The rain didn't stop.
It softened.
Like the world was pretending nothing had just happened.
The man outside her car hesitated when he heard her voice on the phone.
"Stay in the car," he repeated from the other end, already moving. She could hear the shift in his breathing—controlled, but fast.
She lowered her window just an inch.
"You hit me," she called out evenly.
The man didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
And that was when headlights flooded the scene from the opposite direction.
A second car.
Black.
Low.
Expensive.
It stopped abruptly, blocking the lane behind her.
The rival CEO stepped out without an umbrella.
He didn't shout.
Didn't rush recklessly.
He walked with terrifying calm.
"Step away from her vehicle," he said.
Not loud.
But sharp enough to cut.
The hooded man froze for half a second—then turned and ran.
Not dramatic.
Not chased.
Just gone.
Into the dark.
The rival didn't pursue.
Instead, he went straight to her window.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Whiplash?"
"Maybe a little."
He exhaled slowly, scanning the damage.
"You expected this," he said quietly.
She didn't deny it.
"I expected a warning."
"And this?"
"This is escalation."
Twenty minutes later, police lights reflected off wet asphalt.
She gave a simple statement.
Hit from behind.
Driver fled.
Couldn't see the plate clearly.
Truth.
But not all of it.
When the officers left, the tow truck pulling her car away, silence settled between them again.
"You installed a rear dash cam," he said suddenly.
Not a question.
She met his gaze.
"Yes."
"And?"
"It uploads automatically."
"To where?"
"A secure cloud."
"And who has access?"
She held his eyes.
"Me."
A slow realization crossed his face.
"You weren't waiting to be protected," he said.
"No."
"You were waiting to catch them."
"Yes."
For the first time since they met, something like respect—not strategy, not curiosity—real respect flickered in his expression.
"Send me the footage," he said.
"I'll send you a copy."
Not control.
Shared leverage.
Later that night, in her apartment, she replayed the clip alone first.
The impact.
The hooded figure stepping out.
But the important part wasn't his face.
It was the moment before the crash.
She rewound.
Paused.
Zoomed.
There.
Another vehicle in the distance.
Stationary.
Watching.
The accident wasn't random.
It was observed.
Documented.
She leaned back slowly.
So they wanted proof of her vulnerability.
Not her death.
Not yet.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from him:
"Investors pulled two major accounts from your former company tonight."
She didn't respond immediately.
Then another message.
"He's panicking."
She allowed herself a small smile.
The crash wasn't just intimidation.
It was distraction.
They wanted her to retreat.
To look unstable.
To appear reckless.
But instead—
The press would hear about a hit-and-run involving a newly appointed executive.
And Aurelius would publicly demand investigation.
Her former company's stock would tremble under the pressure of association.
She typed back:
"Tomorrow morning. Public statement. Controlled."
Three dots appeared immediately.
"You're turning this into leverage."
She replied:
"They started it."
Across town, her ex stood in his dark office again.
He wasn't watching the news this time.
He was staring at security footage from a private parking structure.
The hooded man pulling off his mask.
Not an employee.
Not someone he recognized.
But the call logs…
They traced back to a number he knew very well.
Not hers.
Not his rival's.
Someone else.
Someone who had always stayed in the background.
He whispered one name.
And for the first time—
He looked afraid for her.
Not of her.
For her.
Because if that person had moved…
Then this was never just about jealousy.
Or business.
It was something older.
Something buried.
And something that had killed her once before.