Chapter 4

The address led to a deserted warehouse district by the waterfront. The rain had intensified, turning the empty streets into slick, black mirrors that reflected the few remaining streetlights. The whiskey, combined with her exhaustion and pain, made Amelia feel like she was moving through a dream. Her head pounded in time with the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers.

This was a trap. She knew it. The "anonymous threats" and the "new investor" were flimsy pretexts. This was Isabella's game, and Julian was letting her play.

She parked the car and walked toward the designated warehouse, the wind whipping her wet hair across her face. The large metal door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and stepped inside. The space was vast, dark, and smelled of rust and damp concrete. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, casting long, dancing shadows.

There was no one there.

A sudden, blinding light hit her from behind. She spun around, raising her good arm to shield her eyes. Two large, burly men stepped out of the shadows. She recognized them from Julian's personal security detail.

"What is this?" Amelia demanded, her voice shaking slightly.

"Mr. Vance is displeased," the first man said, his voice a low growl. "You caused a scene at the gala. You embarrassed him."

"And Miss Rossi," the second man added with a smirk, "she doesn't like competition."

Amelia's blood ran cold. This wasn't about an investor. This was punishment.

"She said to teach you a lesson," the first man said, stepping forward. "A permanent one."

Panic seized her. She backed away, her heart hammering against her bruised ribs. "Julian sent you? He knows about this?"

"He knows you're a problem that needs to be taken care of," the man said.

They cornered her near a large, open maintenance vat filled with freezing, murky water. The smell of algae and rot filled the air. She looked for an escape route, but there was none. They were bigger, stronger, and she was injured.

She thought of Sarah. She thought of her promise. Was this how it ended? Drowned in a forgotten warehouse, another one of Julian Vance's secrets?

"Please," she whispered, a primal fear overriding her pride.

They laughed. One of them grabbed her by her broken arm, and she cried out in agony. The other one shoved her hard. She lost her balance and tumbled backward, over the edge of the vat.

The shock of the ice-cold water stole her breath. It was a brutal, physical shock that jolted through her entire body. She flailed, trying to find the surface, her waterlogged coat pulling her down. Her head broke the surface, and she gasped for air, shivering violently.

"Mr. Vance gave specific instructions," one of the men said from above, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "You're not to get out. You are to think about what you've done."

They stood there, watching her, ensuring she couldn't climb out. The water was so cold it felt like a thousand needles stabbing her skin. Her muscles began to cramp, and the pain in her arm and ribs became a roaring fire. She was losing strength fast. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

As her vision started to blur at the edges, she saw a figure appear in the warehouse doorway. It was Julian. He stood there, watching the scene, his face an impassive mask. Isabella was right behind him, clinging to his arm, a look of pure triumph on her face.

"Julian," Amelia rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "Help me."

He didn't move. He just watched her struggle, his eyes cold and distant. Isabella whispered something in his ear, and he nodded slowly. Then, they turned and walked away, leaving her in the freezing water, leaving her to his men, leaving her to die.

The last ounce of hope drained out of her. He had sent her here. He had watched her. And he had left her.

The cold was seeping into her bones now, a deep, numbing chill that was starting to feel almost peaceful. Her movements became sluggish. Her head felt heavy. This was it. She was going to die. She closed her eyes, the image of Sarah's smiling face flashing in her mind. I'm sorry. I failed you.

Suddenly, there was shouting. The two guards were distracted. Amelia felt a new presence, a different energy in the room. Through her fogged vision, she saw another figure rush in. It was Mark, the junior executive from the office. He must have followed her.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mark yelled, brandishing his phone. "I'm calling the police! This is all on video!"

The guards hesitated, then cursed and ran for the back exit.

Mark rushed to the edge of the vat. "Amelia! Hold on!" He reached down, his face pale with fear and determination. She tried to reach for his hand, but her limbs wouldn't obey. The darkness was closing in.

The next thing she knew, she was on the cold concrete floor, wrapped in Mark's coat, coughing up foul-tasting water. He was on the phone, his voice frantic. "Yes, warehouse 7, Pier 4. She's barely breathing. Please, hurry."

She woke up in the same hospital, in the same bed. This time, the pain was a deep, pervasive ache that settled in her bones. A doctor was shining a light in her eyes.

"You have severe hypothermia and pneumonia," the doctor said, his voice grave. "You're very lucky to be alive, Miss Davis."

When the doctor left, Julian Vance walked in. He was alone this time. He looked different. His suit was slightly rumpled, his hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw something flicker in his gaze-something that wasn't coldness. It was a chaotic mix of anger and... something else.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, his voice rough. "Going to a place like that alone?"

The hypocrisy of his question was breathtaking. "You sent me," she whispered, her throat raw.

"I told you to check out a potential investment, not to get yourself half-drowned!" he shot back, his voice rising. "Isabella said you were acting erratically, that you drank a whole glass of whiskey and stormed out. She was worried."

Amelia just stared at him, a hollow laugh bubbling in her chest. He was blaming her. He was twisting the story, believing Isabella's lies over the evidence of his own eyes.

"I need you to handle the press on this," he said, his voice returning to its familiar, commanding tone. "There's a story leaking about an incident at the warehouse. Your friend Mark is talking. I need you to shut it down. Say it was a misunderstanding. A prank that went too far."

He was asking her to cover for him. To lie for him. After he had left her to die.

The sheer audacity of it was almost too much to bear. She thought of the USB drive, still hidden in her apartment. The evidence that could bring him down.

She looked at a small, delicate silver locket she wore around her neck, a habit she had when she was stressed. It was a gift from Sarah. Inside was a tiny, faded picture of her sister. She clutched it tightly, the cool metal a small comfort against her skin.

"Fine," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "I'll handle it."

He seemed to relax, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Good. I knew I could count on you." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Get some rest. You look terrible."

As he left, Amelia's eyes fell on her locket. In her exhaustion and delirium, she hadn't realized the clasp had come loose. The locket was open. The small picture of Sarah was visible.

And Julian had seen it. His eyes had flickered down to it for just a second before he left, a strange, confused expression on his face. He didn't know who it was. To him, it was just a picture of some random woman. But she had seen the flash of recognition, the briefest moment of calculation in his eyes. He had noticed it. And in his world, every detail mattered.