Chapter 2: He Hasn’t Done Yet
1878 Words
- DECLAN
The television was on mute, but I didn’t need the sound to know the story.
On the screen, the news anchor's mouth moved slowly in that rehearsed look of sympathy, like she’d practiced it a million times in front of a mirror.
Behind her, the same images played over and over: flashing blue lights reflecting off-white drifts, crushed metal remains of an SUV, train tracks smeared with the kind of red that snow can’t hide, and rescue crews swarming the wreck like ants around something already dead.
I picked up the remote and turned the volume up.
“—A devastating train collision late last night has claimed the lives of Damian and Eleanor Wynther, along with their youngest son, Jamie Wynther,” the anchor said. “Authorities confirm that only three passengers survived the crash.”
The screen flashed three names. Seraphine Wynther-Griffiths. Aiden Griffiths. Marielle Thatcher.
“Two survivors sustained mild injuries and were released earlier today,” the anchor continued. “The other remains hospitalized in critical condition and has yet to regain full consciousness.”
I slumped back in my chair and pressed my fingertips together, my gaze locked onto the screen. I didn't even blink, tracking every movement and detail.
I looked toward the window, watching the city lights shimmer in the glass behind me.
The streets below were glowing with Christmas lights. It’s funny how the world keeps on spinning and celebrating, even when someone’s whole universe has ended.
“Lucky,” the anchor added softly. “A miracle, some might say.”
I snorted.
Miracles didn't exist. It was only for people who still believed in fairy tales.
In my world, there are only unpaid debts and things left undone, and I was holding a ledger still dripping with blood.
The door behind me opened without announcement.
“Sir.”
I didn’t look up. I knew the rhythmic, efficient steps of my assistant, Nolan Schwartz.
He walked over with his tablet tucked under his arm. His suit was perfect without a single wrinkle, like he’d planned for every possible disaster.
He shot a glance at the screen, then looked back at me, totally composed and already thinking two moves ahead.
“Wynther's accident,” he said. “Confirmed. Total loss.”
“Not total,” I replied.
He hesitated. “Three survivors.”
“Exactly.”
Nolan shifted his weight. “The heiress survived along with her husband and a friend. If you ask me, that’s still poetic justice. Losing her entire family in one night? That’s the kind of pain money can’t soften.”
I finally looked at him.
He cleared his throat. “No offense, sir.”
I stood, then slowly walked to the bar by the window and poured myself a drink.
The amber liquid sat perfectly still in the glass. It was calm and steady—everything I wasn't.
“Justice,” I repeated. “You think that was justice?”
Nolan shrugged. “They deserved consequences.”
“They deserved ruin,” I corrected. "Totally. For good."
I took a sip, hoping it would settle me down. It burned, sure, but it didn't actually help.
“This was sloppy,” I continued. “It was rushed and messy, but honestly, the fact that it’s still unfinished is what really pisses me off.”
Nolan frowned. “The Wynthers are gone. That family line is effectively—”
“Not all gone,” I cut in.
“The heiress,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. She survives,” I replied. “Which means the story isn’t over, and the debt is still open.”
Nolan hesitated, then chose his next words carefully. “With respect, Sir… you've already broken her once. Before the accident even happened.”
The word dragged memories with it. I still remember the dim lights and the lingering effects of whiskey, the sound of rain hitting the hotel window, how anger and sadness had mixed into something reckless and evil.
That night, I dragged Seraphine to bed drunk. I left her on the hotel bed while she was still fast asleep, unaware that I had taken her virginity.
I was meant to ruin her, but unfortunately, another guy stepped in and married her a few days later.
I should be satisfied and relieved, but my plans hadn't succeeded yet.
“She was collateral,” I said flatly.
Nolan raised an eyebrow. “Collateral tends to remember.”
I turned to him fully then. “She doesn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“She believed it was him,” I said. "She married him because of it."
Nolan exhaled. “Damn.”
“Exactly.”
The silence stretched.
Outside, snow began to fall—soft, lazy flakes drifting past the windows as if nothing bad had ever happened in this city.
Nolan broke the quiet. “So what now, Sir?”
I swirled the drink. “Now, I should finish what I started.”
He studied me. “Carefully.”
“Of course.”
After a brief pause, I cleared my throat and said, "Three people made it out alive, including the husband, right?"
Nolan nodded, his fingers moved across the screen of his tablet. “From the report, two women were pulled from the wreckage. One woman sustained mild injuries and was released earlier, but the other is still hospitalized in critical condition and has yet to regain full consciousness. The reports say she’s been unconscious since she arrived.”
