OLIVIA’S POV


    55 vouchers.


    “Alright, I’ve got my key, so I’m set to leave,” I muttered under my breath as I double–checked my handbag, making sure I had everything I might possibly need. My phone, my ID, some documents, and the small recorder I always carried just in case. Today wasn’t going to be an ordinary day.


    I was heading to the police station to see themissioner. My mind was locked on one goal getting those captured hitmen to confess. Somewhere inside them was the truth I had been chasing for years: the name of the person pulling the strings, the real mastermind who wanted me dead. I knew once I uncovered that name, once I had it carved into my memory, there would be no mercy. Whoever it was, they would pay for every wound, every betrayal, every sleepless night of fear I had endured.


    This time, I wasn’t going to let it slide.


    I decided to drive myself today. My security team was already starting to suffocate me. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated their protection, but their constant hovering presence made me feel like a prisoner in my own life. Every step I took, every move I made was shadowed, monitored, smothered. And honestly, after everything that had happened, I needed to feel in control, even if it was just behind the wheel of my own car.


    Besides, I was calmer now than I had been in weeks. For so long, I thought Adrian was behind every attempt on my life. I had convinced myself he was still out for blood, still holding onto his anger and thirst for revenge. But now? Now I know the truth. He wasn’t the one pulling the trigger. Someone else was hiding in the shadows, plotting, scheming, waiting for the right moment to strike.


    And while that fact should have made me more afraid, strangely, it didn’t. Because Adrian, unlike most men, was dangerous in ways that words could hardly describe. I had seen it. I had lived it. If he had truly been the mastermind, I wouldn’t even be here today. I would have been gone long ago. That was the type of man he was swift, merciless, unstoppable when he wanted someone gone.


    –


    No, this new enemy might want me dead, but at least they weren’t Adrian. At least I wasn’t fighting the devil I already knew too well.


    As my thoughts drifted, another realization crossed my mind. Adrian had been released from the hospital today. I made sure everything was covered. Two days ago, I cleared out his entire medical bill. It wasn’t out of guilt or anything romantic at least that’s what I told myself, it was just my way of saying thank you. A silent acknowledgment for saving my life when he didn’t have to.


    I didn’t owe him, and he didn’t owe me. But still, gratitude was gratitude, and I wasn’t about to ignore what he’d done for me.


    With that thought, I slipped my heels on, picked up my handbag, and started down the staircase. The house was unusually quiet, the type of silence that pressed against your skin and made you notice even the smallest sound. My hand trailed lightly against the wooden railing as I made my way toward the living room, rehearsing what I would say to themissioner once I arrived.


    But then I froze.


    Dad was at the door. The front door was wide open, letting in the faint chill of the outside air. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t moving, just standing there, staring at whoever was outside. His posture was stiff, almost


    tense, and his face…


    I blinked, stunned.


    55 vouchers


    My father was a man carved out of stone. Hardened. Cold. He had built his life and reputation on being untouchable, unshakable, imprable, I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen him show even the faintest flicker of emotion. He was a wall. A fortress.


    But right now? Right now, his eyes were wide with something I had never seen in him before – shock. Pure, raw shock.


    I slowed my steps, my brows furrowing as I studied him. Who could possibly stand on the other side of that door to pull such a reaction out of him? My father was a man who faced CEOs, politicians, and even hardened criminals without blinking an eye. Yet here he was, frozen, almost vulnerable.


    I leaned slightly to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the visitor, but the doorframe blocked my view. Whoever it was, they hadn’t stepped inside yet. All I could hear was the faint sound of their breathing and the creak of the wooden floor under their shoes.


    The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Dad’s hand was still gripping the edge of the door like he didn’t know whether to open it wider or m it shut.


    Then, finally, a voice came from the other side.


    “Wouldn’t you let me in?” the man asked.


    —


    The sound of it made my chest tighten. There was something in that voice deep, firm, andced with familiarity. I knew it. I was sure I knew it. But for some reason, my mind couldn’t ce it immediately. It was like hearing a melody from a song you hadn’t listened to in years. It tugged at a memory, but one buried too far back to surface clearly.


    My steps slowed down as I asked, “Dad, who’s at the door?”


    The moment my father heard my voice, he closed his eyes like he was enduring some kind of pain, almost like the mere sound of my question reminded him of something heavy he had been trying to suppress. It wasn’t just the usual stress–worn expression he sometimes carried; this was different. It was the kind of look that told me trouble was about to walk through the front door, and he already knew it before I even got close enough to see.


    Our house wasn’t the kind of ce where people just strolled in. No one got as far as our front door without permission from me or my father or unless they were part of the family. Security here was airtight. The gateman had strict instructions to never let anyone in unless Dad personally approved it. So if someone had managed to slip through and make it to the door, then either Dad had allowed it… or something else had happened.


    But with the look on his face, I could tell instantly that he hadn’t granted permission. Which meant this person had found another way past the gate.


    And then, before I could ask anything more, the person finally decided to walk in. He brushed past my without hesitation, stepping into the house as though it belonged to him. That arrogance, that self–assured stride, it was all too familiar.


    dad


    Once he was fully inside, I finally understood why the gateman hadn’t dared to stop him.


    My uncle.


    <b>45 </b>


    55 vouchers.


    “Hmmm,” Uncle José muttered as his eyes roamed over the walls, the furniture, every single detail of our living room. His voice carried a mix of disdain and grudging acknowledgment. “It looks just as good on the inside as it does on the outside.”


    I froze for a moment. My throat went dry before I could speak. “Uncle José,” I said softly, testing the words on my tongue as if saying his name might cause the tension to thicken. “When did you arrive in America? And you didn’t tell anyone that you wereing.”


    —


    The second his eyes met mine, I saw it anger. Not just irritation or disappointment, but a deep–seated resentment that had been festering for years. His eyes didn’t carry the warmth of family; instead, they burned with unspoken words and old grudges.


    “Am I now meant to call you people when I’ming?” he asked sharply, his toneced with sarcasm. “Or am I just not weed here?”


    His words cut through the air, and for a moment, I couldn’t find a proper response. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. You’re always wee here but…”


    Before I could finish, my father interrupted me, stepping forward with his usual firmness.


    “It’s still the proper thing to do,” Dad said, his voice calm but firm, carrying that authority he never lost even in the most ufortable situations. “To inform someone you’reing before you arrive. Especially after so many years.”


    The tension in the room was already thick enough to choke on. Thank God Mom wasn’t home, if she had been, she would have likely exploded by now, demanding exnations and turning the entire situation into a full–blown scene.


    Dad’s words hung in the air, but Uncle José didn’t look ashamed, not even for a second. Instead, he smirked bitterly and tilted his head toward him.


    “And how did you find this ce?” Dad added, his brows furrowed now. “I mean, you haven’t been to this country before. You’ve never even visited New York.”


    José’s lips curled into a cold smile as he shifted his attention fully toward me, ignoring Dad’s question until the veryst moment. His voice carried a mocking Edge as he finally answered.


    “I saw the news<i>,” </i>he said with deliberate slowness, his words heavy with meaning. “You’re really famous now since you publicly announced yourself as CEO.”


    And though the words were directed at me, they weren’t apliment. His tone made it clear, it wasn’t admiration, it wasn’t pride. It was an usation.