Layla had learned to trust patterns. People liked to believe they were unpredictable, spontaneous—but they weren't. They followed invisible tracks, repeated the same mistakes, lived inside their comfortable little loops.
She made a living predicting those loops.
But that morning, something changed.
The elevator in Blackwell & Creed's tower was nearly empty when she stepped in—unusual for a Monday. Most mornings, it was packed with junior analysts and high-strung managers rehearsing pitches under their breath. Today, just a few people hovered in silence, eyes glued to their phones.
Except for him.
He stood in the far corner, still as glass, like he wasn't part of the crowd. No phone. No fidgeting. Just… watching.
He was tall, dressed in a sharp, charcoal-gray suit that looked expensive even in the bland elevator lighting. His hair was slightly tousled in a way that was too perfect to be accidental, and his features—chiselled jaw, piercing dark eyes—looked like they belonged on the cover of a financial magazine.
But it wasn't his looks that made her heart skip.
It was the familiarity. A tug in her gut, as if some part of her recognized him—even though she was sure she had never seen him before.
Their eyes met, just briefly, and she felt it.
A pull.
Not attraction.
Warning.
She looked away quickly, hiding behind the screen of her phone. By the time the elevator chimed and stopped on the 47th floor, she could feel the shift in her bones. Something was off.
He didn't get out.
She did.
And for the rest of the day, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
---
She stayed late, as usual, finishing a set of reports for Mr. Kendrick—her soulless boss with expensive taste and a temper. Around 9:45 PM, the office lights dimmed, signaling the cleaning crew's arrival. Layla packed her things and made her way to the lower floor storage room to retrieve archived documents Kendrick had requested that afternoon.
As she stepped into the darkened hallway, she heard it.
A faint click.
Not from her heels.
From behind her.
She turned—but the corridor was empty.
She wasn't someone who scared easily. But something about the silence, the cold hum of the flickering fluorescent lights, made her feel like she was being watched.
She unlocked the storage room door and stepped inside. Dust clung to the air, mixing with the smell of old paper and neglect. The filing cabinets stretched like a metal maze. She made her way to the back, searching for box 1702-B.
Her hand froze halfway to the drawer.
There it was.
A file labeled "Blackwood Family Holdings." Not part of the list Kendrick had asked for. Not even part of this department.
Blackwood.
That name again.
She shouldn't touch it. Shouldn't even be here. But her fingers moved before her brain could stop them. She pulled it out and flipped it open.
There were old records inside—company shares, acquisition documents, signatures she didn't recognize.
And one photograph.
Layla's breath caught in her throat.
Her biological father… standing in a group of suited men, one of whom was David Grey.
The same photo.
But there was another man now, front and center.
The man from the elevator.
And beneath the photo, a name scribbled in faded ink:
"Adrian Blackwood."
A cold weight settled in her chest. The Blackwoods weren't just a wealthy business family—they were connected to everything.
Her real parents.
Her adoptive ones.
And now… her.
She stuffed the photo back in the file, heart pounding. She shouldn't have seen that. She wasn't supposed to know any of this.
The lights in the hallway flickered again.
Layla turned, but this time—there was a figure in the glass reflection of the door.
Watching.
Waiting.
She didn't know what was coming.
But she knew one thing for sure:
Someone was playing a long game.
And she was already in it.