Morning light filtered through Eloise's small apartment like a gentle, easily broken promise—a soft, golden warmth that made the world feel, for a precious few minutes, briefly and falsely safe. The air smelled of old coffee and fresh toast, a familiar, scent that acted as a necessary anchor against the chaos of the preceding days.
She stood barefoot at her tiny kitchen counter, humming a tuneful, nervous melody as she buttered toast with excessive care, scrolling through her phone to answer Jayla's cascade of messages about their plans tonight.
Jayla: Wear something slutty I'm tired of you dressing like a church usher. We are celebrating your freedom from the Prince of Trash.
Eloise snorted, nearly choking on a mouthful of orange juice. The burst of laughter felt alien and wonderful.
"Drag me more gently, Jay," she muttered to her screen, tapping out a reply with a genuine grin.
She desperately needed tonight. After the disaster at the restaurant, the public humiliation of William, the emotional implosion that followed, a night out with Jayla was the closest thing to essential, cheap therapy she could afford. It was a required reset button.
She checked the time, squinting at the small digital display on the microwave.
7:42 AM.
"Shit—I'm gonna be late."
Panic fueled her movements. She shoved the buttery toast into her mouth, grabbed her slightly wrinkled work coat, and tied her hair into a messy, frantic bun as she moved through the tiny space. Purse, keys, work badge. Done.
Despite everything—the staggering reality of burning down a damn estate, the lingering, toxic trauma of oysters and diamonds and William's cold betrayal—she still had work to show up to. She had rent to pay. A life, however battered, to maintain. She was a survivor, and survivors went to work.
She had just slipped her worn, comfortable shoes on when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sharp. Firm. Utterly unlike the cheerful, uneven tempo of a neighbor or the rushed tap of a courier. This was a declarative sound, delivered with cold authority.
Eloise froze mid-step, her body locked in place.
Another knock, harder this time. More impatient. Less polite.
A cold ripple, sharp as broken glass, slid down her spine. No one ever visited her. No one should know she lived here. Her life was kept small, contained, invisible.
Jayla?
No—Jayla would have texted first. Jayla was too loud to just knock.
Her fingers tightened around the cool brass of the doorknob. She took a deep, steadying breath, swallowed the last dry crumbs of toast, and opened the door.
And then—
Her breath left her lungs in a soundless rush, expelled by sheer, paralyzing shock.
Four men stood in the hallway, completely filling the space.
They were not slim boys or amateur muscle. They were Men.
Tall. Broad. Impossibly composed, radiating an aura of disciplined danger. They were dressed uniformly in tailored black or charcoal greys, their clothing quiet and expensive, signaling an unmistakable, intrinsic authority. They looked like expensive, dangerous statues.
The man in front, clearly the leader, stepped forward, occupying the remaining available space.
He was built like a wall—dark-haired, dark-eyed, his shoulders so impossibly broad the apartment hallway suddenly felt dangerously narrow. His gaze pinned her in place with the calm, heavy weight of someone utterly accustomed to being obeyed and inspiring immediate fear.
"Miss Winters?" he asked. His voice was low, deep, and without a single note of inflection.
Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, a frantic snare drum rhythm.
"…Yes?" she said carefully, clutching the door edge.
The man nodded once, a minimal, clinical gesture.
"You're coming with us."
Eloise blinked once. Then twice. She scoffed. Then she let out a sharp, brittle laugh, fueled by adrenaline and incredulity.
"No," she snapped, her defiance a desperate attempt to regain control of the narrative. "I don't even know you people. So turn around, go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, before I call the police."
The man's expression did not change. His eyes, dark and flat, didn't even flicker at the threat.
"Ma'am," he said calmly, adopting the weary tone of a bailiff, "you are absolutely not in a position to call the police considering what you did the day before yesterday."
Eloise's stomach dropped out from under her. Cold, sickening recognition—like a wave of icy water—washed through her veins, chilling her to the bone.
"What I—?" she stuttered, terror finally eclipsing rage.
