Chapter 119: Peas in a Pod
The late-afternoon sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jason Asher’s penthouse, painting the marble floors in fractured streaks of gold and shadow. The apartment—usually a temple of elegance and control—felt heavy, like the air itself held its breath.
Sarai perched on the edge of the velvet couch, her back straight but trembling, her phone clenched in her manicured hand as though it were the only thing tethering her to reality. Hot tears slipped down her light brown cheeks, leaving faint, glimmering trails that caught the light like broken glass. Her jet-black hair, once sculpted into its usual sleek, high-fashion bun, now spilled over her shoulders in tangled waves—a silent confession that she was unraveling.
Beside her, Jason slept, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Bruises bloomed across his skin like cruel signatures of the nightmare he’d endured. He looked fragile in a way she had never seen before, and that sight carved something sharp into Sarai’s chest. Her fury was no longer a quiet ember. It roared—a storm breaking free of its chains. She had just poured out her venomous plea to Bianca, her elder sister, the one person who always knew how to weave darkness into a plan.
Bianca’s voice drifted across the line like silk over steel — cool, composed, and unruffled by Sarai’s shaking breaths. She lounged in her home office, an oasis of quiet power: mood lighting haloed designer sketches tacked to the wall, crystal vases held orchids so immaculate they looked like props, and a single, tasteful sculpture caught the late light and threw it back like a warning. Her green eyes — the same sharp slant Sarai inherited, but ice-rimed and unblinking — narrowed as she folded the thought into a smile that didn’t reach her cheekbones.
"Alright, sis," she said, slow and steady, each syllable measured like currency. The words were soft, almost tender, but the edge under them made Sarai sit straighter. Bianca paused, the faint clink of a glass on her desk marking the space between sympathy and decision. "Listen to me," she went on, voice slick with the kind of assurance that settles arguments before they begin. "I’ll handle this. I can make it look like a terrible accident — something that erases her from our lives without leaving ugly questions."
There was no hysteria in her, only the cool certainty of someone who had turned chaos into choreography. "Discreet," she added, as if ticking a box on a list only she could see. "Clean. Final." Beneath the calm, Sarai could hear the promise of retribution — quiet, inexorable — and in that moment the world outside Bianca’s window felt smaller, its skyline rearranged by a sister’s decision.
Sarai’s breath hitched, a sob escaping her lips. "You... you mean it, Bianca? You’ll really do it? I can’t stand the thought of her breathing while Jason’s like this—broken because of her lies!"
"Of course I mean it," Bianca said, her voice dropping so low it felt like a secret pressed to the phone. The whisper was intimate and dangerous—less a comforting sisterly murmur than the click of a lock. "But wipe those tears, Sarai. You’re stronger than this." She exhaled, amused and certain. "We’re Monroes. We don’t break—we bend the world until it gives us what we want."
There was a curl of contempt in her tone when she mentioned Rafael, like bothering with him was fiddling with a cheap trinket. "Don’t do anything reckless," she warned. "Rafael didn’t betray us—Eliana sold him a lie. She wrapped him in pretty poison and he swallowed it because he’s blind to it for now." Bianca’s voice sharpened into a promise. "But Rafael is mine to take back. First we remove the shadow—Eliana—and everything falls into place."
The plan came out of her mouth smooth as silk: simple, final. "Eliminate her," Bianca said, as if prescribing a remedy. "No spectacle. No loose ends. Jason will stand in the light without that dark cloud, and Rafael..." She let the sentence hang, confident and inevitable. "He’ll come around once the dust settles."
Sarai wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging her mascara into dark streaks. "But Bianca, what if it backfires? Rafael’s powerful—he could find out..."
Bianca chuckled softly, a sound that was both reassuring and chilling. "Trust me, little sis. I’ve taught you everything you know about handling these messes. Keep your cool. Go back to Jason, work things out with him. Tell him sweet nothings, nurse him back to health. In a few days, all our problems will vanish like smoke. Eliana will be gone, and we’ll toast to our victory over champagne."
Sarai sniffed loudly, like a child seeking comfort after a fall, her possessive heart clinging to every word. "Okay... okay, Bianca. I trust you. Thank you—for always looking out for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. We’re inseparable, right? Two peas in a pod."
"Always, Sarai," Bianca said warmly, though her eyes gleamed with calculation. "Now, dry those tears and get back to your man. I’ll call you when it’s done."
The line clicked dead, and Sarai set the phone down, her shoulders slumping in relief. She glanced at Jason, his chest rising and falling in uneasy sleep, and a twisted smile curved her lips. "Soon, my love," she whispered, brushing a strand of matted blonde hair from his forehead. "Soon she’ll pay."
Six days blurred together like brushstrokes on a canvas of quiet urgency—days filled with whispered plans, fading goodbyes, and the steady pulse of change thrumming through the air. The walls of Henry Jackson’s apartment, once just a warm bachelor’s space, now hummed with purpose. Boxes were stacked neatly against the wall, maps and schedules lay scattered across the coffee table, and the faint scent of roasted coffee mixed with ink and printer paper, grounding them amid the chaos.
Henry moved through it all with a quiet, focused intensity. Tall and broad-shouldered, his striking features softened every time he glanced at Eliana—like the storm in him always found its calm there. Determination sharpened his movements; care threaded through every detail. London wasn’t just a destination to him—it was a promise.
Eliana Bennett hovered near the kitchen table, a soft figure wrapped in old comforts. She wore faded jeans and a simple sweater that clung gently to her warm brown skin, a small rebellion against the upheaval of their lives. Her long, curly black hair was tied back in a low ponytail, a few stray strands brushing her honey-brown cheeks. Her heart-shaped face, often shadowed by recent betrayals, held something new now—hope, fragile but real.
"Henry, are you sure about all this?" she asked softly, breaking the quiet rhythm of shuffling papers.
To be continued...