idea, and I need you to approve before I go to Alex."
Cinthia's voice came from the doorway. Ruben glanced up from his laptop.
"You can come in, Cinthia."
She entered, heels clicking against the polished floor, and placed a file on his desk. Ruben opened it, scanned the contents, and let out a short laugh.
"You want them to have an engagement first? Cinthy, Alex treats this as a hit-and-run wedding. There's no way he's going to have an engagement party."
"Hear me out first." Cinthia raised her hand, palm out. "If I broadcast that the city billionaire is getting married—even engaged—it controls the narrative. If they just marry without some prior rumor first, people will think he's into something." She paused. "And we can't risk that, given his reputation."
Alexander Shikongo had a reputation, yes—the cleanest, most honest businessman in the city, and no one believed it. Every enterprise bearing his name carried his sweat, his integrity. But perception was a fragile thing.
"Why would people think that?" Ruben cocked an eyebrow.
"Not into something—stay with me." Cinthia leaned forward. "We have to announce something first before the real wedding. An engagement party is best."
"You should have started with that." Ruben closed the file, setting it aside. "I'll look at it at home." He began packing up his laptop. "My time's up. You're going to the conference party, right?"
Cinthia rose from her chair. "Yes. Won't miss that for my intern. I'll go."
***
Victoria arrived at Carlos Resort with her heart hammering against her ribs. The place was everything she'd ever dreamed of—water fountains spraying in graceful arcs, furniture that probably cost more than her eatery's rent, workers in crisp uniforms moving with practiced efficiency. A place where she could finally cater for the big companies and finally have everything she needed.
She gave her name at reception, and the receptionist immediately escorted her to a private office.
Through the glass door, she could see a man—early thirties, maybe—working at his desk. The receptionist guided her to a sofa outside and told her to wait.
A minute stretched into two. Then she was called in.
The office inside was even more obscene. Every sofa more expensive than the last. Even the man's seat was a couch, like he intended to conduct business in his sleep.
"Victoria Samuels." The man read from a file before setting it down. "You're late, famous Victor Samuels's daughter?"
"I'm Victoria Samuels, but my father is not that Victor." She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. "He was Victor. He was..."
"It's complicated, huh?" The man laughed, easy and local. "I'm Jackson Timly. You can call me Jack."
"I think Mr. Timly will do for now." Vicky shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the ridiculously plush sofa.
"So, tell me a little about Sarge Eatery. You're the founder. What's the story behind it?"
"It's really a predictable story." But her confidence was rising now.
Jackson smiled, a pen balanced between his teeth, ready to listen.
"Four years ago, I woke up in a hospital and found my mom in constant medical emergencies every month. With the savings she had, we barely made it—her medication and hospital visits." Vicky paused, swallowing. "So I took a hundred dollars from her bag. Bought ten kilograms of cooking flour, because that's all I needed. I already had oil and sugar at home. I made koeksisters and sold them by the road." She blinked, forcing the tears back. "The business grew. Next thing I know, we rented a place at Goreangab Fam Estate."
"That's not predictable at all, Victoria." Jackson set his pen down, his smile softening.
"Is your mom okay now?"
Vicky's breath caught. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of everything she wasn't saying.
"Yes. She's perfectly fine." A chuckle escaped her, thickly masking the emotion trying to claw its way out. "She was really overjoyed when I told her about this gig."
Don't let him pity you. Don't let him give you this because he feels sorry for you. Earn it.
"That's really incredible." Jackson pulled out a blank paper and a catalogue for the day's event, sliding them across the desk. "Here. List everything you need for this event. You'll get a card from the reception." He leaned back. "The floor is yours."
Vicky frowned. "This is all?"
"Yes. I know all about Sarge Eatery, Victoria. You submitted your work." He gestured toward the door. "So take the floor, girl. Shine. Maybe you can make the final cut."
"The final cut?"
"Everyone that participates in an event here gets considered for the winner. They work with us." Jackson signed a check, sliding it across the desk. "We sponsor everything they do. And this is the fifty percent we promised."
Vicky's eyes widened at the amount. Tonia had said ten thousand dollars. Vicky had thought she was exaggerating.
She hadn't been.