Zara viewed the number and dumped it.
She was uncomfortable from the calls.
“Why aren’t you picking up your calls?
Pick it up,” Lily said, her voice clipped.
Zara reached for the phone.
She listened for two seconds, her eyes flicking toward Lily before sliding away to stare intently at her own lap.
“Give me a second,” Zara said, her voice sounding strained.
She tapped the glass.
“Driver, can you stop for one moment?
Yes, right here, thank you.”
The cab jerked to a halt at a red light.
Zara bolted out, turning her back to the vehicle.
Lily watched through the rear window, her chest tight.
She saw Zara’s shoulders climb toward her ears, the posture of a woman bracing for a blow.
She was talking, fast and low, her head bowed in a way that looked like submission.
Who is she talking to?
Lily wondered, her fingernails digging into the leather upholstery.
Two minutes passed.
Zara climbed back in, tucking the phone into her bag with a quick, nervous motion.
“Who was that?” Lily asked.
Zara flashed a smile that didn’t touch her eyes, her face tight and brittle.
“My niece.
You know how she is, always calling at the worst time.
She’s fine, don’t worry.” She smiled nervously.
Lily nodded, turning back to the window.
Her shoulders, Lily thought.
They rose before she even heard the voice.
Like her body knew who it was before her ears did.
Lily stored the observation away.
It was a jagged, dangerous piece of a puzzle she hadn’t quite finished yet.
That night, the office was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner.
Lily sat at her desk, the signed statement spread out before her, the ink stark and damning.
She was tracing the signature when her phone let out a jarring, rhythmic buzz.
She checked the caller ID but it was an unknown number.
She almost didn’t pick it up but the call persisted.
She answered, expecting a follow-up from the lawyer.
“Hello?”
A breath hitched on the other end,wet, jagged, and terrified.
It was Raymond, but the voice wasn’t the broken, weary one from the diner.
It was frantic and compressed.
“Ms.
Chen,” he hissed.
“Raymond?
Is everything…,”
“They know I talked,” he choked out, his breathing ragged.
“There is someone outside my building right now.
My daughter is…,Ms.
Chen, I need you to know that whatever happens, the statement is true.
Every word is…,”
The line went dead.
*****
The door to Raymond’s apartment was already cracked open.
Lily pushed it with the toe of her shoe, her breath catching in her throat.
The place was a tomb.
Drawers had been yanked out and tossed onto the floor, clothes strewn in a frantic mess.
The hook by the door, where a duffel bag usually hung, was bare, leaving a jagged shadow against the peeling wallpaper.
She stepped inside, the floorboards groaning.
On the kitchen counter, a ceramic mug sat half-full.
She walked over and touched the side.
It was still warm.
“He ran,” Zara said, standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“He was scared,” Lily replied, her gaze sweeping the room.
“Same thing.”
Lily walked to the counter and picked up the mug, then set it back down.
“The statement is still with me.
His testimony is on record.
We have what we came for.”
Zara walked over to the window and peered through the blinds, her shoulders hunched.
“Then why does this feel like we lost something?”
Lily didn’t answer.
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking against the hallway floor with a hollow, rhythmic sound.
She didn’t have an answer.
Once in the car, Lily dialed James Daniel.
He picked up before the first ring finished.
“Don’t come to my office,” he said without allowing her to speak.
“James, what is…?”
“I will call you.
Give me a few days.”
He hung up.
Lily stared at the black screen of her phone, the dial tone buzzing in her ear until it clicked off.
Three days passed.
On the fourth day, his name flashed.
She grabbed the phone, her thumb shaking.
“James?”
“The documents are fake.”
The line went dead.
“What!
What’s he saying?”
Lily stared at the phone.
She hit redial.
Nothing.
She hit it again.
Seventeen times.
Nothing.
Her stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot.
The only official channel she had was dead.
She looked at her desk, at the papers she’d spent months gathering.
Raymond’s statement, the recordings, Derek’s file.
She still had the evidence, but without James to push it through the system, it was just paper.
“What’s happening?” Lily sat on the chair in exhaustion.
******
That night, Zara was in her small kitchen, trying to focus on cutting an onion, when a heavy, rhythmic knock vibrated through the apartment door.
Someone had bypassed the security downstairs.
Who’s that by this hour?
She walked to the door, her heart doing a slow, heavy thud against her ribs.
She looked through the peephole.
She saw him.
She stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth, Mr.
Sinclair?
Her breath hitched in a jagged sob.
She stood there for three seconds, her body frozen, before she opened the door.
“Surprise,” Richard grinned.
He didn’t wait for an invite.
He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him with a quiet, final click.
“What are you doing here?” Zara asked, her voice failing her.
She backed away until she hit the kitchen counter.
“You haven’t been picking up my calls,” he said, his tone was very casual.
“Because I don’t owe you anything,” Zara snapped, though her legs were shaking.
“What happened in that bathroom was a mistake.
I was drugged, I wasn’t myself, and I want you to leave.”
Richard laughed.
“We had a deal,” he said.
“That deal is void.
You took advantage of me.”
Richard sighed, as if he were dealing with a slow child.
“Zara.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
He turned the screen toward her.
Zara looked.
Her breath stopped.
The video started, and there she was, sweating, desperate, arching her back against the bathroom tile.
She looked away, her face burning, then she looked back.
She felt the blood drain from her extremities, leaving her cold and numb.
“You filmed us?” she whispered.
“You filmed yourself, technically,” he corrected, his thumb hovering over the screen.
“I just kept the recording.
It’s quite high definition.
Would you like me to describe the caption I’m planning to use, or would you prefer to watch the rest?”
“No…no…please,” she sobbed, reaching out, but he pulled the phone back.
“I think you’ve seen enough to know the stakes.”
He set the phone on the counter and took off his suit jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t need to.
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, his eyes locked on hers.
“Come here,” he commanded.
Zara’s body fought her, her pride screaming for her to run, but the fear in her gut was a physical weight, pulling her toward him.
She walked into his arms, her head spinning.
He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back until her neck was exposed, and kissed her, hard, bruising, and without warmth.
He moved his hands down, ripping at her shirt until the buttons popped and scattered across the floor like teeth.
Zara let out a jagged sound, half-sob, half-moan, as he lifted her onto the counter, shoving the cutting board and the bowl of onions to the floor with a clatter.
He didn’t waste time on affection.
He pushed into her, a hard, invasive force that made her gasp.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders, trying to find some semblance of control in a situation where she had none.
He hit her, his thrusts rhythmic and punishing, echoing the violence of the blackmail he held over her head.
“Look at me,” he growled.
Zara opened her eyes, seeing the cold, satisfied hunger in his gaze.
She clung to him, her body betraying her, responding to the touch she hated, the friction that made her insides ache with a hot, desperate need.
She shattered under his hands, her body arching and convulsing as he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, just kept driving into her until the room was a blur of shadows and sharp, jagged breaths.
He didn’t say a word, just used her, his movements a reminder of exactly who owned her.
When he finally pulled out, he didn’t even look at her face.
He just stepped back, his breathing barely accelerated, as if he’d just finished a light jog.
Zara slumped against the counter, her clothes shredded, her skin stinging, her mind a swirling mess of shame and terror.
She couldn’t look at him.
She couldn’t look at anything.
Richard moved to the chair and picked up his shirt, buttoning it with precise, calm movements.
He reached for his jacket, then turned to look at her.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed now, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shivering frame.
“One more thing,” Richard said, his voice smooth.
Find out in chapter 20