Chapter 144 Going Slowly
~Hermes~
I watch Gavin shrug like it’s nothing. "Well, it’s no big deal. She was there for work, I guess."
I frown, the crease between my brows deepening. "I don’t understand, Gavin. Why didn’t you tell me this?"
Gavin scoffs, a corner of his mouth twitching. "Why didn’t you tell me you had another plan with fixing your father’s issues?"
I groan, dragging my hands over my face, wishing I could just stop talking. I can’t tell him. I cannot tell him that my father has woken up, that the decision was made by him and that I’ve been carrying it alone.
"See," Gavin continues, standing to pour us both coffee, "I got to know when she called me asking for legal advice."
Curiosity spikes, sharp and unwelcome. "On what? Did she hit anyone? Kill anyone?"
Gavin freezes, then laughs nervously, raising his hands. "Woah… woah… slow down. No. She didn’t do anything of that nature, okay? Just… some legal stuff about starting a business. God, Hermes, what’s wrong with you?" He hands me the cup of coffee, the steam curling between us. "Why do you need any dirt on her, by the way? She’s basically covering your company."
I take the cup, feeling the heat but not tasting it, my mind spinning. Covering my company. Protecting my interests, and also threatening my girl and I. Yeah. Fuck that.
I finally take a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth sit heavy on my tongue before swallowing. "I’ll explain that to you at the bachelor party," I say.
Gavin looks up, amused, eyebrows raised. "Really? At your bachelor party — where we’re supposed to have fun — that’s when you want to talk about this?"
I gulp down the rest of the coffee, placing the empty cup on the table with a dull clink. "Well, she’s biting off more than she can chew," I murmur, rubbing a hand across my jaw. "So I need some insurance, okay?"
For a moment, Gavin doesn’t reply. He just stands there, watching me — eyes narrowing as if studying a test subject. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts. His eyes widen. "Oh, shit."
I blink, startled. "What? What is it?"
He stretches over the desk, grabs my empty cup, staring into it like it’s a crime scene.
"What the hell, Hermes—how did you drink this?"
"What sort of question is that?" My brow lifts, irritation prickling. "Did you put something in it?"
"Yeah," he snaps, gesturing wildly. "Fucking sugar, and you drank it without spitting it out. Are you okay?"
For a second, I just stare at him, trying to process the words. Sugar.
Then it hits me.
I didn’t taste it. Not a hint.
My mind goes blank, the realization slamming into me hard. I didn’t even feel the sweetness. Just heat. Just nothing.
My throat tightens. The noise in the room fades until it’s just the steady sound of my pulse in my ears.
His voice fades somewhere in the background — concerned, sharp, asking something — but I can’t focus.
I didn’t taste the sugar.
My symptoms are worsening.
Gavin shakes his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath before glancing at his watch. "Damn, man. You’re acting so strange. Uh— I’ve got to go now. Meeting with a client."
I don’t answer. My mind’s somewhere else, spiraling between what I tasted and what I didn’t.
A tap on my arm drags me back. "Hey," Gavin says, his voice softer now. "I’ll advise you drop whatever you have on Natalya. You guys are getting married, for Christ’s sake. Forgive each other, move on. I think she didn’t disclose her real whereabouts because she wanted to stay low-key. Or maybe she didn’t want you thinking she was stalking you— though," he adds with a half-smile, "Australia’s too damn big for that to happen."
I nod absently, pretending to listen. My head feels like it’s underwater — thoughts floating, breaking apart before I can reach them.
"Alright, let’s go," Gavin says, tapping my shoulder as he turns for the door.
"Wait," I call out. "Can I grab a paper and pen, please?"
He stops mid-step, frowning. "What the fuck, Hermes. You don’t talk like that. You’re scaring me. Why the fuck do you even want a paper and pen?"
I look up at him, deadpan. "To write down what you just told me."
He blinks, a nervous laugh escaping him. "You’re joking, right?"
I don’t answer. I just stare at him — steady, cold, expressionless, and then the laugh dies in his throat.
_____
The city thins behind me, replaced by empty roads and the hum of my engine. I pull over near the outskirts, the skyline shrinking in my rearview mirror.
The paper sits on the passenger seat. Natalya was never in Ireland. She was in Australia.
I stare at the words until they blur. I want to do what Gavin said — let it go, bury it, pretend it’s nothing. But it won’t stop echoing in my head.
Her letters and the faked return address. Why go through the trouble of hiding?
There has to be a reason — and it isn’t something innocent.
A pulse of irritation cuts through my chest. I fold the paper carefully, set it aside, and unlock my phone. My thumb scrolls through the contact list until it stops on a number I shouldn’t be calling again.
The line clicks.
"Yes, Boss," the voice answers, low and efficient.
"I’ll send you an address in a bit," I say, eyes fixed on the fading city lights. "Trace the actual location and report back to me."
No hesitation. "Understood."
The call ends. The car feels too quiet. I slide the phone onto the seat, start the engine, and head toward the house.
Inside my study, I’m knee-deep in the trash bin, praying I haven’t burned them all. The paper, – her fucking letters. I dig through the mess, hands brushing crumpled sheets, empty envelopes, and ashes, but find nothing.
A low growl rumbles out of me. In a fit of rage, I sweep every document off my desk. Books, pens, files — they crash to the floor with a thud that echoes through the room.
"Damn it."
I pace the floor, dragging my hands through my hair. My shirt clings to my chest; I unbutton it, breathing hard. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it — one letter, lying just beneath the table.
Relief floods me. I snatch it up like it’s proof of something sacred, snap a picture, and send it to the number from earlier. My thumbs move fast:
"I need feedback immediately."
Slumping into the chair, I uncork a bottle of wine, pour, and down it in one go.
There is no taste.
A bitter laugh escapes me. "First my memory Now my taste. What’s next? My sight?"
The silence feels heavy. I lean back, muttering to myself, "Before I lose everything, I’ll free June from Natalya’s shackles. Whatever it takes."
My phone rings. The same number. I answer sharply.
"Tell me what you found."
"Boss," the voice says, hesitant. "This address isn’t real. I traced it to a corporate mail-forwarding company — they hide clients’ true locations."
My pulse spikes. "I need the company’s client list. Now."
"There are only five," he replies quickly. "All inactive companies. I’ll send them to your email."
Seconds later, the list pops up. My gaze locks on the first name.
Solivane Biotech Solutions.
The name hits like a punch to the ribs. I’ve heard it before. Where?
Then it clicks.
It’s the pharmaceutical company that approached my father — the one that offered him the contract before Astrada Pharmaceuticals came.
My phone slips from my hand. The sound barely registers. My mind is already racing.
What the hell does Natalya have to do with that company? This must be a coincidence. It has to.
I grab my journal to write it down, to connect the threads before they fade— But then my mind blanks.
The pen hovers over the page.
I can’t remember what I wanted to write. Not a single word.
Fuck.