FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER NINE

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

​"We’re leaving," I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, resonating with a finality that seemed to vibrate the crystal decanters on Elias’s desk. "And we’re taking Layla."

​Elias actually laughed then, a sharp, ugly sound that lacked any real mirth. It was the sound of a man watching his empire sprout cracks. "She is engaged to a man who controls half the shipping in this region. You think you can just walk her out of here like a piece of luggage? Mansour is downstairs right now, sipping a thirty-year-old scotch. He has six armed men in the foyer who don't take kindly to interrupted weddings."

​Julian stepped forward, the polished mahogany floor creaking under his boots. His eyes were blazing, a stark contrast to the hollow, exhausted look he’d carried for weeks. "Then tell him the engagement is off. Tell him she’s sick. Tell him she’s had a mental break. Tell him whatever that brain of yours thinks up—you’re good at lying, Elias. You’ve turned it into an art form. Use it."

​"If I break that contract, Mansour pulls his funding," Elias hissed, leaning over the desk until the green shaded lamp cast grotesque shadows across his face. "The family business—the legacy our grandfather built from nothing—collapses by morning. We’ll be headline news, and not for the social gala."

​"Then let it burn," Julian shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I'd rather be a beggar with a niece who can breathe than a prince in a house full of corpses. You're trading her soul for a balance sheet, Elias. Your own daughter. Your flavour of evil knows no bound. It ends tonight."

​I felt the weight of the phone in my hand, the screen glowing like a small, digital sun in the gloom. I tilted it toward Elias. "The upload isn't just financial ledgers, sir. It’s much more visceral than tax evasion. It includes the high-definition surveillance footage from the garage the night your parents' car was tampered with. I found the backup files your 'security' thought they deleted. They were sloppy. They left a digital footprint a mile wide."

​Elias froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of damp parchment. That was the killing blow. The room went unnervingly quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

​"Julian, go to Layla's room," I commanded, not looking away from Elias. "Get her. No bags, no jewelry. None of the trinkets bought with this blood money. Just her."

​"Mikael—" Julian started, his gaze flickering between us.

​"Go! I’ll handle the 'negotiations' here. We don't have time for a debate."

​As Julian sprinted out of the study, his footsteps fading down the long, carpeted corridor, I turned back to the man who had held my life in his hands for years. I didn't feel the familiar spike of fear anymore. I felt a cold, linguistic satisfaction—the feeling of finally finding the right word to end a very long, very painful sentence.

​"You’re going to call Mansour on the intercom," I said, my voice steady. "You’re going to tell him there’s been a family emergency and the dinner is over. You’re going to apologize, you’re going to be humble, and you’re going to watch us drive out of those gates. Because if you don't, the next person who sees that footage won't be a translator who values discretion. It will be a lead investigator with a warrant."

​Elias reached for the intercom, his hand trembling with a rage he couldn't vent. He looked aged, suddenly, the sharp lines of his suit failing to hide the sag of his shoulders.

"You think you've won, Mr. International. But out there? In the real world? You're just a man with a stolen passport and two royal anchors dragging you down into the deep."

"​I've spent my life navigating oceans, Elias," I said, a small, dangerous smile touching my lips as I heard Julian’s voice in the distance, calling Layla’s name. "I think I can handle a couple of anchors. In fact, they’re the only things keeping me grounded."

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can.— The Night Writer."