Page 141 of The Ache That Stayed

Asshole.

I opened the chat. His profile picture stared back at me—unchanged. Unbothered. Air locked in my lungs. For a second—just one—I almost typed. Then I locked the screen. Like it hadn’t happened.

When I stepped out, the air felt heavier, like it carried a charge beneath it that didn’t belong. The stillness didn’t feel empty. It felt watched.

My footsteps echoed faintly as I walked toward the entrance, each one grounding me further into the decision I had already made. My gaze shifted instinctively, men moved about like they were placed there. My stomach tightened. Darius hadn’t just called me here. He’d prepared for it.

A burly man stood at the entrance.

“Phone.”

He extended his hand, waiting. I stilled for a moment before handing it over. And just like that, whatever control I thought I had left—was gone. Along with any easy way out.

The door shut behind me with a dull, final thud. I didn’t hear footsteps—but I knew he hadn’t left.

The air was thick with damp, the scent of wet concrete and rust sitting heavy in my lungs. The space opened into a wide, hollow interior, the ceiling stretching high above, supported by rusted beams. A narrow metal staircase ran along the side wall, leading up to a second-level walkway that overlooked the ground floor.

There were two men there, leaning against the railing, watching. Like they were waiting for the decimation to begin.

Unease prickled at the back of my neck. Their gaze didn’t feel casual. It felt like being stripped bare beneath it.

I forced my attention forward.

To him.

Darius leaned back against a table as though I’d merely inconvenienced him. A small blade spun lazily between his fingers, catching what little light filtered in. A slow smile spread across his face when he saw me.

“There you are,” he said, voice smooth, almost pleased. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come get you myself.”

My spine locked, but I didn’t stop walking.

“I’m not here to play games,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

He pushed off the table, the blade still turning between his fingers as he stepped closer.

“You always did try to sound in control,” he said. “It never quite suited you.”

“I want this over with.” My jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

This time, he didn’t deflect.

“Everything that was meant to be mine. Your father made sure he left everything in your name like I didn’t exist.”

He went on, voice tightening just slightly.

“You always were his favourite investment.”

He tapped the file on the table. I opened it, flipping through pages I recognised instantly—my father’s investments, everything he had secured for me and my mother.

“My father’s assets were never yours.”

“They weren’t meant to be yours either,” he said lightly. “A temporary inconvenience.”

He stepped closer. “One I’ve been patient enough to tolerate. But patience runs out.”

“Then you’ve waited for nothing.”

Interest flickered in his expression. “And yet, here you are.”