Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 44: See You Soon Babe

Twenty Four Hours Earlier

The moment the taxi carrying Eloise and Edward disappeared into the churning, uncaring maw of city traffic, Jayla White let herself breathe.

​It wasn’t the breath of relief—no, relief was a luxury reserved for those whose battles were over. This was the breath of an engine priming itself. It was the sharp, steady rhythm of a plan shifting from theory into cold, hard motion.

​She stood on the curb for a second longer than necessary, watching the space where the car had been. She stared as if her gaze alone could weave a protective shroud around them, bending fate until they were invisible to the wolves.

The city swallowed them whole—a symphony of screeching steel, neon glare, and kinetic energy. To anyone else, it was just morning. To Jayla, it was the start of a gamble where the stakes were measured in blood.

​There was no middle ground when a man like "Prince mafia" was involved. In the hierarchy of the underworld, he was a ghost story told to keep the ambitious in line.

Eloise had never told Jayla his true name; she hadn’t needed to. She had told Jayla about the kidnapping, the cold weight of his presence, and the "gift" that came afterward—the severed anatomy of the man who had hurt her, wrapped as a grotesque token of devotion.

​Jayla had named him herself: Prince Mafia. A title for a man who believed the world was his palace and every person in it a piece of furniture to be moved or discarded.

​​"Please," she whispered, the word lost in the roar of a passing bus. She wasn’t sure who she was begging anymore—God, fate, or perhaps the ghost of her own common sense. "Just make it, El. Just this once, let the universe look the other way."

​Then, she turned on her heel and walked toward her apartment, her footsteps echoing with the finality of a gavel.

​The shower was a ritual of purgation. Jayla stood under the spray, the water scaldingly hot, watching the steam turn the bathroom into a white void. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and tingling, grounding herself in the physical sensation to keep the mental panic at bay. She washed away the salt of Eloise’s tears and the smell of exhaustion. Panic was a toxin; precision was the antidote.

​She dressed with the care of a soldier preparing for a gala. Black skirt with a crease sharp enough to draw blood. A crisp white shirt, buttoned to the throat. She pulled her hair back into a clean, obedient ponytail, tightening the tie until her scalp ached. She needed to look unremarkable yet impeccable—the perfect secondary character in a story that wasn’t supposed to be about her.

​Outside, the McLaren 720S waited. It sat low and lethal against the curb, its Papaya Spark paint job gleaming like a predatory warning. It was a car designed for people who didn’t just drive; they escaped. It was a car for people who refused to be caught.

​Jayla slid into the cockpit. The smell of high-grade leather and expensive electronics enveloped her. Her fingers were steady as she pressed the ignition. The engine didn’t just start; it woke up with a guttural, predatory growl that vibrated through the carbon-fiber frame and settled deep in her marrow.

​Good, she thought. Let them look.

​She drove across town to the coffee shop she frequented—a trendy, glass-fronted spot where the aesthetic was as curated as the beans. She parked the McLaren deliberately in a "no parking" zone that was highly visible from the street, a beacon of wealth and arrogance.

​Inside, the air was a thick blend of roasted beans and cinnamon. The bell above the door chimed, and the barista looked up.

​"Usual, Jayla?"

​"You know it, Sam," she replied, her voice a melody of practiced calm.

​She took her iced latte—extra foam, one sugar—and chose a seat directly in front of the window. She crossed her legs slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate. To any observer, she was a young woman of leisure enjoying a mid-morning caffeine fix. In reality, she was a decoy.

​Time was the only currency that mattered now. Every minute she spent being "Jayla" in public was a minute Prince mafia’s men weren’t looking for a girl on a train. Her plan was elegant in its simplicity. In Prince mafia’s world, patterns were the gospel. He didn’t just watch people; he analyzed their rhythms. Eloise at work. Eloise at the cafe. Eloise at home.

