The black BMW was back.
Elara froze at the entrance to her building, keys digging into her palm. She told herself she was imagining it. Just another car in a city full of cars.
But no—there it was. Same spot. Same angle. Same tinted windows that turned the street into a mirror, reflecting her own paranoia back at her. A machine that cost more than she would earn in five years.
You're losing it. There are hundreds of black cars in the city.
But not this one.
This one had been outside the grocery store yesterday. Outside her mother's hospital the day before. Always close enough to see her, always distant enough to deny.
Every move. Every heartbeat. Every beautiful, defiant breath.
Viktor's warning replayed in her head as she climbed the stairs to her third-floor walk-up. Each step felt heavier, as if the car's shadow had followed her inside, coiling around her ribs.
Three days since she had last seen Kael Thorne. Three days of restless half-sleep. Every shadow bristled with watchers. Every phone ring snapped her nerves taut. Every knock on the door felt like death arriving in a tailored suit.
She was unraveling, and she knew it.
"Mom?" she called as she stepped inside, trying to shake off the paranoia. The familiar smell of jasmine tea drifted through the air, wrapping her in warmth she didn't deserve.
"In here, sweetheart."
Her mother sat in her favorite chair by the window—the one bathed in soft afternoon light. Linda Chen looked better than she had in months. Color in her cheeks. Hope in her eyes. The pinched mask of pain had eased.
Relief hit Elara so hard it ached.
"How was treatment today?" she asked, perching on the armrest and kissing her mother's temple.
"Wonderful. Dr. Martinez says the new medication is working better than expected." Linda's smile bloomed—genuine, radiant. "They think we may even be able to reduce the frequency of sessions."
Because of him. Because of his blood money.
The thought sat in Elara's stomach like stone. Every sign of improvement was another chain around her throat.
"The strangest thing happened today," her mother added, oblivious to Elara's spiral.
Don't ask. You don't want to know.
"What happened?"
"Dr. Martinez said our account has been completely settled. Not just the balance—there's credit for an entire year of treatment." Linda's brow furrowed. "I thought it must be a mistake, but they said it was a donation from some charitable foundation."
Elara's fists clenched. "Which foundation?"
"The Prometheus Group, I think? I'd never heard of them. But the nurse said it was one of the largest donations they've ever received."
The Prometheus Group.
Of course. Stealing fire from the gods, handing it to mortals. Even his fake philanthropy dripped arrogance. She would have bet her soul that Kael's fingerprints were all over it.
"That's… wonderful, Mom."
"I keep thinking there must be someone to thank. It feels wrong to accept so much without acknowledging it."
You already thanked him. Just by existing. By giving him a new obsession to chase.
"I'm sure they prefer to stay anonymous," Elara said, hating how brittle her voice sounded. "Some people give because it's the right thing to do, not for recognition."
Linda squeezed her hand. "You raised me well."
You raised me, Mom. I just learned from you.
But she couldn't say it. Couldn't admit that every moral lesson felt poisoned now. That "doing the right thing" had delivered her into the orbit of a man who collected people like rare art.
"I'll start job hunting again tomorrow," she said instead. "Now that your treatments are covered, I can focus on something better than the diner."
"There's no rush, sweetheart. Maybe take some time. Figure out what you really want."
What she wanted was to vanish. To take her mother somewhere safe and forget Kael Thorne ever existed.
But safety was a lie when you owed your mother's life to a man like him.
That night, Elara sat at their kitchen table, the glow of her laptop painting her face pale. She scrolled through listings until her eyes burned.
Executive assistant—five years' experience required.
Receptionist—minimum wage, no benefits.
Customer service—another cage, another thankless cycle.
You could have had everything. Salary. Security. Purpose. All you had to do was say yes.
Her hand slammed the laptop shut. The crack of it echoed like a gunshot through their tiny apartment.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, fighting the burn of tears.
When she finally looked up, her gaze went straight to the window.
Outside, parked in the same spot, the BMW was still there.
She walked to the window, peering through the thin curtains at the street below.
The car sat in its usual spot. Engine off. Windows dark. Watching without eyes.
For one reckless moment, she considered storming downstairs, pounding on the tinted glass, demanding to see the ghost inside. Demanding answers she already knew.
Instead, she shut the curtains. Pretended that tomorrow might be different.
The knock came at seven sharp.
Official. Impersonal. The kind of knock that never brought good news.
"Just a minute!" Elara's voice cracked as she threw on her robe and padded barefoot to the door.
Through the peephole: a man in a cheap suit. Clipboard in hand. Bad news personified.
Please. Not this. Not now.
"Ms. Chen?" His tone was weary, professional. The tone of someone who ended lives with paperwork instead of bullets. "James Morrison, representing the building's new ownership group. I need to speak with you about your lease."
Her stomach turned to ice.
"What about my lease?" she asked, chain still latched.
"I'm afraid I have some difficult news. The building has been sold to a development company. Renovations are scheduled to begin immediately. All current tenants are being asked to vacate within thirty days."
The words crashed over her like cold water. "That's not possible. We have a lease through the end of the year. Mr. Patel would have—"
"Mr. Patel no longer owns the building. The new owners have invoked the renovation clause." He tapped the thick packet of papers with bureaucratic finality. "It's all perfectly legal."
"Who bought the building?"
Morrison consulted his clipboard without looking at her. "Meridian Holdings, LLC. They specialize in urban redevelopment."
Another shell. Another mask. Another one of his names.
"This is insane. We have rights—"
"You do," Morrison interrupted gently. "Those rights include a thirty-day notice and assistance finding alternate housing. Meridian Holdings is prepared to provide both." He slipped an envelope through the gap in the door. "Available properties, relocation programs, contacts."
Elara stared at the envelope like it was a snake. "What if we refuse?"
"Then the matter goes to court. That could take months. Costly months." His sigh was almost sympathetic. Almost. "The new owners prefer to resolve things amicably."
Amicable. Like everything else he touches. Poison wrapped in silk.
"Thirty days," she whispered.
"Thirty days." He wrote something on his clipboard, as though her life were a line item to check off. "I'm sorry, Ms. Chen. I know this is disruptive."
Disruptive. That's one way to describe having your entire world dismantled with a signature.
After he left, she collapsed onto the couch, the envelope heavy in her lap.
The apartment was tomb-silent. Her mother still slept, medicated into fragile dreams.
When Elara finally opened the packet, her worst suspicions solidified into paper cuts. Legal jargon spelling out her erasure. A list of "available properties" she couldn't afford. A relocation specialist's business card, its watermark faint but familiar.
Kael's touch, everywhere.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from the same number that had haunted her nights:
Having housing trouble? I know a solution. –K
Her vision blurred. Rage burned hot, then cold. She hurled the phone across the room, watching it explode against the far wall, spiderweb cracks spreading across the screen.
The crash echoed through the apartment, then silence rushed back in.
She looked toward the window.
The BMW was still there. Patient. Predatory. Eternal.
And with crystalline clarity, Elara understood: her thirty days of freedom had already ended.
The cage was complete. Invisible bars woven so carefully she hadn't seen them close until they locked around her.
This isn't over, she had told him.
No, he had promised, with that terrible certainty. It's not. We're just getting started.
Now she finally knew what he'd meant.
He wasn't going to drag her into his world kicking and screaming.
He was going to break her piece by piece—until the only choice left was the one he had written for her.
And the most terrifying part?
It was working.