Page 37 of The Colour of Revenge
I dive into the work like a man possessed, crunching numbers and making calls to secure the funding for a new shelter in Camden. We’ve got shelters all over London now and a few further out. One day, I’d love to expand across England, maybe even the rest of Britain. But for now, I focus on the women here—because nothing says privilege responsibly, like running a charity instead of buying a yacht.
Having as much money as I do feels wrong, and not using it for something good would feel worse. My father’s business took a hit about eight years ago, which should have ruined him, but the man is savvy—scarily so. He clawed his way back like nothing ever happened. His savvy—or sheer stubbornness—means I’ve got the funds to make a difference, even if he doesn’t understand why I’d rather build shelters than schmooze with the rich and privileged.
And that’s the rub: gratitude. It’s why I still let him drag me to company events, even though I’d rather perform oral surgery on myself with a rusty spoon. But gratitude has its limits, so I refuse to take over the family empire. Let him find some other sucker to wear the Future CEO badge. I already have one.
As for my salary? A joke. I’m technically the CEO of Haven, but I funnel almost everything back into the organisation. I live off the bare minimum, using my trust fund to cover the rent for my apartment—a fact that drives my father insane. The idea of me living somewhere normal would send shockwaves through the elite. Heaven forbid the family name be associated with anything less than marble countertops and heated floors.
I check the time on my phone to see that the day has slipped away.
Realising I had never sent my daily question to Carina, I send her a quick text before packing away, using Kai’s earlier jab as inspiration.
Daddy Death:Hypothetical Question: Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?
My phone chimes just before heading out the door. Everyone else has long since gone home. I switch all the lights off and head down the stairs to my car.
Queen Carina:Bring on both.
11
Angel of Death
Hypothetical Question: If you had to make a fake alibi for yourself right now, what would it be?
Carina
It'sbeenweekssinceI've seen Nate, weeks since the charged electric moment we shared after dealing with Declan.
The memory flickers through me, tightening something low in my stomach. He trusted me enough to let me into his world. Showed me his hideout. His secret.
That trust felt intimate. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.
Just remembering how his muscles flexed as he carved Declan apart—controlled power, precision, that heat in his eyes when he looked at me afterwards—sends a shiver through me. My body reacts, my core tightening.
It's twisted.
I know it's twisted.
But I don't care.
Today, Robert Dealer will learn what it means to be powerless.
I've been studying his routines for two months. I know where he goes and who he sees. Today, he'll be at his private estate in the West Country. His usual security won't be there. He thinks no one knows about this house.
His arrogance will be his downfall.
This morning, I sent an anonymous tip to the media. No victim names—just enough evidence to burn him to the ground. The story should break any second now.
I wait in the shadows, hidden, as his world implodes.
A news alert pings from his phone. He flicks on the TV.
"Breaking news: Robert Dealer, millionaire philanthropist, is the mastermind behind a human trafficking ring, exploiting young women for years under the guise of charity work. Authorities are working to apprehend him, but the damage to his reputation and fortune may already be irreversible."
The screen flashes with his smug face at charity events, juxtaposed with blurred images of his victims.
I smile.
"Fuck. Fuck!" Robert stumbles back, panic lacing his voice.
