Brighton’s POV
The drive felt endless, the road swallowed by darkness. My hands tightened on the wheel as the warehouse came into view—a rusted carcass at the edge of the abandoned district. No cameras. No neighbors. No witnesses.
Perfect.
I stepped out, boots crunching gravel as the guards opened the steel door. The stench of damp air hit me the moment I walked in. And there she was—Hailey’s mother—bound to a metal chair, bruises blooming along her arms, her eyes swollen from sleepless nights.
She lifted her head when she heard my footsteps.
And for a moment… she looked relieved.
“Brighton,” she breathed. “Thank God. You work with my ex husband, don’t you? Please—please get me out of here.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t, or maybe I didn’t want to.
Instead, I signaled the men behind
