85

Moore

I furrowed my brows, walking directly out of the hospital.

Someone was waiting for me outside.

A strange occurrence, considering who I am now. If it were Lucien, he wouldn’t have bothered with something as simple as waiting outside. He would have walked in like he owned the damn place, his presence enough to silence a room.

Lillard? Possibly. But what reason did he have to meet me so urgently?

I sighed, slipping my phone back into my uniform pocket as I made my way toward the exit. I had left Mirabel with Ethan for now, and I didn’t want to waste time on whatever nonsense this was.

The moment I pushed the heavy hospital doors open and stepped into the crisp evening air, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Grey Addison.

For a split second, I didn’t recognize him.

He looked like a man who had just crawled out of hell. His usual arrogance had been buried beneath exhaustion, his once-polished appearance now tainted with disorder and pain. His right arm was wrapped carefully, and even from a distance, I could tell that it wasn’t just a minor injury.

It was fractured.

What the hell happened to him?

A part of me wanted to ask. A very, very small part.

But I didn’t. Because, truthfully? I didn’t care.

If anything, the sight of him like this was almost comical.

The universe had a twisted way of balancing things, and Grey Addison deserved every ounce of suffering he got.

I walked toward him, slowly, my sandals clicking against the pavement with an unhurried ease. He watched me, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something between resentment and misplaced confidence.

I crossed my arms, raising a single brow. "Why are you here?"

Grey let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as his gaze roamed over me—from my neatly styled hair to my uniform and tailored pants.

"You know," he said, his voice laced with forced amusement, "I was very, very sure I only wanted to use you that night in London."

I didn’t react. I didn’t flinch.

I only stared at him, unimpressed.

He smirked, continuing, "How else do I put it? Your husband dressed you up so beautifully, only to strip you of every bit of power you thought you had, throwing you right back where you belong. In the gutter."

Then, he laughed. Again.

The sound grated against my patience.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t move. Instead, I tilted my head slightly, feigning curiosity. But this time my voice was stern and cold. "Why are you at my workplace?"

The question wiped the smirk off his face.

He opened his mouth, ready to laugh again, but I cut him off before he could even try.

"Hold your breath for a while."

My tone was casual, almost polite. But Grey wasn’t stupid. He caught the warning laced beneath it.

His expression darkened, but I saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

Something related to me had cost him an arm. How ironic.

Did he think he could just show up and spit his usual venom without consequences?

I smirked slightly. "If something related to me cost you an arm, Grey," I murmured, my gaze flickering to his injured limb, "what makes you think it won’t cost you your teeth next?"

Grey’s body stiffened.

I saw it, the moment of realization, the sudden understanding that he was standing in front of a version of me he wasn’t prepared for.

His jaw clenched, and then, in Italian, he spat, "So you knew your stupid husband sent someone after me, right?"

Oh… I had absolutely no idea. And something inside of me curled in joy.

Then, switching to English, his voice dropped into a growl. "He amputated my fucking arm, Moore!"

I was enjoying this. The fear. The frustration. The bitter taste of his own medicine.

My lips twitched—not in shock, but in satisfaction. There was something thrilling about hearing that Grey had suffered.

I nodded slowly, meeting his furious glare without flinching.

"Tell me, Grey Addison," I said, my voice dripping with amusement, "what better way to deal with a rabid dog than to make sure it’s permanently incapable of hurting anyone again?"

Grey staggered back, his body moving before his mind could catch up.

He was taken aback.

"What?" His voice was quieter now.

I took a step forward, my smile never faltering.

"Do I need to remind you that you’re a dog?" I mused. "No—dogs are better. I shouldn’t have compared them to you."

Another step.

Grey flinched. He tried to mask it, but I saw it.

The fear.

The regret.

I reveled in it.

"Even without my husband interfering," I continued, my voice dangerously smooth, "I would have come for you, Grey. I would have made you regret your existence. I would have made you regret not killing me that day, because I promise you, you should have."

Grey swallowed, his uninjured hand gripping his fractured arm as if it could shield him.

"You think this is over?" he gritted out. "You think you won?"

I stopped walking, tilting my head slightly.

"Not by a long shot," I said. "Until I take back my company and render you completely useless, it’s not over."

Grey’s chest rose and fell, his breathing shallow. His confidence had cracked.

"You’re just… just a user," he spat. "A stupid, naive one."

I smiled. "A compliment? Thank you."

He turned away fully, “watch your fucking back Moore.”

I waved, smiling broadly.“Tell that to Nora.”

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned, stepping backward toward the black van parked a few feet away.

My eyes flickered to it.

Something about it… felt wrong.

He climbed inside, and in an instant, the van sped off.

A strange sense of dread settled in my chest.

I didn’t like it.

I exhaled slowly, my gaze lingering on the road where the van had disappeared. Then, almost instinctively, my eyes trailed back to Grey’s injured arm.

Lucien did that?

I wouldn’t be surprised, but… Lucien never did things without a reason. If Grey had been punished, it was because he deserved it. Not because of me.

I had to tell myself that.

I shook off the thought, turning back toward the hospital doors.

But then—

I froze.

A familiar scent hit me before I even heard the voice.

"Mrs. Giordano."

I stiffened.

Slowly, I turned my head, my gaze meeting a pair of beautiful, knowing eyes.

He was smiling at me.

"Jordan?"

And just like that—my breath caught in my throat. Not of excitement, why would I be excited to see him, but of dread.

What the hell was he doing here?