In the arms of two sins

Chapter 13

Elias POV

Three days.

Three long, dragging days — and still nothing.

The unknown number hadn’t replied. Hadn’t even opened the message I sent.

Every night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the threat over and over:

> “If you don’t stop, you’ll end up the same way, buried before you ever see it coming.”

The words had lodged under my skin like a splinter. Not knowing who sent them was worse.

I checked my phone again. Nothing.

A knock sounded on my office door.

“Sir,” Richard stepped in cautiously, sensing the tension in my posture. “The board meeting is ready. They’re waiting.”

I rubbed a hand over my face.

“Tell them I’m coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rose, straightened my suit, and tried to force my mind into business mode. The walk down the hallway felt heavier than usual.

The moment I stepped into the boardroom, everyone stood.

“Good morning, Mr. Lawson,” they said in unison.

I nodded once and took my seat at the head of the table.

“Let’s begin.”

One by one, the heads of department started their weekly reports — numbers, projections, updates, graphs. Normally, I listened closely. Today, the words blurred at the edges.

My gaze drifted across the table.

There she was — Mara.

Sitting straight, attentive, pen in hand, hair pulled back neatly. Every so often, she jotted down notes, unaware of my eyes on her.

Then my gaze slid to David. Leaning a little too comfortably in her direction, like he belonged there. My jaw tightened, and I looked away quickly.

“Mr. Harrington,” I interrupted the HR director mid-sentence, “you said the department increased productivity by nine percent. What strategy was implemented?”

He cleared his throat. “Ah—yes, sir. We improved workflow automation and introduced…”

I nodded, though my attention flickered back to Mara.

Then David’s turn came.

David Hale — Head of Logistics.

“We’ve finalized the shipment routes for the quarter…” he began.

“How did you handle the delivery setback from last week?” I interjected sharply.

He blinked. “The—uh—the delay at the shipping dock? We rerouted through two alternate…”

“And the cost increase?” I pressed.

“We managed to reduce it by…”

“Numbers,” I said flatly. “Not adjectives.”

His jaw clenched. “1.3 million in additional cost. But the department handled it without…”

“Which shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” I said calmly.

A tense silence followed. David’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Understood” he said, his face written in rage.

Good. Let him feel it.

It was time for the Public Relations Department.

Mara stood next, opening her folder and clearing her throat.

“Lawsons Media has completed the first phase of the quarter’s PR campaigns,” she began. “Engagement rates have increased by fourteen percent, and brand trust has stabilized after the initial post-funeral dip.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

All I could see was the memory of last night, the emerald dress hugging her in all the right places, the way her beauty seemed effortless, unaware even to herself. The way her eyes had met mine, a flicker of fear, or was it something more?—that made my breath catch.

I should despise her. I should.

But wanting her was like a pulse I couldn’t ignore. Every time I looked, my chest constricted, betraying me in the most unbearable way.

She continued, flipping a page. “We’ve outlined strategies for the anniversary event…”

“Explain the projected risk of a press leak,” I interrupted quietly.

She blinked. “The leak has been contained. We’re monitoring—”

“Percentage.”

“Six percent probability of resurfacing.”

“And your handling plan?”

Prepared. Efficient. She answered immediately.

David tried to interject. “If I may clarify—”

“No,” I said, not looking at him. “She can answer.”

She swallowed, continuing her explanation alone. Good.

When she finished, a low murmur of approval passed around the table.

I cleared my throat. “Now. The final item.”

All eyes turned toward me.

“The 50th anniversary of the company.”

A buzz of excitement filled the room.

“Mr. Holta here has suggested we formalize our longstanding partnership with Scott Enterprise,” I continued. “Philip initiated the collaboration months ago. It’s time to make it public.”

“About time.”

“Strategically smart.”

“It’ll stabilize the market.”

I listened while the board discussed.

After minutes of deliberation, a decision was made: yes, the partnership would be officially announced on the day of the anniversary.

The meeting adjourned. Chairs scraped. People filed out.

I reached for the water bottle on the table and drank, steadying myself.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from my source investigating Philip’s death — and the unknown number.

> Found the signal trace. Device dropped at a burner-phone shop. Last registered location: 261 Canal Street, New York, NY 10013.

My pulse jumped.

Finally.

“Richard,” I said immediately, turning toward the door. “Shift my next meeting. All of it. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Sir? Should I—”

“No.” I cut him off sharply. “Just reschedule.”

I left before he could ask more.

The drive to the address was tense and silent.

The burner-shop was a cramped, dusty corner store tucked between two abandoned buildings. Piles of outdated phones, chargers, and tangled wires cluttered every surface.

An old man sat behind the counter, squinting at a tiny radio he was repairing.

I approached slowly.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, keeping my tone level. “I’m looking for information about a phone that was sold to your shop recently.”

He didn’t look up immediately, fingers still twisting a screwdriver with shaky hands.

“Shop’s open,” he muttered. “Buy whatever you want.”

“I’m not here to buy.”

I set the printed trace report gently on the counter.

“A device was traced to this shop. I need your help identifying the seller.”

The old man finally lifted his head, blinking up at me as if I were an intruder.

“Identify?” he repeated, voice rough. “Young man, people come in every day—students, workers, street boys, office men. I don’t take names. They pay, I sell, I buy. That’s it.”

“I understand,” I said calmly. “But this phone was sold recently. Surely someone stands out?”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Son… half the people who sell or buy burners don’t want to be remembered.”

His words hit harder than I expected.

“I’m not asking for personal details,” I pressed. “Just anything. Young, old… male, female?”

He leaned back in his stool, thinking, eyes flicking toward the shelves and back.

“Hm… I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I don’t remember.”

“You should keep a record of sales,” I said, frowning.

He stared at me for a long moment, then gave a dry laugh. “You don’t know anything, boy. Best you leave.”

My jaw tightened. “Alright,” I murmured, stepping back. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be back. Next time, I expect an answer.”

“I’m gonna call the cops if you ever intrude in here again,” he said.

I didn’t respond. I turned toward the door, heading towards my car, but then a familiar figure caught my eyes.

Mara.

She had left the company at the same time I did.

What was she doing here? Suspicion bloomed inside me.

I didn’t want to accept the thoughts going on in my head, I found myself walking towards her.