Melissa's POV.
"If you leave this office today, Melissa, don't bother coming back tomorrow."
Mrs. Harry's voice filled the small office, sharp and entirely devoid of sympathy. She didn't wait for me to answer. She just waved me toward the door like I was a piece of trash she was tired of looking at. A familiar tightness squeezed my chest, but I forced myself to stay still, nod politely, and step out.
My hands were shaking—not from fear, I had passed that stage long ago—but from the sheer, crushing pressure I had been holding in.
My phone rang as I walked down the hallway. Mrs. Langton's name flashed on the screen.
"Melissa," she snapped the second I picked up. "Have you gotten Helen's dress yet?"
I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. "Ma'am… I'm sorry. My supervisor said if I leave work again today, I'll be fired. I don't want to lose my—"
"Fired? And what job is that, exactly? The one I got you with the degree I paid for?" Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. "I don't care what your supervisor said. Do what I told you. Or don't bother calling me when you get fired. I made your career, Melissa. I can end it too."
She hung up. I stood there, staring at the darkened screen. For a fleeting second, I wanted to hurl the cheap plastic against the wall and walk away from her money, her threats, and her suffocating control. But my mother's medical bills were a chain around my neck. I swallowed the bitter taste of resentment, slipping the phone back into my pocket. Bending to their will wasn't just expected; it was survival.
I caught a bus across town to the upscale boutique district. To drown out my throbbing headache, I plugged in my earphones, turning on a true-crime podcast. The narrator's voice droned on about the city's untouchable underworld—the elusive syndicates, the untraceable money—but my mind briefly drifted to Jason.
His replies had been getting shorter lately. Sometimes days passed without a message.
I pulled up our chat, staring at a message from days ago: Just one more year, Mel. Hold on a little longer and I'll take you away from all of this.
I shoved the phone away, forcing down the quiet, nagging dread that his replies had been practically nonexistent lately. He was just busy. He had to be.
I picked up the dress, signed the papers, and waited while they boxed it. A TV in the corner caught my eye, the news headline flashing in bright red: Private jet... no survivors. A sudden chill ran down my spine. Helen's flight was due around this time.
I quickly shook the thought off, telling myself there were dozens of private flights every hour.
As I stepped out of the boutique, it started to snow. That was when I spotted a black cat with a gleaming gold collar on the curb, curled up and shaking. People stepped around it like it was invisible. Something about it seemed strange, but I couldn't just walk away. I slipped off my frayed coat, wrapped the cat gently, and picked it up.
A sleek, customized black Maybach silently pulled up to the curb behind me.
The back door opened.
The driver stepped out first. Two other men appeared beside the car like shadows before the passenger even moved.
Then he stepped out.
He was towering, dressed in a dark cashmere coat and dark shades. The moment his custom leather shoes touched the pavement, the air around us seemed to drop ten degrees.
Something about his sheer presence instantly set off every alarm bell in my head. I didn't wait to find out why. I turned and started walking fast.
"Hey. Wait," he called. His voice was deep, commanding, and used to being obeyed.
I stopped, my grip tightening on the bundle in my arms, and turned around. He was looking at me like I was supposed to drop to my knees just because he spoke.
"Is there a problem, sir?" I asked, keeping my chin up.
He didn't answer immediately. He just stared, letting the silence stretch until it was heavy and suffocating. "You're holding my cat."
I glanced down. The little creature had poked its head out of my coat, letting out a soft, familiar purr at the sound of his voice. It clearly knew him. But I didn't step closer. "I found it here on the street. I didn't know it was yours."
He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. "Hand it over."
"How do I know you're not lying? People steal animals and sell them."
He stopped. For a second, he looked genuinely taken aback—like I was doing the unthinkable by daring to question him.
"Can you prove it's yours?" I challenged, my heart starting to hammer against my ribs. "Let's start with you taking off your shades. I'll take a photo, just in case it's needed later."
The silence between us thickened. He stood perfectly still, his jaw locked. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled off the sunglasses.
I froze.
My pulse jumped into my throat. He wasn't just looking at me; his dark, lethal eyes were studying me, mapping my face like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected to find in the snow. Under that heavy, intense stare, I felt entirely exposed. His face was striking—sharp cheekbones, a faint scar above one brow, and eyes that were completely unreadable and dangerous. The kind of face you can't forget.
Something about him pulled at my memory. Familiar, but not in a good way.
And then it hit me.
That face. That cat. The podcast I'd been listening to earlier flashed through my mind.
The man the police couldn't touch.
The one the news never dared to name.
The black cat with the gold collar.
Now I understood why people avoided the animal.
I stepped forward and carefully handed him the cat. Our fingers brushed against each other—his leather glove cold, but the heat radiating from his grip was undeniable. Our eyes locked for a fraction of a second before I quickly pulled my hand back and turned to leave.
"You saved my cat," he said quietly.
His gaze lingered on me for a moment.
"I'll remember that."
"Can I pay you a few thousand?"
I shook my head, not looking back. "No, it's fine."
"You're braver than you look," he murmured to my retreating back. "Let me give you a ride."
Another firm no. I lied that I lived nearby and walked away as fast as my legs could carry me, desperate to escape the heavy weight of his stare. I didn't breathe properly until I heard the heavy engine of his car roar to life and speed off.
I hurried toward the nearest bus stop, my mind racing. I couldn't believe I had demanded a mafia kingpin take off his glasses.
The wait in the snow was brutal. By the time I finally made it to the Langtons' mansion, I was shivering violently. Without my coat, the cold had seeped into my bones, and I was already over an hour late.
I felt nervous—but also relieved. Helen was supposed to be home by now, so maybe she'd protect me from her mother's wrath like she always did. The security guard buzzed me in, and I hurried to the main house.
But something felt incredibly off. The mansion was too quiet.
I stepped inside the grand foyer and froze.
Mrs. Langton was on the floor, weeping hysterically into her hands. Mr. Langton was kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulders, looking completely shell-shocked. The servants were gathered in a dark corner, their heads bowed. Even the usually stoic butler looked pale.
And there was no sign of Helen.
I slowly walked up to the butler, the heavy dress box slipping slightly in my numb fingers. "What's going on?"
"Helen…" he started, his voice cracking.
I waited. The silence stretched between us, thick and terrifying.
"She was on that plane," he whispered. "The one on the news. They said there were… no survivors."
My hands went completely numb.
The large dress box slipped from my arms. It hit the polished marble floor with a hollow, echoing thud. The sharp scent of expensive floor wax suddenly turned my stomach. The slow ticking of the hallway clock swallowed the silence, but my mind was entirely blank.
Helen was dead.