Taken off guard, she blinked. "What?"
"The cafe, you see, it's all I have. And my kids, well... You see. That is...I've...I've been gambling. The races." He forced a laugh that died mid-throat. "Stupid, I know. I had to leverage the café to stay afloat. It's complicated. One of the conditions for the...stay...is letting you go."
His words were messy, fumbled. The guilt in his eyes was genuine, but laced with something else. Desperation? Fear? As though he was trying to confess, but also escape.
And Aria knew.
This wasn't just about gambling.
Someone had pulled strings behind the scenes. Someone who had power, money, and influence. Someone who had a vested interest in removing her from the picture.
Probably Crispin's family.
Of course, this is what they would do. They considered her a threat. Her!
They'd move in the way old money always did-quietly, surgically, through favours and pressure and people like Gallen who couldn't afford to say no.
She stood there for a long moment, her hands cold at her sides.
Then she nodded slowly. "Okay."
"You'll finish the week," Gallen added softly. "I'm sorry, Aria. I really am."
She gave him a brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Me, too."
That afternoon at the Lackenbys', only Mr. Lackenby was in. The townhouse was quiet, the hallways dim and echoing with the faint tick of a grandfather clock. But there was a strange waiting quality to the silence-a kind of tension that curled around the bannisters and clung to the walls.
"Miss Bektashi," he called out as she stepped inside, his voice oily and courteous. "Might I please have a word before you begin?"
He was waiting just outside his study, dressed in his usual grey waistcoat, stomach puffed slightly beneath the fabric despite the way he tried to hold it in. His cologne-a thick, pungent aftershave with an undercurrent of garlic that turned her stomach-hit her first in an overpowering, nauseating wave.
With a faint nod, she followed as he gestured her inside.
"Please, come in," he said, waving towards the heavy-set leather settee near the window. "Sit."
"I'll stand," Aria replied quietly, positioning herself by the door. Her hand remained near the knob, just in case.
Mr. Lackenby arched a brow but didn't press it. He moved to the settee and lowered himself with a theatrical sigh, legs crossed, fingers laced neatly in his lap.
She nodded, unsure.
"I must say, you've been an exemplary employee. Always punctual, discreet, thorough." He smiled the kind of smile that never quite reached the eyes. "Which makes this all the more...unfortunate."
Aria stilled. With a sinking feeling in her heart, she already knew what he was about to say.
"I'll have to end our arrangement," he said with a soft, regretful tone that somehow managed to feel rehearsed. "Not for anything you've done, of course. But sometimes, Miss Bektashi, we don't get to choose which powerful people take issue with us."
Her spine stiffened.
He watched her carefully. "You've upset someone, or perhaps, someone's family. That's not a position I envy. You'll need support, no doubt. Someone reliable. Someone who can offer help through difficult times."
The implication oozed from his words like oil.
"I'm not without influence, Miss Bektashi," he went on. "There are other ways to earn if you're in need. Discreet ways. I could refer you to-"
"No," Aria cut in sharply. Her voice rang louder than intended in the quiet hall.
Something dark flickered in his expression-surprise, irritation-but she didn't wait for it to settle.
