Page 26 of Rose
This was the devil in a suit.
And tonight, he stood on stage at a charity gala... preaching about change.
Savior sipped his champagne, disgusted but composed, watching as Franklin delivered a speech that was smooth, powerful, carefully crafted to paint him as a man giving back to the community.
The cruelest part?
This gala was for single mothers—the same women he funneled into his trafficking pipeline, the same families torn apart by his greed.
The applause roared through the mansion as Franklin ended his speech with a polished smile and a bow of false humility. He stepped off the stage, shaking hands, playing the crowd like a well-rehearsed performance.
Cynthia stood at the bar, laughing over champagne with Sarai, perfectly positioned as Franklin approached them through the crowd.
Savior stayed in the shadows, his gaze sharp, watching every movement.
His main focus wasn’t Franklin. It was Sarai. Always Sarai.
No matter how deep in this game they were, she was still his little sister.
Franklin leaned down and kissed his wife softly before Cynthia turned, all smiles, and introduced him to Sarai. She extended her hand, and Franklin took it, his grip firm but his gaze shamelessly lingering where it shouldn’t. Sarai’s polite smile masked the deadly chill in her eyes, though it didn’t go unnoticed by Savior watching from across the room.
Franklin’s interest was obvious—the kind of hungry stare that disgusted men wore without shame, even with their wives standing beside them.
Savior watched, stone-faced, as Franklin took Cynthia’s hand, and in a sick twist, Cynthia grabbed Sarai’s and led them both toward the grand staircase.
The sickest part of this entire mission wasn’t just Franklin’s role in the trafficking empire.
It was that his wife was the true mastermind.
A pediatric nurse by day, Cynthia used her position to gain the trust of new mothers, bonding with them, comforting them—only to sell them into slavery before they’d even healed.
But what turned Savior’s stomach most was knowing what they did together.
They didn’t just traffic women. They used them first. And tonight, they thought they picked the perfect victim. But tonight, they chose wrong.
Sarai glanced back once at Savior, subtle but clear. He lifted his champagne flute in silent acknowledgment. Stay sharp. Finish the job.
She ascended the stairs, letting herself be led to Franklin’s study.
The door clicked shut behind them, the dim lights casting long shadows across the room.
“What is this, a private party?” Sarai asked, her tone sweet, curious, playing her role with perfect ease.
“Something like that.” Cynthia smiled, slipping off her heels and settling onto the sectional in the corner, every move calculated and predatory.
Sarai stayed near the door, playing shy, scanning the room in one sweep. Desk. Liquor cabinet. Hidden cameras. Exit routes.
“Take a seat, sweetheart. We promise we don’t bite,” Franklin said, voice thick with fake charm. “Just trying to keep the party going.”
His voice alone made Sarai’s stomach turn, but she moved anyway, settling onto the couch, masking the disgust with a playful smile.
“So why are we up here? The party’s downstairs,” she asked lightly, feigning innocence, watching them both through lowered lashes.
Cynthia smiled, a predator in designer skin. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but my husband and I love spicing things up in our relationship.”
“Spice things up how?” Sarai asked, tilting her head, her voice calm, curious, letting the question hang between them.
Franklin leaned against the desk, pulling out a small bag of white powder. Without shame, he poured a line on the glass top and sniffed it in one clean motion, like it was as casual as drinking water.
