MARRY YOUR KILLER
Chapter Eight: The Morning After
---
Jay woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
She opened her eyes slowly. The room was unfamiliar—high ceilings, pale walls, curtains that moved in a breeze she couldn't feel. She was on a sofa, covered in a blanket that smelled like cedar and something clean. Her ribs ached. Her jaw throbbed. Her lip pulled against stitches when she moved.
She sat up.
Keifer was in the kitchen.
He had his back to her, pouring coffee into two mugs. He had changed again—gray shirt, dark pants, barefoot. His hair was still damp. He moved quietly, deliberately, like a man who was used to being the only person awake.
He turned. Saw her watching. Held up a mug.
"Coffee?"
She nodded. Her throat was dry. Her voice didn't work yet.
He walked over and handed her the mug. Their fingers brushed. She didn't pull away. Neither did he.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
She took a sip of coffee. It was strong. Black. Perfect.
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"You got hit by six men. Close enough."
She looked at him over the rim of her mug. He was standing by the window now, his own coffee in his hand, watching the street below. His face was calm, but there was tension in his shoulders, something he was holding back.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"I slept."
"You said you don't sleep."
"I said I don't sleep much." He glanced at her. "There's a difference."
She didn't believe him. But she didn't push.
"Where's Lyra?"
"Went home. Said something about checking on your penthouse. She left an hour ago."
Jay nodded. Lyra would have checked the perimeter. Checked the exits. Checked the shadows. She would have made sure the street was clean before she left. That was what Lyra did. That was who she was.
"Your phone," Keifer said. He pointed to the table beside the sofa. "It's been ringing."
She picked it up. Seventeen missed calls. Nine from Freya. Four from Ella. Three from Mica. One from her mother.
She called Freya first.
"You're awake," Freya said. Her voice was tight.
"I'm awake."
"The men. We found two of them. The others scattered. We're still looking."
Jay closed her eyes. "Who were they?"
"Contractors. Hired through a shell company. Mica is tracing it now. But Jay—" Freya paused. "They were well paid. Well trained. This wasn't a random attack. Someone wanted you gone."
"My uncle."
"That's what we thought. But the money doesn't trace back to him. It traces back to someone else. Someone we haven't identified yet."
Jay's hand tightened on the phone.
"Keep looking," she said. "Find out who paid them. Find out who wants me dead."
"Already on it."
She hung up. She looked at Keifer. He was still by the window, still watching the street, but his attention was on her now. She could feel it.
"The money doesn't trace back to your uncle," he said.
She didn't ask how he knew. He had been watching her uncle for two years. He probably knew more about her uncle's operations than she did.
"No."
"Then someone else is involved. Someone with money. Someone with connections."
"Someone who wants a war."
Keifer turned. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
"Or someone who wants to make sure the war doesn't end."
---
She spent the morning on the phone.
Mica had traced the shell company to a holding firm in Hong Kong. The holding firm was owned by another firm in Singapore. That firm was owned by a trust in the Cayman Islands. The trust was registered to a name that didn't exist, an address that was empty, a phone number that had been disconnected six months ago.
"It's a dead end," Mica said. "Whoever set this up knew what they were doing. They covered their tracks."
"Keep digging," Jay said.
"I will. But Jay—" Mica's voice was careful. "Whoever did this has resources. Real resources. This isn't just your uncle playing games. This is someone who knows how to disappear."
Jay hung up. She stared at the phone in her hand.
Keifer was at the dining table, his own phone pressed to his ear. He was speaking quietly, too quietly for her to hear. His face was tight. His jaw was set.
He hung up. Met her eyes.
"Alex found something," he said.
"What?"
He walked over and sat across from her. His coffee was cold now, forgotten on the table.
"The men who attacked you. They weren't just contractors. They were connected to a group that's been operating in the region for years. Arms dealing. Money laundering. Assassinations. They've worked for everyone—your uncle, my father, half the crime families in Southeast Asia."
Jay's stomach tightened. "You know them."
"I know of them. They're called the Shadow Market. They don't have loyalty to anyone except whoever pays the most. They've been around for decades. They've killed more people than either of our families have lost in the war."
"And someone hired them to kill me."
Keifer nodded. "Someone with deep pockets. Someone who wanted it to look like your uncle's work."
"To start the war again."
"Or to make sure it doesn't end."
---
She sat with that for a long moment.
The war had been a lie. Her whole life, the war had been a lie her uncle built to cover his own betrayal. But if someone else was involved now, someone who had hired the Shadow Market, someone who had resources and connections and the ability to disappear—
"This is bigger than my uncle," she said.
"I think so."
"Someone wants our families to keep fighting. Someone wants the Marianos and the Watsons to destroy each other."
Keifer was quiet. His face was still, but she saw something in his eyes. Something cold. Something old.
"My father knew," he said.
"What?"
"My father knew about the Shadow Market. He knew they were operating in our territory. He knew someone was paying them to stir up trouble between our families." He looked at her. "He tried to stop them. That's why he had the stroke. He wasn't sick, Jay. He was poisoned."
---
The room went very quiet.
Jay stared at him. His face was calm, but she saw the cracks now. The way his hands were tight on his knees. The way his jaw was set. The way he was holding himself together like a man who had been holding himself together for a very long time.
"You knew," she said.
"I suspected. I found proof six months ago. Someone in the organization sold him out. Someone he trusted. Someone who wanted him out of the way."
"Your uncle?"
"No. My uncle is many things, but he's not connected to the Shadow Market. This was someone else. Someone closer. Someone who's still there."
Jay's mind was racing. The Shadow Market. The attack. The money that didn't trace back to her uncle. Her father, poisoned. Keifer's father, poisoned. Two families, manipulated for years, bleeding each other dry while someone else watched.
"Who?" she asked.
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."
