Chapter 48
1105 Words
✨ What He Was Willing to Burn.✨
Nasir Pov
Nasir didn’t sleep much that night.
He lay awake long after Flora’s breathing evened out, listening to the quiet hum of the city pressing against the windows. The house felt different now—lived in, softer around the edges. A dog toy lay abandoned near the sofa. One of Flora’s sweaters hung over the back of a chair, forgotten there like a promise.
He had never planned around softness before.
That was a problem for him but he didn't dwell on it.
By morning, the city was already awake when Nasir stepped into his office. Rafe was there before him, jacket off, sleeves rolled, a tablet open on the desk between them. The air smelled like coffee and intent.
“It’s done,” Rafe said without preamble.
Nasir didn’t sit. He loosened his cuffs slowly, a habit he had when he was measuring the weight of things. “Which part?”
“Dockside laundering route. Shell companies collapsed overnight. Three arrests, two disappearances. Victor lost a clean third of his offshore flow.”
Nasir nodded once. Efficient. Clean. Satisfying—but not enough.
“And Victor?” he asked.
“Alive. Angry. Confused.” Rafe smiled thinly. “Exactly how we want him.”
Nasir finally sat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “We take the rest in pieces. Slow. He needs to understand what’s happening.”
Rafe’s expression sharpened. “We still want him breathing?”
“For now.” Nasir’s jaw tightened. “He’s a middleman. I want the man Trump sold her to.”
“We’ll need Victor desperate,” Rafe said. “That means pressure from every direction.”
Nasir tapped his fingers against his knee. “I want eyes inside his inner circle. I want his routes watched, his money tracked, his men nervous. He needs to think the world is closing in.”
“And while you’re gone?” Rafe asked carefully.
Nasir paused.
Flora’s birthday hovered in his mind like a fragile thing—something untouched by blood or strategy. Something bright.
“I want to take her away,” he said quietly. “Just a weekend. Somewhere she can breathe.”
Rafe studied him. “You trust me to hold the line?”
“I trust you,” Nasir said. “I don’t trust Victor. That’s why I want everything ready before I leave.”
Rafe nodded. “We can handle the last piece. But Nasir—if this turns while you’re gone—”
“I’ll come back,” Nasir said flatly. “Immediately.”
The door opened before Rafe could respond.
His father didn’t knock.
Mr. Darven entered like he owned the air, tailored suit immaculate, presence heavy with expectation. The room shifted the way it always did when he arrived—like the walls themselves braced.
Rafe stood. “Sir.”
“Leave us,” his father said, eyes never leaving Nasir.
Rafe hesitated only a second before stepping out.
Silence stretched.
“So,” his father said at last, “you’re still here.”
Nasir leaned back in his chair. “I had business.”
“You always do.” His father’s gaze sharpened. “And yet the city whispers about this girl.”
Nasir’s jaw set. “Then the city should learn to mind itself.”
His father smiled humorlessly. “Fragile things break in our world.”
“She’s not fragile,” Nasir said, the words coming too fast.
“That’s what men say before they bleed for it.”
Nasir stood. “You don’t get to threaten her.”
“I don’t need to.” His father stepped closer. “You’ve changed. You hesitate. You plan around her. That is weakness.”
Nasir met his gaze evenly. “It’s restraint.”
His father studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. “If she becomes a liability—”
“She won’t.”
“And if she does?”
Nasir’s voice dropped. “Then I’ll handle it.”
Something unreadable flickered in his father’s eyes. “See that you do.”
He left as abruptly as he’d come.
Nasir stood there long after the door closed, chest tight, hands clenched.
Then his phone rang.
Kamal.
Nasir answered immediately.
“It’s done,” Kamal said, voice calm, almost bored.
Nasir closed his eyes. “Trump?”
“Handled,” Kamal replied. “He won’t be arranging anyone’s future ever again.”
Nasir exhaled slowly, something dark and furious easing in his chest—not relief. Never relief. Just finality.
“Good,” Nasir said. “Disappear.”
The call ended.
Nasir returned to the window, the city sprawling beneath him—beautiful and brutal and his to command.
Victor was still breathing.
The man Trump had sold her to was still out there.
And Nasir was done waiting.
But for her birthday—for her—he would carve out one small pocket of peace.
Then he would burn the rest down.
Nasir came home well past midnight.
The house was quiet in the way that felt intentional, lights dimmed low, the city a soft glow beyond the windows. He loosened his jacket as he stepped inside, already turning toward the hall—already expecting the familiar calm of knowing where she would be.
Then he stopped.
Flora stood just inside the bedroom doorway.
She looked like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her hands.
The lingerie was delicate—soft fabric, pale against her skin—clearly chosen with care and second-guessing and a dozen moments of hesitation. It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t practiced. It was Flora trying to be brave in a way that made her eyes too wide and her shoulders too tense, like she expected to be in trouble for wanting something.
Her fingers twisted together at her waist.
Nasir didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He took her in slowly—not hungrily, not like a man about to take something—but with a quiet, stunned reverence that made her swallow hard.
“I—” she started, then stopped. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. “Leila said it was… normal. To want to—” She laughed nervously, the sound breaking. “I don’t know how to do this. I thought I did and then you walked in and now I don’t.”
She shifted her weight, clearly fighting the instinct to cover herself.
Nasir crossed the room in three quiet steps.
“Flora,” he said softly.
She froze at the sound of her name.
- Writer