"You burned down an estate," he stated, tilting his head slightly, almost academically. "It was a very beautiful property. Which is a felony, by the way. So yes. You're coming with us."
The blood drained instantly from her face, leaving her skin paper white.
William.
The answer was immediate, crushing, and familiar. Of course. Of course he would harass her. Of course he would send expensive, professional thugs to intimidate her, to ruin her, after she had humiliated him so thoroughly in public.
Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as white-hot fury cut through her fear.
"Did William send you to harass me?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Because if you try anything, if you try to drag me, I swear to God, I will find a way to burn you all down just like I burned that place."
A different man—leaner, colder, with a wicked scar running along his jaw—let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"She's spicy, Marcos. She's got guts."
Marcos didn't smile. He didn't blink. He seemed only mildly inconvenienced by her threats.
"What? No," he said flatly, his voice carrying the authority of irrefutable fact. "He's not in the position to do that at the moment. Or to send anyone, for that matter."
The third man snorted, covering a genuine laugh behind a gloved hand.
"Definitely not."
That tone—offhand, almost amused, dismissing William as a relevant factor—made Eloise's stomach twist violently. This wasn't petty revenge. This was professional, organized, and utterly outside William's sphere of influence. Something was terrifyingly wrong.
"I don't know who the hell you think you are," she said, her voice rising to a frantic, thin pitch, "but I am not—NOT—going anywhere with you people. So off you go. I have to get to work."
Marcos exhaled a slow, impossibly patient breath, as if dealing with a tiresome child.
"In case you are unaware, Miss Winters," he said, his voice dropping to a level that brooked no argument, "the estate you burned down does not belong to William Baker. It belongs to someone else. A very, very different person."
He leveled a cool, assessing look at her that seemed to vibrate in her very bones.
"So I suggest you stop making this difficult and accept the inevitability of the situation."
Eloise's knees went weak, betraying her. Her pulse hammered against her throat, choking her.
"You're lying," she whispered, desperate, defiant. "It was William's estate—he told me it was his. He—he—"
"He lied to you, Miss Winters. He lied spectacularly. That house was leverage given to him."
Her throat tightened painfully. The realization shattering her last defense. Her pulse hammered against her throat. If it wasn't William's... she had crossed a line she couldn't even see. She had destroyed property belonging to someone infinitely more powerful.
"And you are coming with us," Marcos finished.
"No," she breathed, shaking her head frantically. "No, I'm not."
She slammed the door—
—or she tried to.
A large, perfectly manicured hand shot out, catching the edge of the door mid-swing. Marcos didn't flinch. He didn't strain. His strength was casual, overwhelming.
Then he pushed.
The door flew open so fast it smacked the wall behind her with a sickening CRACK.
Eloise stumbled back into the living room, her heart exploding in her chest. The four men advanced, their movement fluid and silent.
"I said," Marcos repeated quietly, his voice now edged with chilling finality, "stop making this difficult."
In a blinding flash of pure, animalistic defense, Eloise grabbed the closest heavy thing she could find—her ceramic mug from breakfast—and hurled it at his head with all her might.
WHAM.
It shattered against his shoulder with a sharp, ugly sound.
Marcos didn't even wince. He didn't rub the spot. He merely tracked the trajectory of the ceramic pieces as they fell, his face utterly impassive, annoyed only by the mess.
"Okay," the scarred man muttered, rubbing his jaw. Now it's annoying."
Another man stepped in—the taller, bald one, with hands like massive, boulders. He moved with deceptive speed.
"Don't, Leo. Do not touch her," Marcos warned without turning. "We have strict orders."
But it was too late. Eloise, seeing her chance, bolted toward the kitchen, aiming for the knife drawer, a desperate, final resort.
She didn't make it two steps before an arm locked around her waist and yanked her back so violently the air left her lungs in a painful, winded rush.
"LET GO!" she screamed, kicking wildly, her body thrashing, a sound more animal than human.
Her heel connected solidly with someone's shin. The man holding her cursed sharply, but his grip remained absolute iron, his breath even.
