Golden Eye Tycoon: Rise of the Billionaire Trader-Chapter 81: Ghost From The Past

The Audi R8’s V10 engine gave a low, predatory hum as it navigated the narrow, uneven streets leading to the gated complex where Catharine shared an apartment. The car felt out of place here—a shard of obsidian and silver cutting through a neighborhood of faded paint and weary commuters.

As they rounded the final corner, the smooth rhythm of the evening shattered. A cluster of people had gathered at the main gate, their silhouettes backlit by the flickering amber of a streetlamp. Above the murmurs of the crowd, a voice rose—jagged, slurred, and thick with a desperate, localized rage.

Catharine’s breath hitched. She didn’t just freeze; she seemed to shrink into the leather bucket seat of the R8.

"Wait here," Jake said, his voice dropping into a low, protective tone. "Keep the doors locked. I’ll see what’s going on."

"Jake, be careful," she whispered. Her eyes weren’t on the crowd; they were fixed on the floorboards, her fingers twisting the strap of her handbag until her knuckles turned white.

Jake stepped out, the butterfly door rising with a soft, mechanical hiss that drew a few startled glances from the periphery of the crowd. He closed it behind him and walked toward the gate with the steady, measured gait of a man who owned the pavement.

In the center of the commotion stood an old man. He was dressed in a worn, dusty jacket that smelled of woodsmoke and the village, clutching a bottle wrapped in a damp brown paper bag. He was swaying, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused as he rattled the iron bars of the gate.

"I know she’s in there!" the man screamed, spit flying from his lips. "She thinks she’s too big for us now! Tell my daughter to come out!"

Jake’s eyes narrowed. The memory hit him like a physical blow. The smell of cheap brew, the erratic swaying, the stubborn, misplaced entitlement. It was the same man he and Alex had dealt with months ago near the university hostels.

[Check Chapter 34 for reference]

’Again?’ Jake thought, a wave of cold irritation washing over him.

He pushed through the onlookers, who parted easily at the sight of his expensive watch and the sharp set of his jaw.

"Does your daughter stay in every building in this city?" Jake’s voice cut through the old man’s shouting like a blade. "First the hostels, now here? Do you have a map, or do you just pick a gate and start screaming?"

The old man spun around, blinking blearily. He didn’t recognize Jake—he’d likely been dragged away from a dozen gates by a dozen different men since their last encounter. "Mind your own business, city boy! I’m here for my blood! My daughter!"

"I made it my business months ago when I chased you off the university grounds," Jake said, stepping into the man’s space. "You’re making a scene. You’re embarrassing yourself and whoever it is you’re looking for."

"She graduated!" the man roared, waving the paper-wrapped bottle. "She’s a big woman now! She stays here! I was told she stays here!"

"Then take out your phone and call her," Jake challenged, his voice flat. "If she wants to see you, she’ll open the gate. It’s a simple concept."

The man’s face contorted, a flash of genuine, drunken pain crossing his features. "She won’t answer... I call and I call, and nothing! That’s why I’m here! She has to look at me!"

"If she isn’t answering, she’s giving you a hint," Jake said, his tone turning clinical. "She doesn’t want to see you. Now, move along before this gets ugly."

The old man let out a bitter, wet laugh and took a defiant swig from his bottle. "You and your security guards... you think you can tell a father—"

"I’m not a security guard," Jake interrupted, pulling his phone from his pocket. He held the screen up so the man could see the three digits already typed into the dialer. "Security will just drag you to the corner. I’m calling the police. I’ll have you picked up for public intoxication, harassment, and disturbing the peace. You’ll spend the night in a cell, not on a sidewalk. Choose."

The old man froze. The word ’cops’ seemed to possess a sobering weight that "security" lacked. He looked at Jake—really looked at him—and a flicker of hazy recognition finally sparked. This was the only one who didn’t reach for a radio or a baton; he reached for the law.

He spat on the ground, muttering a string of insults in a heavy dialect, but his bravado was gone. With a final, shaking glare at the gate, he turned and began to shamble down the street, his shadow stretching long and broken under the streetlights.

Jake watched him until he was a block away before turning back to the R8. He expected Catharine to be relieved, maybe even a little curious about his "heroic" intervention.

But when he opened the door, the interior light revealed a different scene. Catharine was hunched over, her hands covering her face, trying to press herself as far back into the seat as possible. She was trying to become invisible.

