The message was delivered at dusk.
Malik Laurent had just finished a late meeting at his flagship showroom when two men in tailored suits approached him in the underground parking garage. They moved with the quiet confidence of professionals who didn’t need to flash weapons to be understood.
“Mr. Laurent,” the taller one said, voice polite. “A word from Mr. Lennox.”
Malik’s stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. One of the men handed him a small black envelope. Inside was a single photograph: Elara in the penthouse lounge, mid-kiss with him, his hand clearly under her dress. On the back, written in elegant script: *She is mine. Touch her again and the next photo will be of your hands in a box. Enjoy your cars while you still can.*
No signature. None needed.
Malik stare
