The rain had stopped by the time Natasha stepped out of the hospital gates. The damp air clung to her skin, and the scent of wet asphalt lingered in the street. She was exhausted—physically, mentally, and in ways she couldn't yet describe.
The black sedan from earlier was still there, parked by the curb like it had been waiting for her. The tinted window rolled down, and Edward's sharp gaze met hers once again.
"Get in," he said simply.
Natasha hesitated. "Why would I?"
"Because," he leaned forward, resting his arm on the open window frame, "you need answers. And I have them."
Her pulse quickened. A dozen alarms rang in her head, but the calm authority in his tone was disarming. Against her better judgment, she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
The car pulled away smoothly, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across Edward's face. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the engine. Natasha glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to read the man beside her. His tailored suit, the expensive watch on his wrist, the faint scent of sandalwood cologne—it all screamed wealth and power.
But it was his eyes that unsettled her most. They weren't just cold—they were calculating.
"Why me?" she finally asked.
"Because," he said without hesitation, "we want the same thing."
Natasha frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Edward turned his head slightly, his lips curling into the faintest smirk. "Revenge."
The word hit her like a slap. Her breath caught, and she stared at him, searching for any sign that he was joking. But his expression remained unreadable.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, looking away.
He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost dangerous. "Natasha, I know more than you think. About what happened to your career. About them."
Her fingers clenched into fists on her lap. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough," Edward replied. "Enough to tell you that your ex-fiancé and your so-called friend aren't just enjoying their betrayal—they're profiting from it. That restaurant you dreamed of opening? They're doing it now, together, using your recipes."
Natasha's stomach twisted painfully. She had suspected, but hearing it out loud was like tearing open a wound that had barely scabbed over.
The car slowed to a stop in front of a tall glass building that towered over the street. Its sleek facade reflected the city lights like a mirror.
Edward stepped out first, then held the door open for her. She hesitated again, but curiosity—and a simmering rage—pushed her forward.
Inside, the building was all polished marble and quiet luxury. They took a private elevator to the top floor. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
"This is… yours?" she asked.
"Every inch," Edward replied. He moved behind a massive mahogany desk and gestured for her to sit across from him.
She did, though unease prickled at the back of her neck.
"Why are you really doing this?" she asked again.
Edward leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Because I need a chef I can trust. And because I think you need someone with resources, connections… and the willingness to destroy the people who hurt you."
Her breath hitched. The offer was clear, though not spoken outright.
"And what do you want in return?" she asked carefully.
He smiled, but it wasn't warm—it was the kind of smile that hinted at dangerous bargains. "Loyalty. And results."
Natasha met his gaze, her heart pounding. She could feel the weight of her own desperation pressing against her chest. Could she trust him? Probably not. But could she use him?
Edward rose from his chair and walked to the window, his silhouette framed by the glittering skyline. "Think about it, Natasha. I'm not offering you a second chance. I'm offering you the power to rewrite the ending."
He turned, his eyes locking with hers.
"Do we have a deal?"
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat. Natasha swallowed hard, her mind racing. She could almost see the faces of the two people who had ruined her—smiling, toasting to their stolen success.
Her lips parted, ready to answer—
—when the office door opened, and a woman in a red dress stepped inside without knocking.
"Edward," the woman said sweetly, though her eyes flicked to Natasha with barely concealed curiosity. "You didn't tell me you had… company."
Natasha froze. The woman was beautiful, poised—and terrifyingly familiar.
It was her ex-fiancé's sister.