Chapter 347: He Was Bait

Rechelle reached for her phone at once.

Her fingers moved faster than her thoughts, scrolling through old albums and locked folders before she stopped herself with a tight breath. There was nothing useful there. She had deleted most of him months ago ~ photos, voice notes, screenshots, anything that kept his face too close to her daily life. She shook her head.

"I don’t keep pictures of that bastard," she muttered. "Not after everything."

The words sounded firm, but the silence after them was not. Another thought arrived almost immediately, unwelcome and practical. She still remembered his TikTok account. Of course she did. Some things refused to leave the mind even after the heart had already thrown them out.

She opened the app.

The search bar accepted the name with ugly familiarity. The profile loaded faster than she wanted it to. Same username. Same posture. Same arrogant half-smile polished for strangers. Rechelle stared at the screen for half a second longer than necessary, then turned the phone toward Lucas without speaking.

Lucas took it.

He studied the image in silence. At first glance the man looked ordinary ~ groomed, posed, dressed like someone who cared more about being seen than being solid. But Lucas did not look at him the way a casual observer would. He looked at him the way a person marks a target. Jawline. Eyes. Mouth. The angle of the head. The cheap confidence in the expression. He held the face in his mind until it settled there cleanly.

Target noted.

Rechelle watched him from the side.

The longer he stayed quiet, the tighter her chest became. She had asked for protection. She had admitted, over breakfast, that she did not feel safe alone in the mansion. That part had been honest. But honesty had consequences, and those consequences were standing right in front of her now in the form of a man calmly memorizing her ex-husband’s face. A different fear began to rise under her ribs. Not fear of Aaron. Fear of what it would mean if Lucas got pulled deeper into this because of her.

If something went wrong.

If he got hurt.

She was not sure she would be able to forgive herself.

"What are you planning?" she asked quietly.

Lucas did not answer at once. His thumb moved once across the screen, then stilled. When he finally looked up, his tone was almost too light for the subject.

"Nothing much."

Rechelle waited.

"Just putting the bastard back in his place," he added. "That’s all."

She folded her arms, more to steady herself than to look composed.

Lucas scrolled once more through the profile, still thinking, then asked, "Do you know where he might be staying?"

Rechelle hesitated.

The question was practical. Necessary, even. Still, answering it made her feel like she was handing over a key she could never take back.

"An Airbnb, most likely," she said. "Unless he stole more money than I know about. Then maybe he has a place of his own." A bitter breath left her nose. "I wouldn’t even be surprised. That bastard always found a way to look comfortable while owing everyone around him."

Lucas nodded once, filing the information away. He did not push her for more than she was ready to give. That restraint somehow made the moment heavier. He was not performing concern. He was preparing.

Rechelle hated how much that both comforted and terrified her.

---

Meanwhile, back in the wrecked Airbnb, the mood had changed completely.

The word millions was still sitting in the room like fresh blood. It had altered the air. What began as a debt collection no longer felt small enough to end with a broken face and a warning. The Dirty Saints were tasting opportunity now, and opportunity made restless men dangerous in a different way. One of them kept glancing at the boss, waiting for direction. Another wiped dried blood from his knuckles onto his jeans, as if the earlier beating had only been the warm-up course.

Broken glass still glittered near the door. The chair Aaron had been forced into sat crooked on the floor. The whole place smelled of beer, sweat, and the sour aftermath of panic.

The boss turned back to Aaron.

"You sure?" he asked. His voice was calm, which made it worse. "You’re standing there swollen and leaking, telling me this woman has up to a million dollars."

Aaron heard the interest under the threat and latched onto it immediately. For the first time since the door came off its frame, the room had tilted even slightly in a direction he could use. Pain still throbbed through his face and ribs, but hope was a stubborn animal. It lifted its head the moment money entered the conversation.

"I’m sure," he said, voice rough but eager. "Very sure."

The boss stepped closer.

Up close, the older man’s presence pressed down harder than the earlier punches. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

"If I find out you’re lying," he said quietly, "you won’t get another beating. You’ll pay with your life."

Aaron swallowed. The sound was dry in his throat. He nodded hard enough that his swollen eye ached. With the back of his hand he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, trying to look useful instead of ruined.

"I’m not lying."

"Then give me everything on Rechelle."

Aaron pushed himself up from the chair. His body protested at once. One leg dragged slightly as he limped into the bedroom, using the wall for balance. He came back with his phone clutched in sticky fingers, unlocked it, and started talking fast, the way desperate men do when they think information might keep them breathing.

Address. Neighborhood. The mansion’s general layout as best as he remembered it. Old habits. Which side of the property used to stay quieter. Where staff used to enter. The kind of bitter details an ex keeps stored long after he has been thrown out with nothing.

"If you’re going to move," he said, "do it at night. Daytime is messy. I can’t predict her movements then. She could be at the company, on the road, anywhere. But by seven in the evening, she’s usually home. That’s your window."

The boss listened without interrupting.

He did not write anything down in a dramatic way. He simply took what he needed, discarded what he did not, and let Aaron keep talking until the well ran dry. When the last useful detail left Aaron’s mouth, the older man slipped the information away like a job file closing.

Then he stood up.

"If this doesn’t go right," he said, looking down at Aaron one last time, "make sure the original money is complete. Every bit of it."

Aaron’s swollen face twitched.

There it was ~ the opening he had been waiting for. Not mercy. Not partnership. But a crack wide enough for greed to crawl through.

"And my share?" he asked. "If she’s caught... what’s my share?"

For a second the room went silent.

Even the man near the broken door paused.

Then the gang burst out laughing.

Not polite laughter. Not restrained amusement. Ugly, open, mocking laughter that filled the ruined Airbnb and made the question sound even smaller than it already was. One of them shook his head hard. Another clapped once, sharp and mean, like he had just heard the best joke of the morning. Someone muttered something under his breath that only made the others laugh harder.

Share.

They were still laughing when they stepped out of the house.

Boots crushed glass on the way out. The broken door hung open behind them. Their voices faded down the walkway, still edged with mockery, until the Airbnb fell back into a bruised silence.

Aaron remained where they left him.

Blood on his shirt.

Beer still sticky in his hair.

One eye swollen nearly shut.

And under all of it, the sour realization settled in fully at last.

In their eyes he was no partner.

He was bait.