He watched her walk away, taillights shrinking until they were nothing more than dim specks against the black of the road. The wind off the river felt colder now, as if the night itself had noticed her absence and pulled back with it. For a long moment Rhys simply stood on the bridge, the moon reflecting on the water below and the echo of her words — "I can't end up like that" — still in his ears.
Then his phone buzzed, slicing through the quiet.
We found something. Come now.
The voice on the line was clipped, urgent — the kind of call that didn't give room for questions.
Everything in him tightened. He didn't think; he moved. The drive to the city was a blur: headlights, a red light he ran through, the river receding in the rearview. His mind replayed the bridge: her tired face, the way she'd leaned into him, the way she'd whispered "Please." He had followed her because he couldn't help it. Now something else pulled him — the promise of answers.
The hotel they directed him to was ostentatious, a swollen palace of glass and marble — not the kind of place he expected to meet whoever'd called. The elevator ride to the presidential suite felt like a descent into a different world: carpeted silence, the hum of the building, his own pulse loud enough to hear.
When the door opened, the room was dim, every lamp softened as if to hide the truth. And sitting there, perfectly composed as always, was the one face he never wanted to see again.
His grandfather.
For a second the world tilted. The old man's presence made the air colder, as if respect and fear had weight in this room. Rhys didn't mask his anger.
"You trailed me," he snapped the moment the door clicked shut. "You stalked me. What is this? Are you trying to play with me?"
The older man folded his hands and watched him, the lines on his face deeper in the low light. He did not rise. He did not flinch. He spoke with the same calm authority he used to command a boardroom.
"I have a simple offer," he said, voice steady. "I can give you what you want."
Rhys barked a humourless laugh. "You followed me to a bridge, grandfather. You had people on my tail. You tracked Seraphine. Why? Why interfere in my life when I asked to be left alone?"
The grandfather's eyes never left Rhys. He inclined his head slightly, then swept a hand toward the table where folders and a few photographs lay like evidence.
"You think I did this for entertainment?" he asked softly. "Open them."
Rhys grabbed the nearest photograph with a hand that shook just a little. The image was grainy, taken from a distance: Seraphine talking to someone at night beside a black car. The man with her was unmistakable.
"Kevin," Rhys breathed.
"Yes." His grandfather's voice was low, the kind that carried a memory of deals and danger. "She meets him. She's not who you think she is. She's not merely a girl in red at a party."
Rhys shoved the photo back across the table. "Leave her out of this."
A faint, humorless smile touched the old man's lips. "You ask me to leave her out," he said, "and yet you followed her tonight. You are involved whether you like it or not."
The grandfather stood and paced slowly. Each movement was precise. "I didn't call you here to force you. I called because you have a choice. Join me, and you will have power and information — the ability to protect yourself. Or walk away, and let this pull you into danger you don't yet see."
Rhys stared at the photographs, at the shadows they implied. The bridge, Seraphine's tired confession, the way she had asked him to please—it all folded into a single cold suspicion.
"A war?" he said. "Over what? Her? My name? What is this, really?"
"You are closer than you think," his grandfather replied. "The threads are already tangled. Decide, Rhys. Decide now."
Rhys felt the world press in like a vice: the river's hush, Seraphine's retreating taillights, the photograph in his hand. He hadn't wanted any of this — and yet it was here, real and waiting for him.
He swallowed, chest tight, and the question that had been circling him since the bridge returned like an undertow.
Do I run toward the truth, or run away from the danger?
Rhys stood frozen in the middle of the suite, his grandfather's offer echoing in the air like a poison he never wanted to inhale again. The walls felt too tight, the silence too heavy, and his own heartbeat too loud.
He wanted answers.
But he never wanted this life again.
Not the shadows.
Not the power games.
Not the chains of the underworld that he spent years cutting himself away from.
He forced himself to breathe, but the moment Seraphine's face flashed in his mind, his pulse stuttered.
She isn't normal.
None of this is normal.
His grandfather's words blurred as Rhys replayed everything:
Her confidence.
Her unpredictability.
Her knowledge about Kevin.
The way she carried herself like she wasn't scared of anything.
The way danger and elegance lived in the same expression on her face.
And then the surname—Calder.
No.
No, no, no.
His grandfather watched the panic flicker in Rhys's eyes. "You figured something out," the old man said calmly.
Rhys didn't answer.
His thoughts were already spiralling too fast:
Is she that Calder?
Is she connected to them at all?
Why does she appear everywhere danger does?
Why does she pull me in like she already knows the path I'll take?
His hands clenched at his sides.
If she was a Calder…
If she was from that bloodline…
Then he wasn't dealing with some girl who wanted freedom from an arranged marriage.
He was stuck between two empires that spent decades tearing each other apart.
The Calder syndicate.
Cold. Sharp. Calculated.
The ones who controlled the northern network.
The Marcellin faction.
Merciless. Old. Strategic.
The ones whose lineage he belonged to—the one he abandoned.
His chest tightened painfully.
Am I stuck between the rivalry of Calders and Marcellins?
Did I walk straight into a trap by touching her life?
Is she here with a purpose? With a mission? With a lie?
The worst part…
Somewhere deep inside…
He wasn't sure if he wanted to run away from her anymore.
Rhys walked out of the hotel like the ground had been pulled out from under him.
Every step felt heavy, hollow… almost meaningless.
Everything suddenly felt like lies—
his grandfather's sudden interference,
Seraphine's half-answers,
Kevin's odd involvement,
Hazel's accidental hints.
But despite the confusion clawing inside his chest, one thing he couldn't shake off was her.
Seraphine.
He didn't want to run anymore.
Not from her.
Not from whatever she was hiding.
Not from the questions burning inside him like a fever.
I'll ask her myself, he thought.
No more guessing.
He started the car and drove through the city lights, the road blurring as his mind spun in circles.
When he finally reached her house, the guard at the gate bowed and said,
"Miss Seraphine hasn't returned yet, sir."
Rhys frowned.
Not returned yet?
He checked the time. She should've reached home long before him.
He replayed the memory of the bridge—
her car stopping,
her peaceful face near the water,
the strange calmness she carried,
the way she walked away without looking back.
And suddenly something clicked.
The route.
He and Seraphine had the same direction home.
The road was straightforward.
One single highway.
No reason to turn anywhere else.
Yet…
her car had driven to the other side of the bridge, the path that led away from the city.
A path that led to nowhere he could think of.
A path darker, emptier…
And now, she hadn't returned home at all.
A knot tightened in his stomach.
Why did she go the other way?
Where did she go after leaving me?
And why does it feel like she's hiding something bigger than just Kevin?
The silence around him grew louder.
For the first time…
Rhys felt fear.
Not fear of Seraphine—
but fear for her.