Chapter 3
999 Words
Niran
Pain woke me before memory did.
Not sharp. Not dramatic.
Heavy.
Like my body had been replaced with something stitched together wrong.
The ceiling above me was white. Too white. The air smelled sterile—antiseptic with a faint metallic tang. Machines hummed softly around me.
Hospital.
Right. The accident.
I shifted slightly and immediately regretted it. A deep ache ran along my ribs. My left arm was wrapped, an IV line in place, monitors clipped to my finger.
Annoying.
I turned my head.
A woman sat near the window, working on an iPad, posture straight even while seated.
Elara. My executive assistant. Efficient. Loyal because I paid her well—not because she liked me.
“You’re awake.” She noticed me move and set the iPad aside.
Her tone was calm, but her shoulders had been tense.
“How long?” My voice was rough, my throat dry like sandpaper.
“Six hours. Concussion. Fractured rib. Severe bruising. Minor blood loss,” she listed.
Fuck.
All because some asshole didn’t know how to brake at a red light.
“The driver?” I asked.
She hesitated.
That was the first warning that what I was about to hear wouldn’t be good.
“They weren’t able to locate him,” she said, not meeting my eyes.
My gaze sharpened. “Not able?”
“The vehicle was registered to a holding company. The police report lists it as a hit-and-run.”
I watched her until she finally raised her head and met my eyes.
“The driver didn’t vanish into thin air,” I said coldly.
Her jaw tightened slightly, as if she was reluctant to continue. “There’s more.”
“Say it.”
“A representative delivered a compensation check this morning. For damages. Medical expenses.” Her eyes flicked to an envelope on the side table.
The word sank into my veins like poison. I’d been awake less than ten minutes, and the world was already testing how much it could piss me off.
“From?” I snapped, trying to rein in my anger.
She studied me carefully.
“An organization tied to Kholod Voda.”
Silence.
The name was familiar. Not personally. Professionally.
Power. Territory. Underground influence that bled into legitimate markets.
“And the police?” I pressed.
“They won’t file a complaint. No officer is willing to open a case connected to him.”
My pulse began to climb—not from fear.
From fury.
“Someone slams into my car, sends me to the hospital, and I’m handed a check like a charity case?” I barked, my ribs protesting with every breath.
The audacity.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed before my body fully agreed with the decision.
“You shouldn’t—” she started, rising to help me.
“I don’t take money to swallow humiliation,” I cut her off.
She froze mid-step, then gave a slight nod.
The room tilted for a moment. I steadied myself.
I twisted the envelope in my fingers, crumpled it, and tossed it into the bin.
“Get me the name of the driver.”
She shifted. “We don’t have it.”
“Then the holding company. The shell corporations above it. I want the chain.” I lowered onto the edge of the bed, laptop in hand, fingers poised.
She hesitated again. “It traces back to Voda’s network.”
I let my gaze sweep over her once, slow and deliberate. “Leave.”
The door clicked shut.
A few minutes passed before a knock interrupted me.
“Come in.”
“Ms. Briccola. Good to see you awake.” The doctor stepped in—mid-forties, crisp white coat, professional detachment in every movement.
He checked the monitors, adjusted my IV line.
“Pain level?”
“Manageable.”
It wasn’t. But pain is information. I didn’t waste information by complaining about it.
“You have a non-displaced rib fracture,” he continued. “Extensive bruising. Minor internal bleeding that has stabilized. You were fortunate.”
Fortunate.
I looked at him evenly. “I was hit by a speeding vehicle.”
He ignored the tone. Smart man.
“Follow the light,” he said, flashing a penlight toward my eyes.
I followed it steadily.
“No dizziness?”
“Only when conversations repeat themselves.”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he controlled it.
“You’ll need to remain here for at least forty-eight hours for monitoring,” he said, noting something on his tablet.
“Of course,” I replied dryly.
“You’ll need limited movement for at least two weeks.”
“I need to work if I’m going to stay in this bed for two whole days.”
He nodded.
After finishing his notes, he stepped toward the door.
“Stress will slow your recovery.”
I looked past him, toward the window.
“Then I suggest the world adjusts accordingly.”
“Get well soon.” He held my gaze for a moment, then left.
Two hours later, Elara returned, tablet in hand.
I had already looked up the name.
Kholod Voda. Clubs, real estate, shipping, security firms, political ties. Untouchable on paper.
Perfect.
“Which of his acquisitions are pending?” I asked without looking away from the screen.
She checked. “Elysian. Negotiations are still stalled. You’ve refused to sell below your valuation. He hasn’t backed off.”
My club.
The corner of my mouth lifted.
Of course. He wanted my territory—and had the audacity to hit my car while circling it.
“Prepare the rejection letter,” I said calmly.
“It was already declined last month,” she said, looking up.
“Decline it again. Publicly.”
“You’re provoking him.” Understanding flickered in her eyes.
“Yes.” I closed the laptop. “He tried to reduce me to an inconvenience.”
A pause.
“Let’s inconvenience him back.”
- Writer
