All Chapters of Save it, Mr Arrogant! I Dumped You After Reborn.: Chapter 201 - Chapter 210

Evelyn POVThe silence that followed was unlike any silence I'd experienced in his presence.Every other quiet moment between us had been comfortable, natural, the pause between two people who didn't need words to fill every second. This silence was different. For one, it was clear that I'd slept with Gabriel. There was no other logical explanation, because why else would I need a postpill? To cure a headache?He didn't ask me to explain. He didn't ask who. He didn't ask when. He just drove, his eyes fixed on the road, both hands on the wheel, his jaw set in a line so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.I kept my face turned toward the window. My cheeks were burning hot. I was surprised the glass wasn't fogging.We drove the rest of the way to the pharmacy in total silence.The pharmacy was a small, clean Wellcare on the corner of Third and Maple. As soon as we arrived, I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for the door handle."I'll be quick," I said, without looking

Gabriel POVThe flight from Crescent Harbour to Bangria was four hours and sixteen minutes. I spent the first hour going through financial reports, trying to read as much as I could with my dull brain. Rowan used to do all of these for me and explain them carefully afterwards.The second hour reviewing surveillance feeds from three properties. The third hour staring at the back of the seat in front of me, thinking about the way Evelyn's hair had looked spread across her pillow in the dark.The fourth hour I spent being angry at myself for wasting the third.Leo met me at the private terminal. He was standing by the armoured SUV with a tablet in one hand and an expression on his face that told me the news wasn't good. Leo had been with me for six years, and I'd learned to read his face the way most people read headlines. A slightly raised right eyebrow meant a logistical problem. Jaw tight meant a personnel issue. Both hands behind his back meant someone was dead.Today, his jaw was ti

Gabriel POVWe pulled through the gates of the compound at eight fifteen. The Bangria residence was nothing like the Wrenfield townhouse in Crescent Harbour. This was a walled estate on three acres in the Highfields district, surrounded by reinforced perimeter fencing, monitored by thirty-six cameras, and staffed by a security team of twelve. The house itself was a sprawling modernist structure of concrete and glass, designed by an architect who'd been told to make it look like a home and had instead produced something that looked like a very elegant bunker.I preferred it that way. Homes could be broken into. Bunkers could not.Mrs Tanner was waiting at the kitchen door. She was a stout Bangria woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and an expression of permanent disapproval that softened only when she was cooking, which was most of the time. She'd been with me for eleven years, outlasting three security chiefs, two accountants, and one assassinatio

Vincent POVThe word was "activate."If I pressed it, those eight men would move on the compound. They'd hit Rowan's assault team from the eastern flank, exploiting a blind spot in his positioning that I'd identified from the surveillance data Theo had been feeding me for weeks. They'd break the siege, scatter Rowan's operators, and give Gabriel the window he needed to either escape or counterattack.Gabriel would survive.And he would never know who'd saved him because the eight men in the warehouse didn't know my name. They knew a codename, a handler designation, and an operational protocol. They'd execute the order and extract without ever connecting the intervention to Vincent Hayes, the art dealer from Crescent Harbour with the nice smile.But Rowan would know.Rowan, whom I'd just asked Theo to connect me with six days ago in a dark club with whiskey on my breath and lipstick on my chest. Rowan, who was expecting me to be an ally. Rowan, who had been told, through channels he tr

Third-person POVThe usual place was a private dining room on the fourth floor of the Ashworth Club, a members-only establishment in the old financial district where the annual dues cost more than most people's mortgages and the staff had been trained to forget every face that walked through the door.Gregory Hart arrived twelve minutes early because he was terrified, and terrified men tend to be punctual.The maître d' led him through the main dining room without making eye contact, past tables of silver-haired men in bespoke suits murmuring over brandy, up a private staircase, and into a room he'd been in exactly four times before.Each visit had been worse than the last. The first time, he'd been offered an opportunity. The second, he'd been given instructions. The third, he'd been reminded of what he stood to lose. The fourth, he'd been warned that the arrangement was permanent and that his understanding of this fact was not optional.The room was small, tastefully appointed, with