Jillian clenched her fists as she stared at the documents before her. Every page, every transaction, every hidden deal painted a picture of a man who wasn't just protecting his reputation—he was covering up something far worse.
She had enough proof to ruin Harlond Smith. With a single move, she could expose his secrets, bring his carefully built empire crashing down, and finally have her revenge for all the pain he had caused her.
But she didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, she carefully gathered the documents and stored them away in a safe place, far from prying eyes. This wasn't just leverage—it was power. A weapon she could wield when the time was right.
Dante watched her in silence before finally speaking. "You're not going to use it?"
"Not now," Jillian said, her voice steady. "If I expose him now, he'll fight back. He'll have time to cover his tracks, spin the story in his favor." She exhaled, her eyes dark with determination. "But if I wait… if I hold onto this, I can make my move when he least expects it. When it will hurt the most."
Leo nodded in understanding. "Smart. But dangerous."
Jillian smirked. "Good. Let him think he's won. Let him think I'm powerless. When the time comes, he'll see just how wrong he was."
For now, she would wait. But Harlond Smith had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Jonathan Robinson had been quiet for too long, moving carefully in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. Now, with Camilla still in Victor Holloway's grip, he knew it was time to act. He couldn't leave her to fend for herself any longer.
Slipping back into town under a false identity, Jonathan began setting things in motion. He gathered resources, bribed guards, and studied Victor's movements. He needed a solid plan—one that wouldn't just free Camilla but would also ensure their safety after the escape.
One night, he contacted a trusted old ally, someone who had once owed him a life debt. "I need your help," Jonathan said, his voice low but urgent. "We're breaking Camilla out."
His ally hesitated. "Victor Holloway doesn't let go of people that easily. You sure you want to go down this path?"
Jonathan's eyes darkened. "I don't have a choice."
With that, the plan was set in motion. But what Jonathan didn't know was that Victor had already anticipated this—waiting for him to make the first move.
Jonathan moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridors of Victor's stronghold, his allies right behind him. Every step was calculated, every movement precise. He had spent weeks planning this—studying the layout, analyzing guard shifts, and finding the perfect moment to strike. But something felt off.
The silence was unnatural. No alarms blared, no guards rushed to intercept them. It was too easy.
Then, a slow clap echoed through the hallway.
"Impressive," a voice drawled from the shadows.
Jonathan froze, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. The overhead lights flickered on, revealing Victor Holloway standing at the far end of the room, flanked by his men. He looked relaxed, almost amused, as he leaned against the steel railing above them.
"You didn't think I'd let you waltz in here unnoticed, did you?" Victor smirked.
Jonathan's jaw tightened. He glanced at his allies, who were already shifting into defensive positions. "Let her go, Victor," he demanded.
Victor tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Let who go? Camilla?" He let out a low chuckle. "Oh, Jonathan. You never understood, did you? This was never about her."
A loud metallic clang rang out as the doors behind them slammed shut. The lights above flickered again, casting eerie shadows across the concrete walls. The air suddenly felt suffocating.
Then came the sound of footsteps. More than a dozen.
Jonathan's instincts screamed at him to move. To fight. To run.
But it was too late.
Victor had set the trap, and now they were caught in it.
The game of survival had begun.
Jonathan and his allies sprang into action. The room exploded into chaos as fists flew, blades clashed, and gunfire echoed through the air. Jonathan moved with precision, his strikes quick and brutal, taking down one of Victor's men before spinning to block an incoming attack.
His allies fought hard, but they were outnumbered. For every man they took down, two more emerged from the shadows. Victor's men were trained, disciplined, and ruthless.
A heavy fist slammed into Jonathan's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, barely dodging a follow-up strike. Blood dripped from a cut above his eye, blurring his vision. His allies were struggling too—one had already been disarmed, another forced against the wall.
Victor watched from above, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "I expected more from you, Jonathan," he mused. "You came all this way, and for what? A doomed rescue?"
Jonathan ignored him, gritting his teeth as he drove his knee into an attacker's stomach. But the victory was short-lived. A hard blow struck the back of his head, sending him to his knees.
"Jonathan!" one of his allies shouted, only to be silenced by a brutal strike.
Heavy boots approached. Jonathan tried to push himself up, but a gun pressed against the side of his head stopped him cold.
Victor descended the stairs leisurely, hands in his pockets. He crouched in front of Jonathan, tilting his head. "Looks like the hero lost."
Jonathan clenched his jaw. "This isn't over."
Victor chuckled, standing upright. "Oh, I know. That's what makes it fun."
With a simple nod from Victor, his men seized Jonathan and his remaining allies, binding their hands. The fight was over. They had lost. And now, they were at Victor's mercy.
Victor didn't even spare Jonathan another glance as he gave his orders. "Lock him up with Camilla," he said casually, adjusting his cuffs. "As for the rest… make sure they don't come back."
Jonathan's allies were dragged away, their muffled protests and struggles ignored. Victor's men knew exactly what to do—pain first, then disposal. They weren't worth keeping.
Two guards gripped Jonathan by the arms, forcing him to his feet. His head throbbed, blood dripping down his temple, but he didn't resist. He knew there was no point. At least, not yet.
The walk to Camilla's cell was long and cold. The hallways of Victor's stronghold were eerily silent, save for the echo of boots on concrete. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood—Victor's version of a dungeon.
Finally, they stopped at a heavy steel door. One of the guards yanked it open, revealing a dimly lit, cramped room. And inside, curled up in the farthest corner, was Camilla Robbinson.
Her head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw Jonathan being shoved inside.
"Jonathan!" she gasped, scrambling to her feet.
Jonathan barely had time to catch himself as he was thrown forward, the guards slamming the door shut behind him. The loud clang of the lock sliding into place echoed through the room.
Jonathan exhaled sharply, wiping the blood from his face. "Well," he muttered, glancing at Camilla. "This didn't go as planned."
Camilla rushed to him, gripping his arm. "Are you hurt?"
Jonathan gave a half-smirk. "Nothing I can't handle."
Camilla didn't seem convinced. She looked at him, then at the locked door, frustration and fear flickering in her eyes. "Jonathan… what do we do now?"
He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. "We wait."
Camilla frowned. "For what?"
Jonathan's expression hardened. "For the right moment."