Chapter 50
Elise's POV
I stood at the entrance of the tattoo parlor, my fingers clutching the kraft paper envelope, staring at the data inside for what felt like an eternity.
Who left this?
I didn't know.
When was it left?
I didn't know that either.
Things don't just grow legs and walk themselves through door cracks. Someone had been here today—perhaps during the hours after I'd left—came to this place, slipped this envelope through the gap beneath the door, and then vanished without a trace.
This person knew I was investigating Benjamin. This person had obtained overseas account information that even I couldn't access. This person, from somewhere beyond my knowledge, had filled in the most critical missing piece of my puzzle.
Should I feel grateful?
Perhaps.
But I didn't.
My first reaction was vigilance.
The cold sweat crawling up my spine was even denser than what had broken out at the studio this morning.
In this world, there's no such thing as help without reason.
Behind every act of kindness, there's a price tag.
Behind every unexpected gift, there's an expectation lurking.
I didn't know this person's identity. Didn't know what they wanted. Didn't know whether they'd cast me as a piece on the chessboard—or as the board itself.
I only knew one thing:
I was being watched.
And whoever was watching me had the power to uncover things that even the Sterling family might struggle to find.
I closed the envelope and tucked it inside the sketchbook I always carried with me.
Then I unlocked the studio door, walked inside, and locked it again behind me.
I stood with my back against the door for a long time.
Outside, the sky had turned completely dark. Light from the streetlamps filtered through the high windows, casting a small pool of illumination across my worktable.
I pulled out my phone.
Victor's message still sat in my unread list: "Seven days."
The countdown had three days remaining.
Three days.
I held this card in my hand.
But I had no idea who had dealt it.
---
Liam's POV
"Talk."
That's all I said to the person on the other end of the line.
On the other end was my private investigator—a guy named Dave, a former cop who'd been kicked off the force a few years back for "improper conduct" and had been doing contract work for me ever since. Tailing, photography, digging up background information—as long as the money was right, he'd do anything.
Dave's voice came through the phone speaker with a kind of professional flatness:
"I've been watching the Miller place all day. At six forty-seven this morning, the target left the house."
"Where did she go?"
"The tattoo studio. The one in that alley in the old district. She stayed inside all morning."
That didn't surprise me.
That was her place. The only place that truly belonged to her. If she wanted to hide from everyone to think something through or make a decision, going there was the most logical choice.
"And then?"
"Around eleven o'clock, she came out. Took a cab to the east side. An office building—I waited downstairs. The address was 'Vance Law Firm.'"
Julian Vance.
I hadn't heard that name before. But the word "law firm" made me pay extra attention.
"How long was she inside?"
"About two hours. When she came out, she was carrying some kind of folder. Then she went straight back to the tattoo shop."
"After that?"
"She's been at the shop ever since. Until now."
I hung up and tossed my phone onto the sofa armrest.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds.
On Elise's first day away from the Miller house, she'd gone to a law firm. Who had she met? What had they discussed? What had she obtained?
Dave couldn't find out those details. His capabilities extended to surveillance and photography, not infiltrating indoor conversations. If I wanted to know what Elise and that lawyer had talked about, I'd need a different approach.
But just as I was about to ask something else—
"There's one more thing." Dave's voice suddenly took on a hesitant quality. "I think you should see this for yourself."
"What is it?"
"Around two-fifteen this afternoon, a car stopped in front of the tattoo shop."
My heart skipped a beat.
"What kind of car?"
"Black Maybach. New model. Windows tinted dark—couldn't see inside."
Maybach.
My fingers unconsciously tightened.
"Did anyone get out?"
"Yes."
Dave paused.
"A man. Black suit. Very tall—I'd estimate at least six-two, maybe six-three. Wore sunglasses, hat brim pulled low, couldn't see his face clearly. But the way he walked... how do I put this, like someone who's used to people making way for him."
He stayed inside the shop for twenty minutes.
Then he left.
---
I didn't let Dave continue.
I said "Got it" and hung up.
The room fell silent.
Only the faint hum of the air conditioner vent and the sound of my own heartbeat.
Six-two or taller. Black suit. Black Maybach. People making way when he walks.
Any of these characteristics alone wouldn't mean much—the city was full of wealthy, powerful people. Tall men in black suits driving Maybachs were a dime a dozen.
But when these characteristics stacked together—
My stomach began to churn.
They overlapped with that night's memory.
The seaside villa. The hallway. That black door.
A man's silhouette. Dark suit. Very tall. Three similarly dressed men following behind him. The way he walked, as calm and casual as if he were strolling through his own living room.
He hadn't turned around. Hadn't looked at me. Had never even faced me directly.
But he had walked through that door. Walked into the place where I had personally locked Elise away.
At the time, I'd only seen his back.
Now Dave was telling me that a man with an almost identical build had entered Elise's studio. In her safest, most private space. For twenty minutes.
I pulled the surveillance footage from the street outside the tattoo shop.
It cost some money—or rather, it cost some of the Sterling family's influence in that district—to obtain that segment from two o'clock in the afternoon.
The image quality wasn't clear. The old surveillance system's resolution was limited, the footage grainy and striped with artifacts. But I could still make out the outline of the car.
Black. Long-wheelbase Maybach. The license plate area was deliberately smeared with mud covering most of it.
Only the last two digits were clearly visible: 47.
I stared at those two numbers for a long time.
Then I dialed another number.
Not Dave this time. Someone from a deeper channel—someone who specialized in checking vehicle registration information and corporate ownership structures. Very expensive, but never wrong.
I waited about twenty minutes.
The person called back.
"Found it. The registration information for this Maybach has been wiped clean—the owner field lists a shell company. The company's name is 'H Harbor Consulting,' registered in the port district."
The port district.
"Any other associated information?"
A few seconds of silence. Then he said:
"H Harbor Consulting is connected to several known gray-market operations. I can't specify which ones over the phone. But if you're interested—"
He paused.
"These operations all point in the same direction. Underground cash flow. High-interest loan networks. And—"
He paused again.
"The gambling industry in the port district."
I hung up.
The phone slipped from my hand and fell onto the sofa cushion.
H Harbor Consulting. Port district. Underground cash flow. High-interest loans. Gambling.
Each of these words alone didn't prove anything. But when they stacked together, they pointed toward a direction I didn't want to see.
That man—the man who had taken Elise—wasn't just wealthy.
He had power.
And it was underground, gray-market, illicit power.