International Manwhore – Part 24 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The Range Rover glided through the Upper East Side windows dark enough that the streetlights barely touched the interior. Hunter drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the console in time to some silent rhythm only he could hear. I sat in the back.

We pulled up to the townhouse on East 68th—red brick, wrought-iron gate, the same brass plaque that had read “Tucker” since before I was born. Lights glowed behind the curtains on the second floor.

Hunter killed the engine. “You good?”

“No,” I said. “But I have to do this.”

“How do you get in?”

“That’s the easy part—I have an NFC chip. Hopefully it still works.”

“Smart. How long before the system pings him?”

“Minutes, maybe. Security logs everything after hours. I need to be fast.”

Hunter nodded. “I’ll circle the block. Text if you need extraction. Or if shit goes sideways.”

I stepped out, the March air sharp against my skin. The gate clicked open at the tap of my phone—soft chime, green light. No alarm.

The side door led straight into the mudroom. Marble floor, coat hooks still holding my old school blazer from years ago. I moved through the house on autopilot—past the library where Dad used to read contracts aloud like bedtime stories, up the back staircase, avoiding the creaky third step. The office was on the third floor, double doors, always locked.

I pressed my thumb to the biometric pad. Green light. Then the keypad lit up, waiting for a six-digit code, this was the hard part.

I tried my birthday—month, day, year. Red flash.

Sebastian’s—same format. Red again.

I exhaled through my nose. “Shit. Of course.”

Old folks always use their own birthday. Predictable as hell.

I punched in Dad’s—month, day, year. The lock clicked. Green.

The door swung open.

Inside smelled like leather, old paper, and the faint metallic tang of the safe. Desk lamp on low, casting long shadows. I went straight for the file drawers—unlocked.

First drawer: brochures. Glossy, professional. Gene-editing clinics in Mexico, startups promising “heritable enhancements” and “legacy optimization.” Prices in the seven figures. Dad’s handwritten notes in the margins: timelines, investor names, projected returns.

Second drawer: thicker files. Photos. Reports. A grainy black-and-white of a Yacht explosion—twisted metal, fire still licking the frame. Thomas Hargrove Sr.’s name circled in red. A memo clipped to it: “Asset neutralized. Ports secured. Proceed with acquisition.”

My stomach turned. Proof. Right there. Dad hadn’t just benefited from the explosion. He’d ordered it.

Third drawer: personnel files. One tabbed “Leona Briggs.” Photo of her—younger, sharper, MI6 badge visible in the corner. A list followed, typed on embassy letterhead:

Potential Assets:

Briggs, Leona: High-value MI6 liaison. Financial vulnerabilities identified (student loans, family in care). Leverage points: career advancement, debt relief. Probability of cooperation: 78%. Recommend phased approach—initial contact via joint task force.

I stared at the page. My hands were steady, but something cold settled in my chest.

Footsteps in the hallway.

I shoved the file back, closed the drawer, turned—

Leona, my handler stood in the doorway. Black turtleneck, dark jeans, hair pulled back. No surprise on her face. Just calm, measured and professional.

“Bryson,” she said. “You’re supposed to be in France.”

I backed toward the window. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

She stepped inside, door clicking shut behind her. “I am. Just not the side you think.”

I lunged for the door. She moved faster—hand snapping out, palm striking my throat. Air punched out of me. I doubled over, gasping. She followed with a knee to my ribs—sharp, precise. Pain bloomed white-hot.

I swung wildly. Connected once—her cheek—but she didn’t flinch. Next thing I knew my arm was twisted behind me, wrist bent at an angle that made my vision tunnel. Zip ties bit into my skin. She shoved me into the desk chair, secured my ankles to the legs.

I wheezed. “You worked for him. All this time. You used me to get to Adrien.”

Leona crouched so we were eye-level. “Yes. But that’s not the whole story.”

The door opened again.

Adrien stepped in—white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled, looking exactly like he had the last time I saw him.

My heart lurched. Relief, stupid and bright, flooded through me. He was here. He’d come for me.

Then he walked straight to Leona.

“Hey, babe,” he said, voice soft.

He leaned down and kissed her—lips lingering like they’d done it a thousand times.

I stared. The room tilted. What the actual fuck?