Frederick Henderson was the type of man who had lived too long without consequence.
Second son of billionaire magnate Matthew Henderson, he never had to learn responsibility. While his older brother spent his life being groomed to inherit the empire, and his younger sister outperformed even the boardroom veterans, Frederick danced through life with a smirk and a champagne bottle, trailed by bad business ideas, media scandals, and hush money.
He was poison dressed in Prada.
And Ethan O'Martin hated poison.
Not because he envied Frederick. Not even because of the failed ventures or the stolen millions from investors who believed in the wrong man.
But because of what happened that night.
A hit-and-run, years ago. Buried under police reports. Suppressed footage. Vanished headlines.
The world forgot.
But Ethan never did.
And now, Frederick was crawling back into relevance—poking around O'Martin's world, trying to sell Ethan on yet another "groundbreaking" investment scheme. He posted cryptic statuses about "being persistent" and hinted about "O'Martin Systems giving him a shot."
That alone was enough for Ethan to decide. This wasn't business.
It was cleanup.
The private rooftop lounge overlooked the sleepless city, but tonight, the air felt thick with consequence. Frederick had reserved the most elite section, as if he'd already won.
He was grinning when Ethan walked in.
"Man, this feels surreal," he said, rising from his seat. "I didn't think you'd come in person. I figured I'd be dealing with one of your associates. Big dogs like you don't sit down with people like me."
"You got that part right," Ethan replied coolly, not shaking the offered hand. He sat across from him, calm, precise. His tailored jacket barely creased.
Frederick didn't notice. Or he didn't care.
He ordered the most expensive bottle on the menu and poured two glasses. "To new beginnings."
Ethan didn't lift his glass. "Let's skip the toast. I'm not here to invest."
Frederick blinked, then forced a smile. "Then… what is this?"
Ethan tapped his phone. The screen lit up.
A night-drenched street.
The sound of tires. Screaming brakes. A child's terrified scream.
A body flung. Blood smeared across cracked asphalt.
And then—a man stepping out of the car. Panic. Hesitation.
Running.
Frederick's expression collapsed into something hollow.
"Where did you—" his voice caught. "That was... That was sealed. That file was destroyed."
"Not entirely," Ethan replied. "One of the officers who covered it up left behind a drive. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of fear. Either way—it found its way to me."
Frederick reached for his drink with trembling fingers. "Listen… That was an accident. I was twenty-nine. Drunk. Stupid. I didn't even know the kid was still—"
"He was," Ethan cut in. "Barely ten. Two broken legs. Facial fractures. Covered in his parents' blood. They didn't make it."
Frederick closed his eyes. "I paid. My father handled it. We gave the family—"
"Nothing," Ethan snapped. "You threw a few dollars at a lawyer and disappeared them. You went to Monaco the same week. The family never saw justice. Never got closure. The boy was placed in foster care."
"Why do you care?" Frederick's voice shook now. "It's been years. You didn't even know them!"
Ethan leaned forward slowly, his voice low and cold.
"I care because people like you believe you can erase blood with money. Because while you're out here chasing your next scam and rubbing elbows with investors, that boy lives with nightmares you caused."
He paused. Let it sink in.
"Do you even remember his name?"
Frederick stayed silent.
"I didn't think so," Ethan said. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to submit to the police. Confess. Face charges. You've danced past accountability long enough."
Frederick's laugh was humorless, desperate. "With what? A grainy video? A sob story? You think any court will take this seriously after all this time? The boy is probably dead by now."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you're hoping? That he vanished? That no one cared enough to remember?"
Frederick stood abruptly, anger blooming across his face. "You think you can blackmail me? My father still has power. He'll shut you down."
"Oh, your father won't lift a finger," Ethan said calmly. "He's done shielding you. I've already sent the footage to your sister—guess who's in line next for the family business? She's not fond of loose ends like you."
Frederick paled.
"You're bluffing."
"Am I?" Ethan rose to his feet, his height casting a shadow over Frederick. "You know how this ends. I'm giving you a chance to control the narrative before I do it for you."
He turned to leave, then stopped. Pulled out his phone again. Sent a message.
Frederick's phone vibrated seconds later. He looked down.
Don't go looking for the family. Or the boy.
Don't send anyone.
Don't try to erase what's already been written.
I'm watching you. – E.O.
Frederick's hand shook as he read it.
Ethan didn't look back.
He walked out into the wind-chilled night, letting the silence close in behind him like a steel door.
There were debts.
And Ethan O'Martin always made sure they got paid.