The groan of the iron gates split the silence, the grinding echo enough to send the resting birds scattering into the pale morning sky. Arthur stepped through slowly, the weight of ten years clinging to him like a second skin. His hair had grown long, his beard thick, his frame sharpened into something harder, leaner. In his grip was a single duffel bag—his only possession, clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. He paused at the threshold, inhaling deep for the first time in a decade. The air was sharp, raw, almost overwhelming. Freedom had a taste—metallic, electric, heady. He closed his eyes, savoring it, then exhaled, his breath shaking as if he could release the ghost of the prison with it. When he opened them again, the sight that greeted him was exactly as promised. Five matte-black cars idled outside the gates, their engines humming low like predators waiting to pounce. Carrington's men stood in formation beside them, all in black, their gazes fixed on him. As Arthur approached, every one of them bowed in unison—a silent acknowledgment of who he was now, of what ten years had carved him into. He cracked his neck, the sound sharp, and stopped in front of them. One man stepped forward, tall, broad, carrying the air of command. Arthur's eyes narrowed, assessing. "Boss," the man said, his tone firm but respectful. "Name's Mark. I'll be working right alongside you." From under his arm he produced an iPad and handed it over. "Everything's ready, sir. We've got men planted at the venue, watching the Beaumont boy. We're set to strike." He swiped across the screen, pulling up live camera footage. The image shifted, and Arthur froze. Her. Dressed in white. Veiled. The same wide, glassy eyes that had once condemned him, standing there as if untouched by the decade she'd stolen from him. She was radiant, beautiful in a way that made his chest burn with rage and something darker, hungrier. Mark's voice cut into his thoughts. "The girl is ready for the taking, sir." Arthur's lips curled into a slow smirk, the first in years. "Then let's get ready." He clapped his hands together once, sharp, decisive. "Yes, boss." Mark's smirk mirrored his own. "Mr. Carrington's already secured a penthouse for you. It's in your name, furnished, waiting. I'll drive you there. You'll want to prepare... for your wedding." Arthur chuckled low in his throat, dark and amused, before casting one last look at the iPad—the image of the bride, the lie, the ruin, now his prize.