​Jayla was going to be that rhythm. She would wear the McLaren like a costume. She would be seen at the restaurant, seen at the gym, and by nightfall, she would be a blur of neon and speed at the city’s loudest nightclubs. She would buy Eloise twenty-four hours of silence. By midnight, any tracker would believe Eloise was simply living a reckless, high-speed life. Normalcy was the lie most people trusted because the truth was usually too exhausting to contemplate.

​Jayla lifted her cup, pretending to savor the foam, while her eyes scanned the reflections in the glass. Please make it, El.

​Her phone buzzed on the marble tabletop.

​Eric.

​Jayla’s expression shifted instantly. The hardness in her eyes evaporated, replaced by a soft, affectionate glow that was as beautiful as it was fake. She swiped to accept the video call.

​"Hello, babe," Eric’s voice filled the space, his face appearing on the screen. He looked tired but brightened the moment he saw her. "I miss you so much. How’s your day going? You look stunning, as always."

​Jayla angled the camera with surgical precision. She ensured the café’s logo was visible, that the sunlight hitting her face suggested a peaceful morning. "I’m just getting my caffeine fix," she said lightly, a playful pout touching her lips. "I miss you too. Is the office treating you okay?"

​"Terrible," Eric groaned, leaning back in his leather chair. "I can’t concentrate for a second without seeing your face in the spreadsheets. It’s a workplace hazard, Jay."

​Jayla laughed—a bright, silver sound. "You’re ridiculous, Eric."

​She didn’t mention the McLaren idling outside. She didn’t mention the girl shivering on a train or the monster who wanted her back. She was about to tease him about a strange book she’d started reading when a sharp, female voice cut through the background of Eric’s office.

​"Eric? I need those files now!"

​Jayla’s expression remained perfectly pleasant, but she watched Eric’s reaction with the intensity of a hawk. He dramatically sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of mock despair. She knew that move; it was his universal sign for "the world is demanding too much of me."

​"Is that Manager Janet again?" Jayla asked, tilting her head with a sympathetic, almost motherly concern.

​Eric nodded, looking utterly drained. "The woman is a slave driver, Jay. I swear, I think she’d follow me into the bathroom to check my progress if she could."

​"Eric!" the voice barked again, closer this time.

​Jayla grinned into the camera. "What would that office do without you? You’re the only one who keeps the lights on."

​Eric smiled, his ego visibly inflating. "Say that again. I need to hear it."

​She repeated the praise, layering on the sweetness until it felt like honey in her throat, stroking his ego with practiced ease as she watched him preen.

​"Go," Jayla said gently. "See what Janet wants before she actually combusts. I don’t want your office burning down before our date."

​​"Talk to you later," he said, already turning his chair. "I’ll come see you soon." He blew a kiss toward the camera before the line went dead.

​The line went dead. Jayla stared at her reflection in the black screen. For a fleeting second, she felt a pang of something—not guilt, but a cold realization of how easy it was to manipulate safety. Eric was her anchor. He was "normal." He was the one thing that made sense in a day that had otherwise spiraled into a spy novel; yet, he was the man who had no idea his girlfriend was a high-stakes distraction.

​The arrival at the restaurant where Jayla worked was, as expected, a spectacle.

​She didn’t just arrive; she made an entry. The McLaren’s butterfly doors swung upward like the wings of a predatory insect. Jayla stepped out, her movements sharp and confident. She looked like a girl who owned the world, or at least a very expensive piece of it.

​"Jayla!" Mia, another waitress, practically sprinted across the parking lot, her eyes wide. "Is that... is that yours? Oh my god, did Eric finally pop the question and buy you a supercar? Or did you win the lottery and not tell me?"

​Jayla laughed, the sound easy and practiced. She tossed her keys lightly in her hand. "No, Mia. It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend. I’m just looking after it while she’s... traveling. She didn’t want it sitting in a garage."

​"Well, tell your friend I’m available for adoption," Mia joked, linking arms with her. "If this is how she travels, I want her life."

​No, you don’t, Jayla thought. You really, really don’t.

