All Chapters of Gold & Sand: Chapter 201 - Chapter 210

The knock on the door was firm. Measured. Arthur already knew who it was before he even reached for the handle. Masahiro. And if Masahiro was here, that meant— “Morning, sunshine,” Matthew greeted the moment the door swung open, leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world. “You look like shit.” Arthur huffed a dry laugh, stepping aside to let them in. “Nice to see you too.” Masahiro entered without a word, his sharp eyes scanning the apartment like it was an active crime scene. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just observing, calculating, the way he always did. Arthur shut the door behind them and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m fine, by the way. In case you were wondering.” Masahiro turned to him, arms crossed. “You were kidnapped.” Arthur shrugged. &

The car was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of tires gliding over asphalt. Masahiro drove with his usual precision—steady hands, unwavering focus, the kind of control that never wavered. Matthew, on the other hand, was slouched in the passenger seat, one leg bouncing idly, tapping his fingers against the window like he was thinking of something deeply unimportant. Arthur sat in the back, lost in his own thoughts, staring blankly at the blurred city lights streaking past. Then— “I need to get a lawyer for Cassidy.” Both Masahiro and Matthew turned their heads slightly. There was a pause. Then, ever so slowly, Matthew exhaled and let his head fall back against the seat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Masahiro, as usual, said nothing—just tightened his grip on the wheel. Matthew turned his head, looking at Arthur o

Arthur sat at his desk, fingers poised over his keyboard, but his mind was elsewhere.He was supposed to be working—supposed to be focusing on the backlog of reports Masahiro had handed him that morning.But he couldn’t.Because in a few minutes, the lawyer would arrive.Clark Brown.Arthur knew of him, of course. The name had been whispered around the city. A sharp, calculated legal mind. One of the best defense lawyers in the city.And now?Now, Cassidy’s fate was in his hands.Arthur exhaled slowly, trying to push down the uneasy weight in his chest.At the other desk, Masahiro was deeply focused, working without distraction, as if the case of the century wasn’t about to walk through the door.And then there was Matthew.Sprawled lazily in a random chair, legs stretched out, hunched slightly over his phone.Focused.But not on work.Arthur didn’t even ha

The shower ran hot. Steam curled along the edges of the mirror, clinging to the tiled walls as Adam dragged a hand over his face, water rolling down his broad shoulders. His body bore the kind of scars that told a history without words—faint reminders of a life lived in violence, of battles won and wars survived. He didn’t stay under long. He never did. A quick rinse, then he shut the water off, stepping out into the thick heat of the small bathroom. With practiced efficiency, he dried off, rolling his neck until it cracked, the tension leaving his muscles in slow waves. Then, moving without hesitation, he dressed. A crisp, open-collared black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms—just enough to show the sharp lines of muscle beneath dark skin. Polished trousers, pressed and fitted, clean against his frame. He stepped into his shined black leather shoes, the weight of them familiar, grounding. 

The moment Adam stepped inside Clark’s apartment, he knew something was off. At a glance, it was the kind of place you’d expect a high-end lawyer to own—modern, sleek, expensive. But underneath the surface, there was something else. Something… wrong. Boxes. Unpacked, shoved haphazardly against the walls. Some stacked near the hallway, some left forgotten by the bookshelf. There was an expensive bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table—half empty. Another on the kitchen counter. Glasses left behind, like someone had drunk just enough to forget whatever the hell was bothering them, but not enough to pass out. The air had that lingering scent of cologne and something else. Something faintly human, like the remnants of someone who had been here and left in a hurry. Clark’s place was polished, sure. But it wasn’t lived in. It was a man’s house, not a man’s home.&nb