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light catch it. “Anything about brain damage?”
Nolan’s gaze flicked back to the tablet. “There are some… mentions of potential memory loss. The doctors say it’s too soon to tell, but it’s likely. Severe head trauma often leads to that.”
I set the glass down with a heavy thud.
"Find out what the heiress’s current condition is, and who is the third survivor in that hospital bed."
"Yes, Sir."
“The husband, Aiden Griffiths,” I said. “Find out everything about him. Bank accounts. Assets. Secret deals. I want to know who he contacts and who he's seeing besides his grieving wife.”
Nolan’s expression didn’t shift. “And the other survivor?”
“Marielle Thatcher. The best friend. Dig into her, too. I want to know every connection between the three of them. Every secret.”
Nolan gave a slight, efficient nod. “Understood.”
He tapped on his tablet once, then again, and glanced up. “Already pulling the records.”
“Good.”
The silence stretched long and bitter. Nolan broke it by tapping his tablet. "Our contact at St. Alaric says there’s a woman who’s been inseparable from Aiden Griffiths today. She’s hiding behind a mask and oversized sunglasses. Similar height and build to the heiress, but no one has seen her face."
I swirled the ice in my glass. "Is it her?"
Nolan looked up from the tablet. "We don't know yet. The reports say one woman is in a coma with severe head trauma. Potential memory loss. But the press is being told the wife is already up and grieving."
I leaned against the bar, staring out at the snow. “If she's the one… if she remembers… then we need to have something in place.”
“Sir?”
I glanced back at him. “We have something she wants.”
Nolan’s expression remained unreadable. “Safety?”
I let out a cold, humorless smile. “A bargain.”
He didn't smile back. “And if she doesn’t remember?”
“Then we’ll have to remind her.”
“Understood, Sir. But first, we need to verify her true identity before we make our next move.”
“Good,” I said, turning away from the window and picking up the glass again. “Keep me updated.”
Nolan gave another crisp nod. “Will do.”
“If you’re hunting something, we must stay close and move one step ahead,” I said. “Besides, predators also don't like to be far away.”
I headed back to my desk and reached for the file.
Seraphine Wynther was right there on the cover, her bright eyes and soft smile showing a person who had never known a bad day.
Nolan crossed his arms. “You’re going to the hospital?”
I didn’t answer.
“You shouldn’t,” he insisted. “Give it time, Sir. You don’t need to be seen, and she definitely doesn’t need to see you.”
I snapped the file open. It was all there—the medical records, the chronological logs, a list of names, and the connections that tied them all together.
“She’s the key,” I said.
Nolan’s voice dropped. “What if she remembers?”
I closed the file slowly. “Then I adapt.”
“And if she hates you?”
I met his gaze. “She already should.”
The television droned in the background, talking about memorial services, candlelit prayers, and holiday tragedies. Christmas music could be heard faintly over the broadcast, absurd and disturbing.
“Sir,” Nolan said carefully, “this path… It’s dangerous.”
I laughed under my breath. “Everything worth doing is.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “What do you need?”
I checked my watch.
“I don't need much,” I said. “We need to move quickly and quietly. And only when they leave a door open.”
"Sure."
“Prepare the car,” I said.
Nolan stiffened. “To the hospital?”
“No,” I replied, grabbing my coat. “To make sure which one is the true heiress.”
"Yes, Sir."
With that, he left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
I was alone again.
The TV anchor was still talking, her face now replaced with a file photo of Aiden Griffiths, smiling into the camera with an arm around a woman who was probably supposed to be Seraphine.
But no, it wasn’t her.
The photo was grainy, but I could see the difference. The woman beside him had the same dark hair, but her jaw was softer, her smile a little wider.
Was it Marielle Thatcher, or was it just my eyes playing a trick?
My fingers tightened on the glass.
They were parading the best friend around as the grieving wife. Why?
The only reason to hide the real wife was if she knew something. Or was starting to remember something.
It was a risky and sloppy move. And it made me angry.
I downed the rest of my drink in one go.
It burned all the way down, but it didn't stop the cold feeling spreading through my chest.
I always finish what I start.
I needed her broken enough to fall. A way that left a void only I could fill.
With firm determination, I stepped outside. The night was cold enough to turn my breath to mist, and the falling snow began to settle on my head.
But I always finish what I start. And I wasn't even close to being done with her.
In fact, there was still a hell of a lot more to do.
- Writer
