TINSEL'S POV.
The dust hadn't even settled when they were gone.
Six SUVs. One second they were here, the next it was just tire marks and cameras and me standing in the middle of panther street holding a black card and a bloody handkerchief with his initials G.R.H. on it.
People didn't leave. Not all of them. The men in suits did. He did. But the others stayed –phones up, recording me like I was part of the show.
"Miss?" That's her! She's the one!"
I pulled the coat around me even though it was already 90 degrees and I could feel sweat running down my back. My hand was throbbing under that handkerchief. His handkerchief.
"Miss?"
I flinched. One earpiece guy was still here. Older. Gray in his hair. Not filming. Just… looking at me like I was a problem he didn't budget for.
"Mr. Hales driver." He said.
I laughed. It came out ugly. "He talks to you, not to me,"
The driver didn't react. He reached into the sedan and pulled out a small box. Apple logo. Then a manila envelope.
"He said to make sure you're safe," the driver said, handing them over. "That means everything. Not just a roof."
I stared at the box. Brand new iPhone. Still sealed. The envelope was thicker –key, cash, SIM card, and a folded note.
He said. Of course he did. Gregory Hale doesn't do say things to people's faces. He says them to his assistants and drivers and lets them to do the human parts for him.
I took the box. My hands were shaking. I hadn't held a phone in two years. Aunty took mine the first week. Said it was "for my own good."
"Get in," the driver said. "You can set it up on the way."
I got in. the leather was cold. He pulled onto the road and didn't talk. Just drove.
I ripped the plastic off the box. My nails were dirty. Blood under them. The phone was heavy. Too clean. Too new.
I slid the SIM into the tray with fingers that didn't remember how. The little click was loud.
Hello, select language.
English.
The apple logo glowed up at me. Two years. Two years since I'd seen that. Two years since I'd seen that. Two years since I'd had a number, a contact, a way for someone to reach me.
The driver glanced in the mirror. "Passcode's in the envelope. So is the number. Zack set it up already. It's clean."
I opened the envelope. Cash –thick stack of $100s. House key on a plain ring. And a note in blocky handwriting:
Your number:555-0189
Passcode: 0406
Do not lose this phone.
0406. March 8. Today.
I set the passcode. 0-4-0-6. The screen opened to blank home screen. No apps. No photos. No history. Just like me.
The first thing I did was to open Safari. My thumb knew where it was before my brain did.
I typed: G.R.H handkerchief.
Final result: Hale– private industries Executive Line.
Second: Gregory Hale, 25, CEO. Net worth -$10.6B. "Notorious recluse."
Photos loaded. Him on stages. Him at galas with women in diamonds. Hale closes 3B merger. Hale: No comment.
None of them were the guys who told me night lies. And broke sticks so I wouldn't cut myself.
We stopped. I looked up.
Little blue house. Trees. Flowers in a pot. Real grass.
"You're 'personal staff' as of twenty minutes ago," the driver said, nodding at the house. "Zack processed it. You'll get details later."
Personal staff. Right.
I stepped out holding the phone like it might vanish. The key was in my other hand. The handkerchief was in my pocket.
"Why?" I asked the driver before he could away. "Why the phone? Why the house? He barely even knows me."
He met my eyes in the mirror. "Because you walked out with nothing. And he doesn't leave people with nothing.
He drove off.
Personal staff. Bullshit.
This was the man who walked past me cold as an ice, but making sure I had a comfortable shelter and a number before night came again.
This was "My fire now" and him letting me keep it.
I unlocked the phone. 0-4-0-6.
Zero contacts. Zero messages.
But I existed again.
AND HE WAS THE REASON