As expected, when Anderson rolled to the side, just beyond Layla Smith's reach, her kick sliced through the air, missing his face by inches—a cold gust following the force of her strike. Still half-lying, half-sitting on the wooden floor of the igloo, he twisted back, slipping between her long legs. With a swift maneuver, he knocked her off balance, sending her crashing onto the floor.
Using the momentum of the fall, Anderson pulled her up—one hand gripping her wrist, the other drawing out a gold sunflower-shaped brooch. In a single, precise motion, he pressed the sharp end against her carotid artery.
Before Layla could react, he had already trapped her. His left arm locked around her throat, stiff as iron, unyielding as a vice. His right knee dug into her spine like an anvil, pinning her down with an unforgiving weight that contorted her body at an unnatural angle, forcing her limbs into a strained, painful arch. The golden brooch, deceptively delicate in its beauty, became a weapon in his grip, the needlepoint pricking into her pale, bony neck. A single drop of bright red blood welled against her skin, vivid against its lifeless pallor.
Then, the silence shattered.
The once-empty restaurant space erupted with the sharp crunch of running shoes against stone. T.B. and several men—still clad in the crisp white shirts and black pants of Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company—seemed to emerge from the ground itself, their movements seamless, as if they had been watching from the shadows all along, waiting for the moment to reveal themselves.
T.B., ever smiling, stepped forward. But this time, his strong arm held something far less casual—a black pistol. A Glock 17.
The barrel leveled directly at Anderson's head.
"Stop! Put down the gun! Get out!"
And just as quickly as they had appeared, the bodyguards vanished back into the silence. T.B. remained where he stood, but the Glock had disappeared, now resting in its holster on his right hip.
The voice that had commanded them wasn't Anderson's.
It was William Smith.
He turned toward Anderson, but his words weren't meant for him.
"Layla, do you believe now that I didn't choose the wrong man?"
Anderson felt Layla's body shift beneath his grasp. Her muscles, once taut with resistance, loosened slightly against his arm. There was a change in her breathing—a subtle exhale, a moment of stillness that lingered longer than it should have. Was it the ghost of a smile curling at the corner of her lips? Or was it something else entirely? A silent cry, a surrender masked as acceptance?
William Smith's voice carried through the space once more, steady, unwavering.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, I guarantee on my reputation and honor that you can leave my company unharmed. Release my niece and put down the brooch. Mr. T.B. will take you home—tonight, or whenever you choose."
Without a word, Anderson loosened his grip. He stepped back, pushing Layla Smith away with neither hesitation nor force—just a quiet, calculated retreat. He turned on his heel and followed T.B. to the Range Rover, never once looking at either of the two Smiths again.
T.B. walked ahead, opened the passenger door, and waited for Anderson to get in. There was no rush, no urgency—just the same effortless grace, the same casual efficiency, the same radiant, unshaken smile that had been there from the beginning, as if none of it had ever happened.
He closed the door carefully before moving to the driver's side.
Then, William Smith approached the car.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenient misunderstandings."
Silence.
Anderson said nothing. He didn't look at him. He simply waited.
Waited for T.B. to start the engine.
But William Smith wasn't finished. He took a step closer, his presence pressing in through the closed glass, his voice carrying through the barrier with effortless authority.
"A few minutes ago, I told you I have two business principles. You've heard the first. There's still one more. Would you like to hear it?"
Anderson didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rolled down the window.
"Mr. William Smith. Please."
Smith's expression remained unreadable. His voice, however, was as sharp as steel.
"No benefit, no work."
Anderson held his gaze, the weight of those words sinking in.
Now it made sense.
Smith's trust was never blind. It was never given out of kindness, nor was it something that could be taken by force. Even if a man put a gun to his head, even if he had the power to end him, he would never earn his trust that way—because trust, like work, had to be worth something.
No benefit, no work.
No gain, no trust.
Two sides of the same coin.
One dictated who he trusted. The other dictated why he acted.
And in William Smith's world, trust wasn't a gift—it was a currency. A rare, precious commodity that could only be exchanged for power, loyalty, or survival.
There was no sentiment. No wasted movement. No unnecessary deaths.
Anderson understood now.
Smith hadn't spared him because he saw potential in him. He hadn't let him go because of some vague notion of honor. He had allowed him to live because at this moment, in this particular game, Anderson Jr. Seely was still valuable.
If that ever changed—if the equation no longer worked in Smith's favor—then that trust would vanish just as quickly as it had been granted.
And with that, Anderson made his choice.
He stepped out of the car. Moved with deliberate intent.
And extended his hand.
"Mr. William Smith, I agree to work for Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company—but under my terms and conditions."