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The other family heads had gone. Lucius back to Italy, O'Rourke to Ireland, Kurobane to Japan. Their private jets had sliced through the night sky hours ago, carrying them home.

But Isabeau remained.

She told no one. Not Marcello, not her own people. She checked into a hotel under a false name and began her work.

Something was wrong with Kyle. She could feel it. The way he had appeared out of nowhere. The way he carried himself—not like a man of power, but like a man pretending. No proof. Just instinct. And this instinct had kept her alive for decades.

Marcello would be furious if he knew she was doing this because his orders were clear.

"Treat him as an equal," he had commanded. "He is one of us now."

Isabeau was doing the opposite but this was because Kyle had humiliated her so it was personal for her now.

She dug and dug.

Digital records first. Property deeds, tax filings, social media, credit history. Nothing. She hired a hacker out of Prague—someone who could find ghosts. The hacker came back empty.

Birth certificates? No match for Kyle. No match for any variation. DMV records? Nothing. Utility bills? Nothing.

It was as if he had never existed and the records of him that existed was only when he came into adulthood.

Isabeau sat in her hotel room, surrounded by three laptops and a growing headache. She had been at this for forty-eight hours. No sleep. Just coffee and frustration.

"How does a man in his position leave no footprint?"

She pulled up surveillance photos. His face. His build. She ran them through every database she had access to—Interpol, FBI, Europol, private security firms.

Nothing.

Not even a parking ticket.

He had no records. He was nowhere to be found and this only made her more suspicious. She remembered how Marcello came into power, if Kyle was to decide to use such extreme measures, it would throw the families back into war.

She needed to find anything about this man, or what his motives could potentially be.

Isabeau leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. She knew she needed help. Real help. The kind that came from someone who understood secrets the way others understood breath.

Cleopatra.

The name sat heavy in her mind. Cleopatra was strange—beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, calm in a way that felt wrong. She never helped Isabeau when Isabeau needed her. Only when Cleopatra needed something did she reach out.

Despite being a family head, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say Cleopatra held more power.

And right now, Cleopatra did not need her.

Because Isabeau had failed. Her part of the job had been simple: push Kyle to the limit and have Marcello remind him of his place. This could also help potentially find his weaknesses. Instead, he had somehow emerged stronger.

"I have never seen anyone adapt as quickly as he did, it is scary," Isabeau muttered under her breath.

She could not call Cleopatra. Not yet. Not while she was in debt.

She had to find a way to even the playing field first and if she slipped up, there was a chance her allegiance to Cleopatra would come to light which would only result in one thing, an execution.

So Isabeau poured another cup of cold coffee and kept digging.

Somewhere out there, Kyle existed. And she would find him. Even if it took everything she had.

-

Aiysha lounged on the worn sofa in her quiet apartment, the late afternoon sun filtering through half-drawn blinds. It had been a few days since that chaotic night at Kyle's place—the accidental tumble, the humiliating yet electrifying press of his erect cock between her massive breasts, the sticky ropes of cum that had painted her face.

Clarissa was still at her grandmother's for the school holiday, and Jones remained a ghost. The isolation gnawed at her, making the empty rooms feel heavier.

To kill time, she picked up her phone and scrolled through WhatsApp, thumb flicking past group chats and unread messages. Then, Kyle's status caught her eye—a simple update, a photo of him against a misty, green backdrop that screamed somewhere far from home.

"Off to England for a bit," the caption read, vague and casual, no details on why or how long. Her heart skipped. Outside the country? To England? She hadn't heard a peep about it from him, not in their brief, awkward encounter since that night. Surprise bloomed in her chest, sharp and disorienting.

Kyle, her unlikely confidant in this mess of a life, had slipped away without a word. With everyone else absent, who could she turn to now if the loneliness hit too hard? No one. The thought settled like a weight, amplifying the silence around her.

Curiosity tugged her further; she tapped into his story highlights. There he was, smiling in a light jacket, wind tousling his hair. She stared a little too long, the image filling her screen. He looked different—refreshed, more put-together.

"Did he get a haircut?" she mused silently, eyeing the neat fade along the sides and the styled top that accentuated his strong features. The change made his face sharper, his easy grin more magnetic. But as her gaze traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, her mind wandered, derailing into forbidden territory.

Memories crashed in like fragments of a fever dream. The way her heavy, massive breasts had enveloped his thick cock completely when she'd slipped onto his bed, the soft, plump flesh yielding to trap his rigid shaft in their deep cleavage. She could almost feel the heat of him again—the veiny length pulsing aggressively against her skin, the flared head thrusting upward through the tight squeeze of her tits until it peeked out just below her chin, slick with pre-cum and demanding attention.

Her nipples had hardened involuntarily back then, brushing against the undersides of her breasts as his cock throbbed harder, the veins bulging like ropes under the pressure of her weight.

"Why am I thinking about that now!?" Aiysha whispered to the empty room, her cheeks burning. She slapped both palms against her face, the light sting a futile attempt to snap out of it. But the images persisted, vivid and unyielding.

His cock had slid through her plush cleavage with such raw force, the tip emerging triumphantly from between her mounds, brushing her lips before erupting. Thick spurts of cum had jetted out, hot and viscous, coating her face in messy streaks—splattering her cheeks, dripping from her chin, even landing on her tongue as she gasped in shock.

It was nothing like the encounters with Jones, who never lingered or filled her with that forbidden thrill.

This was new, overwhelming, the kind of accidental intimacy that replayed like a broken film.

She shifted on the sofa, her thighs clenching as a familiar warmth pooled between her legs. Her mouth watered without warning, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she imagined the salty tang of his pre-cum again, the way his shaft had twitched violently before release.

The phone trembled slightly in her grip, Kyle's image staring back, oblivious to the storm he'd reignited. She kept staring, breath quickening, the memory consuming her entirely: the involuntary way her breasts had molded around him, squeezing his cock in their heavy embrace; the aggressive throb that built until he busted all over her, marking her skin with his essence. Guilt twisted in her gut, but so did desire, sharp and insistent, leaving her flushed and aching in the solitude of her apartment.

The vague mention of England faded to irrelevance, overshadowed by the throbbing echo of that night. Aiysha set the phone down, but the thoughts clung, her body responding with a traitorous heat she couldn't ignore. What was happening to her? And why did Kyle, of all people, occupy her mind like this?

"Fuck... This is bad..." Aiysha muttered to herself but summed it up to loneliness. Maybe if she worked things out with Jones, these feelings would go away.

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