He reached across the table and took her hand. His fingers were warm. Steady.
"I'm going to find out," he said again, "and when I do, I'm going to end this. All of it."
She looked at his hand on hers. She looked at his face. The exhaustion. The anger. The something else that she was only beginning to understand.
"You should have told me," she said.
"I'm telling you now."
"You should have told me before."
"I know." His hand tightened. "I was trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection."
"No. You need a partner." He met her eyes. "That's what I'm trying to be."
---
She didn't answer. She didn't pull her hand away.
She thought about her father's letter. Trust Keifer. She thought about the rooftop, the notebook, the truth he had given her when he didn't have to. She thought about the street, the men, the way he had come for her like a storm.
"Your father," she said. "He knew about the Shadow Market. He knew about the war. He knew someone was manipulating both our families."
"Yes."
"And he didn't tell anyone."
"He tried. No one listened. The war was too old, too deep, too personal. People didn't want to believe it was a lie. They wanted someone to blame. So he stopped trying. He focused on protecting his family instead."
"And then they poisoned him."
Keifer's jaw tightened. "Yes."
Jay looked at their hands. His fingers were wrapped around hers, steady, warm, like he was holding onto something he had been reaching for his whole life.
"I'm going to find them," she said. "The people who did this to your father. To my father. The people who started this war and kept it going for thirty years."
"I know."
"And I'm going to end them."
He smiled. It was small, tired, but real.
"I know," he said again.
---
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen. Her mother.
She answered.
"Where are you?" Her mother's voice was sharp. "I've been calling all morning. The dress fitting was yesterday. They called to say you didn't pick up the final alterations. Your father has been asking for you. Where are you?"
Jay closed her eyes. The dress fitting. The attack. The blood on the white dress she had been wearing. She had forgotten.
"I'm fine, Ma."
"Fine? You missed the fitting. You missed the appointment with the florist. You missed—"
"I was attacked yesterday."
The line went silent.
Jay waited. She could hear her mother breathing. Fast. Shallow. The sound of a woman who had spent thirty years pretending everything was fine.
"What did you say?" Her mother's voice was different now. Low. Careful.
"Your brother sent men to kill me. Six of them. They jumped me outside the shop. I killed one. Keifer killed the rest."
Silence.
"I'm fine. Keifer brought me to his house. His people are taking care of me. I'm safe."
"His house." Her mother's voice was flat. "You're at the Watson house."
"Yes."
"You're with that boy."
"Ma—"
"Come home. Now."
"I can't. Not yet. It's not safe."
"Come home, Jasper Jean." Her mother's voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough for Jay to hear. "Come home where I can see you. Where I know you're safe. Please."
Jay closed her eyes.
"I'll come home tomorrow," she said. "I need to finish something first."
"Jasper—"
"I love you, Ma. Tell Papa I'm okay. Tell him I'm with Keifer. He'll understand."
She hung up before her mother could answer.
---
Keifer was watching her. His face was unreadable.
"Your mother," he said.
"She wants me to come home."
"You should go."
She looked at him. "Is that what you want?"
"I want you to be safe. If being safe means going home, then go home."
"And if being safe means staying here?"
He didn't answer. He looked at her for a long moment, and something passed between them—something she didn't have words for, something she had never felt before.
"Stay," he said finally. "Stay until we find out who did this. Stay until we know you're safe. Stay—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Stay as long as you need."
She looked at his hand, still wrapped around hers. She looked at his face, open now, the mask gone, the exhaustion and the hope and the fear all visible in the lines of his mouth, the shadows under his eyes.
"I'll stay," she said.
His hand tightened. Just for a moment. Just enough for her to feel it.
"Good," he said.
---
The day passed slowly.
Mica called with more dead ends. Freya called with more questions. Rakki called to say she had found one of the men who ran from the attack, and he had talked before she let him go, and the things he said didn't make sense unless someone else was pulling the strings.
Keifer made her eat. Made her take the medicine Care had left. Made her rest on the sofa with her ribs wrapped and her jaw packed with ice.
She let him.
She was too tired to fight. Too tired to pretend she didn't need someone to take care of her for once. Too tired to do anything except sit in the sunlight and watch him move through the house like he had been doing it his whole life.
He brought her coffee. He brought her food. He sat beside her on the sofa and told her about his father, about the man he had been before the poison, about the things he had taught Keifer before he forgot how to speak.
She listened. She told him about her father, about the empire he built, about the day he handed her the keys and told her she was the only one who could carry it.
They talked until the sun went down. Until the room went dark and the city lit up outside the window. Until they had said things they had never told anyone, things they had been holding alone for years.
And when the night was quiet and the house was still, Keifer looked at her across the dark.
"Your father," he said. "The letter he wrote you. He said to trust me."
"Yes."
"Do you?"
She thought about the question. She thought about the attack, the way he had come for her, the way he had held her like she was something worth saving. She thought about the rooftop, the notebook, the truth he had given her when he could have used it to destroy her. She thought about his hands, steady on the wheel, steady on her face, steady on hers.
"Yes," she said.
He moved closer. Just a little. Just enough for her to feel the warmth of him, the space between them shrinking until there was almost none left.
"Good," he said.
His voice was low. Rough. Like the word cost him something.
She didn't move away. She didn't want to.
She looked at his face in the dark. The sharp line of his jaw. The shadow of his mouth. The way his eyes were fixed on hers like she was the only thing in the room.
"Keifer," she said.
"Yeah?"
She didn't know what she was going to say. She didn't know what she wanted. She only knew that she was tired of being alone, tired of pretending, tired of pushing away the one person who had ever looked at her and seen something other than a weapon.
"Thank you," she said. "For coming for me."
He smiled. It was small, tired, but real.
"I'll always come for you," he said.
And she believed him.
---
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT