THE ONE WHO RAN AWAY

Chapter 5 — Consequences

Raphaël's POV

Bangkok, Thailand

The report arrived

at 11 PM.

I was sitting by the window of my Bangkok penthouse — jacket off, sleeves rolled, glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside me — when Marc's name appeared on my phone screen.

I picked up on the first ring.

"Talk."

"Sir." Marc's voice was careful. Measured. The voice he used when the news was significant. "We found the person responsible for the drink."

I said nothing. Just waited.

"His name is Dominic Lefevre. French national. CEO of Lefevre Parfums."

A pause.

"He was at the club that night with three associates. Our sources confirm he paid a club staff member to access the private suite section and add something to a drink."

Another pause.

Shorter.

"He was targeting you specifically sir. The intention was to create a scandal. Damage your personal reputation. If photographs had surfaced — the goodwill of your company would have taken a significant hit. Investor confidence. Public image. Everything."

I looked out at Bangkok's skyline.

All those lights. All that city. Completely indifferent.

"A scandal." My voice came out very quiet. Very even.

"Yes sir. He had someone positioned to document whatever happened. The plan was to leak it. Strategically. Enough to shake the market's confidence in Moreau Parfums." Marc's voice was careful. "What he didn't account for was — the other person in the suite leaving before anything could be captured. And deleting the footage."

The corner of my mouth moved.

So you protected me without even knowing it.

Interesting.

"Sir — how would you like us to proceed against Lefevre?"

I was quiet for a moment.

Lefevre.

I turned the name over in my mind once. Examined it briefly the way you examine something small and harmless that has made the mistake of believing itself dangerous.

"Nothing." I said.

Marc went very still on the other end.

"Sir?"

"Not yet." I picked up my whiskey glass. Looked at it. Set it down again untouched. "He didn't succeed. His little plan achieved nothing." I paused. "Let him think he's safe for now. Let him go back to whatever he does and believe the matter is closed."

"And then sir?"

"And then—" I turned from the window — "when he has completely forgotten about that night. When he is comfortable. When he has moved on to his next scheme and stopped watching his back—" I paused. "I'll play with him."

Silence.

The kind of silence that understood perfectly.

"Yes sir." Marc's voice was very quiet.

"He's not important right now Marc." I walked toward the center of the room. "File everything. Keep it. We'll need it later." I paused. "And the staff member he paid at the club — make sure they never work in hospitality again. Anywhere."

"Yes sir."

"Good." I ended the call.

The city hummed below me.

I stood in the silence of my penthouse and felt — nothing particular about Dominic Lefevre. No anger. No urgency. Nothing that resembled being threatened.

He had tried to use a scandal to shake the ground beneath Moreau Parfums.

He had failed.

And I was not the kind of person who wasted energy on people who had already failed. That was the thing about power that most people never understood — it wasn't about reacting. It wasn't about striking back immediately with noise and fury and making sure everyone knew you had been wronged.

It was about patience.

Lefevre would get his turn.

Just not today.

Today he wasn't interesting enough.

I moved back to the window and looked out at Bangkok.

And then — because I always came back to it — my mind returned to him.

The other person in the suite leaving before anything could be captured. And deleting the footage.

He had run. Cleaned the room. Paid to erase himself completely.

And in doing so — without knowing, without intending — had made Lefevre's entire plan collapse before it even began.

You had no idea what you were doing.

But you did it anyway.

I thought about the scratches on my back. The carefully folded trousers on the chair. The shirt that had smelled like something clean underneath everything else.

Careful. Quick. Gone before sunrise.

I picked up my phone and called Marc again.

He answered immediately.

"Sir?"

"The search." I kept my voice level. "Where are we."

"Still ongoing sir." Marc's voice was careful. "The footage deletion was thorough — whoever he paid at the club was extremely efficient. Street cameras gave us a partial — dark hair, medium height, slim build, light coloured coat." A pause. "He moved fast. Kept his head down the entire time like he knew exactly where every camera was positioned."

Smart.

"Airport records?" I asked.

"Nothing sir." A pause. "Whoever he is — he paid cash everywhere. No card transactions. No hotel records under a traceable name. No flight bookings we can connect to him." Marc's voice was almost apologetic. "He covered every single track sir. Completely. Professionally."

I said nothing for a moment.

Cash. No records. No name.

You really didn't want to be found.

"The partial image." I said finally. "Send it."

"Sending now sir. But I should warn you — the quality is poor. Face is completely obscured. We only have his silhouette and partial build."

My phone buzzed. I looked at the image.

A blurred figure caught on a street camera three blocks from the club — moving fast, head down, dark hair, something too large draped over his shoulders that I recognized immediately.

My own white shirt.

I stared at the image for a long time.

His face — completely hidden. Deliberately. Every angle, every camera, every possible point of identification — avoided with a precision that was almost impressive.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Every step. Thought through. Careful.

I looked at the blurred figure for another long moment.

Dark hair. Slim shoulders. My shirt hanging too large on a frame that was somehow still familiar in a way I couldn't explain and couldn't shake.

Who are you.

The question had been living in my chest for days now. Quiet. Persistent. The kind of question that doesn't get louder — just heavier. More certain that it needs an answer.

"Sir." Marc's voice came carefully through the phone. "We have hit every possible lead. Without a name or a clear image — we have nothing left to trace."

I looked at the blurred figure one last time.

"Keep looking." My voice was quiet. Final.

"Sir the trail has gone completely—"

"I don't care." I turned from the window. "He exists somewhere. He has a face. A name. A life." I paused. "Find it."

A long silence.

"Yes sir."

I ended the call.

The Bangkok skyline glittered beyond my window — golden and indifferent and keeping every secret I had asked it to return.

Somewhere out there was a person with dark hair and careful hands and a face I had never seen.

Who had walked into my night without warning.

And walked out before I could open my eyes.

You think disappearing is enough.

The corner of my mouth lifted. Just slightly. Dark and patient and completely unhurried.

Keep running.

I have time.

And Lefevre—

I glanced at my phone one last time before setting it down.

You'll get your turn too.