"Cath? It’s okay. He’s gone," Jake said softly.

He reached out to touch her shoulder, and she flinched—a sharp, violent recoil that made his heart sink. It wasn’t the flinch of someone who was "scared" of a drunk; it was the flinch of someone who was being hunted.

"How did he find out?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Jake... how did he find out I moved here?"

The realization hit Jake like ice water. This wasn’t just some random drunk. The "ghost" the old man had been chasing at the hostels... was her.

He didn’t ask questions. Not yet. He just reached in, unbuckled her seatbelt, and gently helped her sit up. Her hands were trembling so violently she couldn’t even grip her purse.

"You aren’t staying here tonight," Jake said firmly. "We’re going to get your things, and you’re coming to the Zenith. You’ll be safe there. Nobody gets past the lobby without my say-so."

She just nodded, her eyes vacant, her breathing shallow.

---

Walking into the shared apartment felt like stepping into a low-budget thriller. The lights were dimmed, and the air was thick with a panicked, frantic energy.

Three of Catharine’s roommates were positioned around the living room. One was gripped onto a heavy cast-iron frying pan, another held a decorative baseball bat, and a third was crouched behind the sofa, clutching a heavy glass vase like a grenade.

And then there was Sarah.

Sarah was sitting at the breakfast nook, bathed in the soft glow of the kitchen light, calmly eating a large slice of chocolate cake. She looked up as Jake led a ghostly Catharine into the room.

"Old man leave?" Sarah asked, her voice muffled by a mouthful of sponge cake.

"He’s gone," Jake said, looking around the room. The sight of the frying-pan warrior would have been funny under any other circumstances, but right now, it just felt like a symptom of a much larger problem.

"Cath is staying with me for a while," Jake announced to the room. He looked at the other girls, whose eyes were wide with a mix of adrenaline and relief. "There’s plenty of room at my place. If you guys feel unsafe, you’re welcome to come too. I have extra suites."

The girls looked at each other, then at their makeshift weapons. The girl with the bat shook her head. "We’ll be okay now that he’s moved on. Just... keep her safe, okay? She’s been through enough of this."

Jake didn’t push. He helped Catharine pack a small suitcase, her roommates hovering in a protective, silent circle. Ten minutes later, they were back in the R8, the engine’s roar muffled by the closed windows as they pulled away from the curb.

---

The drive to the Zenith was a heavy, suffocating silence. Catharine stared out the window at the passing city lights, her hand resting in Jake’s. He held it firmly, feeling the way her pulse gradually slowed, though her skin remained deathly cold.

At the penthouse, the sprawling luxury of the Zenith usually felt grand, but tonight it just felt like a fortress. Jake didn’t try to make her talk. He didn’t ask about her father or the village or why she was running. He just made her a cup of tea, settled her into the massive, silk-sheeted bed, and pulled her into his arms.

They didn’t speak. They just lay there, the city of Aurelia glowing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, two people caught in a world that was becoming increasingly complicated. Catharine clung to him as if he were the only solid thing left in a shifting sea, and Jake held her, his mind already calculating how to make sure that old man never found another gate she lived behind.

---

The next morning, the R8 pulled up to the front doors of Johnson & Associates exactly ten minutes before the workday began. The sun glinted off the car’s carbon fiber side-blades, casting a sharp, expensive shadow across the sidewalk.

Catharine looked different. The terror of the previous night had been replaced by a quiet, steely resolve. She had done her makeup with surgical precision and wore a suit that shouted "first-tier."

As the butterfly door swung upward, several of her colleagues—including Henderson, who was walking in with a coffee—stopped in their tracks. They watched as the "new associate" stepped out of a car that cost more than the firm’s entire quarterly bonus pool.

Jake leaned across the seat, his eyes meeting hers. "I’ll pick you up at five," he said, his voice loud enough for the onlookers to hear. "If you need anything before then, you have my direct line."

"I’ll be fine, Jake," she said, her voice steady. "I have work to do."

She didn’t look back as she walked into the building. She didn’t have to. The silence from the lobby spoke volumes. As Jake pulled away, he saw the Henderson Cath had described staring at the spot where the R8 had been, his "optimistic projections" likely feeling very small compared to the reality of the man Catharine Stone went home to.

---