​The shift was a grueling exercise in compartmentalization. Jayla moved through the dining room like a clockwork doll—polished, efficient, and entirely hollow. Every time the heavy oak doors opened, she expected to see a man in a tailored dark suit. Every time a phone rang at the hostess station, she expected the voice of a man who dealt in human lives.

She cleared tables, took orders, and laughed at customers’ jokes, all while her mind was tracking the imaginary progress of a train heading north.

​She was clearing a table for four—a mess of lobster shells and expensive wine—when Sarah, the hostess, tapped her on the shoulder. Sarah looked confused.

​"Jayla? There’s a package for you at the front. The delivery guy says he needs a signature from you personally. He won’t leave it with me."

​Jayla’s heart didn’t skip a beat; it slowed down, turning to ice. "A package? I didn’t order anything."

​"I know. Weird, right?"

​Jayla walked to the front of the restaurant. The delivery man was nondescript—brown uniform, hat pulled low, eyes fixed on a digital clipboard. He didn’t look like a killer, but in this world, that meant nothing.

​"Jayla White?"

​"Yes."

​She signed the pad with a steady hand. He handed her a thick, legal-sized envelope. It was surprisingly heavy. There was no return address. No stamps. Just her name in a font that looked too elegant for a courier service.

​Jayla retreated to the employee locker room. It was empty, the air smelling of stale perfume, sweat, and industrial floor cleaner. She sat on the dented wooden bench and tore the top of the brown envelope. Inside was a second envelope—pristine, heavy-stock white paper.

​She opened it.

​The breath stalled in her lungs. The oxygen in the room seemed to vanish, leaving her gasping in a vacuum. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the objects inside the envelope gleamed with a sickening, familiar brilliance.

​Jayla didn’t cry. The pain was too sharp for tears, a cold, surgical strike that severed her heart from her head. Instead, a sound escaped her—a low, rhythmic vibration in her chest that bubbled up her throat and erupted into a full-blown, hysterical laugh.

​She sat there among the hanging coats of her coworkers, laughing until her ribs ached and her eyes stung with salt. It was the laugh of someone who had just seen the punchline of a very long, very cruel joke.

​"Of course," she murmured, her voice trembling with a dark, newfound clarity. "Of course you’d do this."

​She placed the items back into the envelope with the reverence one might show a loaded gun. She stood up, smoothed her white shirt, and checked her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back didn’t look like a waitress. She didn’t look like a friend. She looked like a predator who had finally found the scent.

​She pulled out her phone and hit redial. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

​"Babe?" Eric answered on the second ring, his voice smooth and comforting. "Back so soon? I thought you were in the middle of the lunch rush."

​"I am," Jayla said. Her voice was a perfect, shivering imitation of a ditzy, excited girlfriend. "But Eric, I just saw the most stunning handbag online. A limited edition. I’m obsessed, but my card is at the limit because of that stupid car insurance I had to pay this morning."

​He chuckled, that smug, indulgent sound she had heard a thousand times. "Uh-oh. The shopping monster is out."

​"Can you lend me your credit card?" she asked, her tone sweet enough to rot teeth. "And I hope Manager Janet is... well taken care of? I’d hate for her to stop you from seeing me for even a few seconds."

​There was a pause on the other end. When Eric spoke again, his voice had shifted. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a smug, dark satisfaction. "Of course she’s taken care of, Jay. I’ve got her right where I want her. I’m on my way. See you in twenty?"

​"See you soon, babe," Jayla whispered.

​An evil, jagged smirk carved its way across her face—the look of someone who had just realized the fox was already inside the hen house, and she was the one holding the door shut.

​"I can’t wait to buy the bag," she said, her eyes fixed on the brown envelope. "It’s... exactly what I deserve."

​She blew a kiss into the receiver and hung up.

​She walked back out into the restaurant, her stride long and predatory. She caught Mia’s eye and pointed toward the door, where the McLaren sat waiting like a getaway car.

​"Hey Mia," Jayla said, her eyes flashing with a light that looked like a forest fire. "Change of plans. If anyone asks for me, tell them the ’female lead’ just went into production."