She twisted, clawed, bit, fighting with the manic, useless fury of a cornered animal.
"I CAN'T BREATHE—LET—ME—GO—"
The arms around her were solid. A hand clamped around one wrist, immobilizing it. Another forced her other arm down. Her feet left the floor as she was hoisted higher.
"Calm her, Leo. Hold her still," Marcos ordered.
"I'm trying, Marcos," the man grunted, tightening his crushing grip.
Eloise thrashed harder, her desperate nails scraping across the man's jacketed arm, drawing a thin line of blood.
The scarred man hissed in annoyance.
"She fights like a damn feral cat."
"I said do not hurt her," Marcos stressed sharply. "Just restrain. She is to be delivered intact."
Easy for him to say when he wasn't currently being used as a punching bag.
Eloise's panic found one last surge of strength. She kicked her head backward, ramming it with desperate force into the chin of the man holding her.
Leo swore louder this time, a grunt of genuine, surprising pain.
"Jesus Christ! She's relentless!"
"You said not to hurt her!" he complained to Marcos, rubbing his chin where her skull had connected.
"I didn't say let her break your teeth," Marcos snapped back, stepping in to supervise.
Eloise bucked again—wild, weeping, breathless with exhausted panic.
"No—no—NO—stop—please—DON'T—"
Her voice cracked, the strength draining entirely into useless tears.
Leo finally secured her flailing ankles with practiced ease. The fourth man calmly bent down and scooped up her spilled purse from the floor, treating the abduction like a lost-and-found scenario.
She twisted once more, a final, futile gesture, and for a split second, Marcos's cold, dark eyes met hers, inches away.
Something passed between them—not empathy, not even anger, but a cold, heavy acknowledgment. Like he was studying her, memorizing the furious set of her jaw, the terror in her eyes.
"Miss Winters," he said softly, almost respectfully, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary.
"You don't understand the situation you're in, but you will soon."
"THEN TELL ME!" she screamed at him, the sound muffled by her own sobs.
"It's not my place."
He stepped back, giving a silent, final signal.
The man behind her shifted, hoisting her fully over his shoulder, her weight nothing to him.
"Put me down—PUT ME DOWN!"
Her voice broke, raw, desperate.
"Help! HELP—"
A gloved hand, surprisingly soft but undeniably firm, clapped instantly over her mouth, suffocating the sound.
"Don't do that," Marcos warned quietly, his voice a low, chilling purr. "The last thing you want, Miss Winters, is for neighbors to witness this."
Her heart shattered into a million pieces.
She finally understood the absolute, sickening reality. If anyone came out, if anyone saw, these men wouldn't just deal with the situation—they would execute it. They would kill to keep their operation clean. They had no moral limits.
The realization stopped her resistance cold. She went limp, tears streaming down her face and soaking the edge of the glove pressed against her mouth.
"Walk," Marcos commanded.
They carried her out—her screams now silent, her sobs choked, her body trembling with defeat and shock.
Outside, a black, intimidating SUV waited, engine running silently, a beast waiting to consume her.
The back door opened.
She kicked again, weakly, slipping against Leo's expensive suit fabric.
"Easy," Leo carrying her muttered, his voice still tense. "You're gonna hurt yourself worse than you already did."
She was shoved inside—firmly, but with that weird, unsettling carefulness.
As the door slammed shut, she realized with a sickening clarity:
This wasn't random.
This was something meticulously planned.
Something bigger. Darker. Colder.
Marcos leaned down beside the open front door, meeting her eyes one last time through the dim, tinted interior.
"Miss Winters," he said quietly.
"We're taking you to the man who owns the estate you burned."
Eloise's blood turned to ice in her veins.
"Who—?" she whispered, the word dry, cracked.
Marcos paused, savoring the moment, then delivered the name gently, like pronouncing a final, unappealable judgment.
"Luciano Solis De La Vega."
The door clicked closed.
The locks engaged with a heavy, final sound.
And the SUV pulled away—carrying Eloise straight into the arms of the devil she had accidentally crossed, speeding toward a future that was no longer her own.