Chapter 5

Eleven o'clock at night, one week later. A jazz bar in Lower Manhattan.

There was no sign, only a heavy black iron door with a white "V" scrawled carelessly across it in paint.

To push it open, one needed the password of the day—tonight, it was "Brooklyn Bridge."

Behind the door lay another world.

The lighting was as dim as the deep sea, with only a small lamp shaded in red dangling above each table. The air was thick with a complex, slightly decadent blend of scents that belonged strictly to the adult world: whiskey, old leather, cigars, and sweat. The stage was tiny; a Black saxophonist stood there, eyes closed, blowing a Coltrane tune. The notes spiraled and coiled like smoke beneath the low ceiling.

I spotted him in a corner booth.

Julian Vance.

New York's most expensive and most dangerous private investigator—or rather, information broker. In the city's underbelly, his name was both a legend and a warning. He could find anyone, dig up any secret, provided you could pay his price—or pique his interest.

He wore a tailored dark grey shirt, sans tie, the collar unbuttoned to reveal his collarbone and a hint of a solid chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing faint, old scars on his forearms. He was toying with a vintage lighter, its silver casing worn down to reveal the brass beneath. The flame danced between his long fingers, extinguishing and reigniting, like a small, tamed beast.

The flickering firelight occasionally illuminated his face. He looked to be about thirty-five, his features chiseled deep, as if hewn from marble with an ax—high cheekbones, a straight nose, thin, clearly defined lips. But his eyes were the most arresting feature: deep grey, bordering on black, profound enough to swallow light itself. There was no warmth in them, only a pure, assessing coldness.

I sat opposite him, skipping the pleasantries, and slid a Black Card across the table. It glided over the scarred wood surface and came to a halt beside his whiskey glass.

It was the supplementary card Richard had given me.

"The Grayson Group," I said, cutting straight to the chase.

Julian raised a brow. His eyebrows were thick and perfectly shaped; the movement brought his entire face to life, injecting it with a mocking vitality. He didn't touch the card. Instead, he studied me with those icy grey eyes, scanning me from head to toe as if appraising a piece of art—or a side of beef.

"Emily Grayson," his voice was low, carrying a gritty magnetism, like aged whiskey flowing over gravel. "The darling of the tabloids these days. You were in the papers yesterday: 'The Lost Heiress Returns to the Upper East Side.' What's the matter? The high life not all it's cracked up to be? Want to check how many bastards Daddy has stashed away? or looking for dirt to secure a bigger slice of the inheritance?"

His tone was flippant, but his eyes remained locked on me, like a hawk watching a rabbit.

I wasn't provoked.

"I'm not looking for affairs." I pulled a silver USB drive from my handbag—thumb-sized—and pressed it down onto the Black Card. "These are document fragments I recovered from the shredder bin next to the Finance Department during my internship at the Grayson Group this week, along with some... interesting figures I saw after hacking into the company's internal server."

Julian's expression shifted.

It was subtle, but perceptible. The careless mockery in his eyes vanished, replaced by a focused sharpness. He set down the lighter and picked up the drive, twirling it between his fingers as if weighing it. He straightened slightly from his slouch, the line of his shoulders tensing.

"You're an accounting major?" he asked, his tone significantly more serious.

"NYU, double major in Accounting and Finance, graduated straight-A's," I said coldly, each word dropping like an ice cube onto the table. "Richard thinks I'm an airhead who only knows how to spend money. He thought placing me in Finance to 'learn the ropes' was safe. But he forgot I went through college on a full scholarship. His books are cooked skillfully—inflated costs, profit shifting, using offshore companies for tax avoidance—but to a professional eye, those numbers are as conspicuous as lice on a bald man's head. For instance," I leaned forward, lowering my voice.

Julian listened in silence, his fingers unconsciously drumming a rhythm on the tabletop. The saxophonist launched into a complex improvisation, the notes clashing and swirling in the cramped space.

"What is your end game?" he finally asked, his voice even lower, almost drowned out by the music. "Blackmail your billionaire daddy? Get a bigger payout? Or..." He paused, a flicker of interest sparking in his grey eyes. "Do you have a bigger plan?"

"I'm going to send him to prison." I looked him straight in the eye, unflinching, letting every word carry a razor's edge. "Him, that hypocritical mother, that self-righteous idiot brother, and that cuckoo in the nest—my fake sister—who uses her innocent act to scheme against me. I want them ruined. I want them destitute. I want them to lose their money, their status, their freedom. I want them to experience everything I've experienced in these three months—being used as a tool, being despised, being betrayed."

My voice remained steady as I spoke, but my fingernails were digging deep into my palms. The pain kept me lucid, forcing me to remember every detail: Isabella's triumphant smirk when she fake-cried, the contempt in Alex's voice when he called me "thick-skinned," Anna's cold indifference as she averted her gaze, the entitlement with which Richard said, "It's a transaction."

Julian stared at me for a full five seconds. The bar's shifting light cast deep shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable. The saxophonist finished his set, and in the brief silence, the only sound was the faint clink of melting ice in a glass.

Then, he did something unexpected.

He reached out and covered my hand with his.

His palm was large, dry, and warm, with a layer of thin calluses—the mark of someone who handled weapons or tools for a living.

" The water runs deep at the Grayson Group," he murmured. "I've heard rumors. They aren't just involved in standard commercial fraud and money laundering; there's likely dirtier business—illegal political contributions, funneling of benefits, perhaps even ties to certain overseas factions. Richard Grayson hasn't stood tall in New York for thirty years because he's clean, but because he knows too many people's secrets, and too many people owe him."

He paused, his grey eyes looking like two bottomless pools in the dim light.

"Are you sure you want to play for stakes this high?" he asked. There was no intimidation in his voice, only a statement of fact. "Once you start, there is no turning back. If you walk away now, take the five million and the villa, go to California and live your life, you still can. But if you choose this path..." His grip on my hand tightened, strong enough to border on pain. "You will be entering a dark world. There are no morals there, no laws, only profit and survival. You will make countless enemies. Some will want your life, not just your kidney."

I held his gaze, refusing to look away.

"They are going to take my kidney," I said calmly, as if discussing tomorrow's weather. "Julian, I'm already on the edge of the cliff. The surgery is next Wednesday. If I agree, I lose an organ for a sum of money and get tossed to California to rot. If I refuse, they will use every means to force me—cut off all my financial sources, destroy my reputation, perhaps even use dirtier methods."

I pulled my hand from his grip, picked up the whiskey on the table, and took a large swallow. The liquid burned my throat, rolling into my stomach like a ball of fire.

"Since I have to jump," I whispered, staring into the amber liquid, "I'm going to drag them down with me. I want the fall to be spectacular, tragic enough for everyone to see just how rotten the core is beneath the Grayson family's glittering exterior."

Julian watched me quietly, and then, he smiled.

It wasn't a mocking smile, nor a dangerous, calculating one. It was faint, barely visible, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, but in those cold grey eyes, for the first time, something akin to... admiration appeared.

He picked up the USB drive, then the Black Card, and slipped them both into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Then he raised his own glass and gently touched the rim of mine. The glass clinked with a crisp sound.

"Deal," he said. His voice regained its sandy magnetism but held a trace of unusual warmth. "Pleasure doing business with you, Nemesis."

We drained our glasses simultaneously.

The burn of the whiskey spread from my throat to my limbs, like a ritual, the sealing of a pact.

I knew, from this moment on, I was no longer Emily Grayson, the girl waiting to be slaughtered.