Chapter 68

Chapter 68
Brown's POV

"What the hell are you saying? You can't bring the documents containing Ian's business deal with the Europeans?" I growled, my voice rough as gravel, slicing through the air like a blade. My fist slammed into the oak table with a thunderous crack, shaking the glass and papers that sat on its surface. She flinched, her body recoiling instinctively. Her wide, glossy eyes stared at me—frightened, wounded. She looked like a cornered animal, ready to bolt, but too broken to run.

"I—I'm trying my best, Brown. It's not easy to work as a help in a toxic home just to get valuable documents," she stammered, voice trembling, hands wringing together. Her lip quivered as she took a shaky step back, brushing her knuckles over her cheek.

“I killed their house help… in the name of getting this…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, trying to compose herself, but the fear in her gaze betrayed her strength.

The words hit me like a slap. Killed? That was unexpected, even for her.

She backed further away until the wall stopped her. The room was dimly lit, the single hanging bulb above us casting sharp shadows across her face. “Brown, let me get it my way,” she whispered, “Stop threatening me.”

But I stepped forward, slow, like a predator. “Your way?” I sneered. “You think we’ve come this far for you to start playing hero now? You’ve been my puppet for years, girl. Don’t suddenly grow a conscience.”

“I had to kill someone, Brown!” she snapped back, voice rising with emotion. Her chest heaved with every breath. “Do you think I wanted this? I’ve lied, stolen, bled—for you! I’ve done everything you've ever asked. But you don’t know what it’s like in that house. Ian isn’t some clueless businessman. He watches everything. Everything.”

“Then move faster,” I hissed, towering over her. “If he’s as dangerous as you say, then we don’t have the luxury of time.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her knees buckled slightly, and she sank down against the wall, arms hugging her frame. “I’m not asking for luxury,” she muttered, looking up at me with hollow eyes. “I’m asking for time. Just a few weeks. Please…”

I turned away, pacing like a caged animal, seething. My fists clenched and unclenched as I tried to rein in the fury boiling in my chest. She’d always been good—good at slithering, good at charming, good at getting into tight places and slipping out again. But this? This was different.

She had never defied me like this.

“Do you remember Las  Vegas?” I said suddenly, my voice dangerously calm.

Her body stiffened. I saw the fear return, stronger now.

“Do you remember how I pulled you out of that pit? How your uncle sold you for drugs and left you to rot with rats?” I turned to her slowly. “I made you something. I gave you a name. A purpose.”

She nodded, tears now freely streaming down her face.

“And you think this is how you repay me?” I growled.

“I’m not repaying you,” she bit out. “I’m surviving you.”

Her words sliced through the tension like a whip, and for a second—just a second—my anger stalled. Her defiance stirred something… not quite guilt, but maybe regret. I blinked it away quickly.

“I never asked to be your puppet,” she said, standing now, her voice stronger. “You used me. You turned me into a ghost, a shadow. And I played along, didn’t I? I watched people die, I killed for you. I covered your tracks, spied on your enemies, sold my soul piece by piece.”

The room felt smaller, suffocating. She was unraveling, baring all the truths we’d both buried for years.

“I’m asking you, Brown,” she said, breath hitching, “give me two weeks. I’ll get what you want. I’ll bring the documents. But don’t threaten me again.”

Silence.

The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock and the distant hum of city traffic outside the window.

I stepped forward, slowly. She stood her ground this time, chin raised, eyes glassy but defiant. I almost smiled. Almost.

“You really think I care about your tears?” I said quietly, my voice a low growl. “You think you can draw a line now, after everything?”

She flinched again but didn’t step back.

“You’ve walked through hell for me, girl. One more mile won’t kill you.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared.

I inhaled sharply, then turned away again. My boots echoed dully on the floor as I crossed the room. I grabbed a glass of whiskey from the side table, downed it in one gulp.

“You have three weeks,” I muttered, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. “Not a day more.”

Her breath caught. “Brown—thank you—”

“Don’t thank me.” My voice snapped like a whip. “This isn’t mercy. This is business. You fail me again, and I won’t send someone else to finish the job. I’ll come myself.”

She nodded quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I understand.”

“Get out.”

She paused, eyes lingering on me, maybe searching for a flicker of humanity that wasn't there. Or wasn’t supposed to be.

“Now.”

She turned and walked away, fast, almost stumbling as she reached the door. But just before she stepped out, she looked back one last time.

“I’ll bring the documents, Brown,” she said. “I always do.”

And then she was gone.

The door shut softly behind her, but the weight of her words stayed in the room like smoke. I stared at the empty space where she had stood, the ghost of our past hanging between the silence.

Three weeks.

She better not waste them.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, the silence screamed.

I stood there, rigid, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her voice still echoed in my head—“I’m surviving you.” The gall. The audacity. After everything I’d done. After everything I made her.

I roared, a deep, guttural sound torn from somewhere raw inside me, and slammed my hand into the whiskey glass on the table, shattering it into glittering shards. Pieces flew across the floor, slicing my knuckles open, but I didn’t feel a damn thing. Blood dripped onto the hardwood, warm, steady.

She thought she was brave? She thought she could turn on me, challenge me?

I grabbed the chair beside the table and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the wall with a satisfying splinter of wood and plaster. The mirror above it shattered instantly, raining down glass like snow.

“She dares to speak to me like that?” I spat, pacing now, seething, fists clenched. My boots crunched over the broken glass, and I didn’t stop.

I tore the lamp from the desk and slammed it down. Sparks flew as the bulb exploded, the room plunged into deeper shadows.

This wasn’t about her delay. It was disrespectful. The nerve.

I made her. She was nothing before me. And now she dares to beg, to barter, to look me in the eye like she was my equal?

I stopped in the middle of the wreckage, chest heaving, the scent of whiskey, blood, and burnt wires thick in the air.

She had three weeks.

If she failed, no amount of begging would save her.

This time, I'd rip the soul from her myself.