Hundred Million Bounty on the Billionaire’s Wife Chapter 08

Hundred Million Bounty on the Billionaire’s Wife Chapter 08

Grace’s POV 

I push the door open. The smell hits me first. Old coffee, vanilla candles, and something that’s just ours. 

For a second, I forget Raven’s never coming back. 

Everything looks like we just stepped out. Her mug’s still on the coffee table, a half–read magazine, that ratty blanket thrown over the couch. 

I walk to the bedroom. Our only photo together’s on the nightstand. Both of us in tactical gear, filthy but grinning like idiots. 

Two years. Two whole years since I’ve been home. 

I pick up the frame, look at Raven’s face. 

If I make it through tomorrow, I’ll come back and clean this place up. If I don’t, at least someone will find this photo and know we existed. 

My clothes are stiff with dried blood, reeking of gunpowder. I need to clean up before whatever comes next. 

I strip off the torn jacket and bloodstained shirt. Hot water runs over the fresh cuts on my arm. 

Steam fills the space. I close my eyes, let the water run down my face. This might be my last hot shower. 

Damien’s on his home turf. He won’t be stupid. enough to fight fair. 

Pink water spirals down the drain. I can almost hear Raven complaining about me using up all the hot water again. She’d always knock after fifteen minutes, yelling about the water bill. 

I stand in front of the bedroom mirror in fresh tactical gear. 

The woman staring back looks both strange and familiar. For two years, I’ve been split into three pieces. The boring housewife from my first life, the killer from my second, and the polished socialite. 

Standing in this room where Raven and I planned jobs and stitched each other’s wounds, all three versions finally snap together. 

“Spent seventy years craving excitement. Now I’d trade all of this for one boring Tuesday with you.” I laugh out loud. 

All those years dreaming about danger and adventure, never once thinking about what I’d have to give up to get it. 

If there’s another life after this, I’ll take Raven somewhere quiet. Those rainforests she used to read about in magazines. We’d sit by a waterfall and she could tell me the names of plants in that serious voice of hers. 

“Next life, we’re seeing those rainforests. They must be beautiful.” 

Back in the living room, the wooden box lies open on the coffee table. Most of the coins are still inside. I only take three. 

I check the gun one last time, slide it into the holster. Walk to our photo. Kiss my fingers, press them against Raven’s face in the frame. 

See you soon, partner.” 

The door clicks shut behind me. I leave the key wedged between the door and the frame. Whoever finds this place can decide what to do with our ghosts. 

The late–night bus is nearly empty. A few exhausted workers coming off shift, and one woman who might not see sunrise. I choose the back corner seat. 

City lights blur past the window. Neon signs advertise all–night diners. Tourists never see this New York. 

My phone shows forty–three minutes to Damien’s estate. Forty–three minutes until I walk into what’s probably a trap disguised as an honor duel, But all I feel is this strange calm. 

Like when you stop fighting the current and let the river take you where it wants, Death has its own gravity, and ever since Damien’s bounty went live, I‘ ve been caught in its pull. 

At least this way, I get to choose how it ends. 

The bus stops at some corner I don’t recognize. The doors open and someone in a dark coat gets on. Hood pulled up, hands in pockets. 

The bus is basically empty, but this person walks straight to the back, straight to me. I shift slightly, make sure I can reach my weapon. “Bus is pretty empty. Plenty of seats up front.” 

No answer. They just sit down next to me. 

I start to stand, ready to change seats or get off at the next stop. That’s when their hand moves, grips my hand tight where it rests on the seat back. 

I whip my head around, eyes wide. “You!”