DYLAN
Abuja, Nigeria
The air in Abuja feels different now.
Gone is the hum of luxury, the glint of power in the polished streets of the Maitama district where we've been staying. Gone is the rhythm of calm. All I hear is the roar in my blood. All I feel is fury.
She was supposed to be safe.
I left her asleep. Peaceful. Her fingers curled into the sheets, her breath soft against my chest. My guards were on rotation. Adrian was watching the monitors. The perimeter was sealed.
And yet… she's gone.
The letter in my hand crumples beneath my grip, already worn from reading it over and over. Every word burns like acid.
*"You were right not to bring her. I would have killed her right in front of you.
But don't worry — she's alive. For now.
I just want you to feel what I've felt for years. Forgotten. Powerless. Watching someone else live the life that should've been yours.
N"*
Adrian drives while I read the message again, eyes scanning for something we missed.
She played us.
Isabelle — or Niah, or whatever she calls herself now — had embedded herself into Hermione's life for years. Friends. Secrets. Trust. She didn't just know Hermione. She studied her. She wanted to become her. And she used that proximity to disappear with her — no trace, no camera footage, no struggle.
Just gone.
"She must have help," I mutter.
Adrian glances at me. "From the inside?"
"Possibly. Or she hacked us. Either way, I want this city locked down."
"I already contacted DSS and private contractors. Every exit route is flagged. Nothing leaves without a check."
"Not enough," I snap. "She's already ahead. She planned this. I need to think like her."
Adrian doesn't speak, but I see the flicker of guilt in his jaw.
"I should have known," I mutter. "I knew there was something off about Isabelle. But I was too focused on Hermione. Too distracted."
Adrian shakes his head. "You protected her. You did everything right."
"No. I didn't." I stare out the window. "Because she's gone. And I don't even know where to start."
We pull up to the house — the one Niah had lured us to. Her decoy.
It's a colonial-style building in Jabi, half-renovated, almost too pristine. My guards sweep the outside again as I step through the wide entry doors. Inside, there's a sitting room with velvet chairs, untouched candles, and a single teacup still warm.
She was here.
And then she vanished.
But she left more than the letter. On the desk, beneath a heavy glass paperweight, is something else. A photo.
Hermione. Isabelle. And someone else.
My heart stills. I know that face.
The woman in the middle — smiling, holding both girls close — is the orphanage matron from the file. The woman who witnessed Hermione's mother bleed out in a delivery room almost thirty years ago.
Adrian peers over my shoulder. "That's the matron."
"Yeah. And she's dead. Been dead for five years."
"Why leave the photo?"
I study the edge of it — scribbled in pen, faint but visible.
I always keep my promises. Just like she did.
Now it's your turn, Dylan. Trade her life for your peace.
I clench my fists. "She doesn't want ransom."
"No. She wants you broken."
"Well," I mutter, sliding the photo into my jacket, "she's going to be disappointed."
I step out of the house, already on the comms. "Activate Plan Black. I want every camera in this city accessed. Tap the traffic lights, ATMs, security feeds. I want her face, her car, her voice. I want to know when she last breathed."
"And when we find her?" Adrian asks.
I look him dead in the eye.
"She's not walking away from this."