The Le Rivage Lounge was the kind of place where secrets felt safe.
Velvet armchairs in deep burgundy, polished brass accents catching the low amber lighting, and the faint hum of jazz curling through the air like smoke. The scent of aged whiskey and sandalwood hung heavy, enough to make the space feel timeless—like the outside world didn't exist.
Serena was early. Always early.
She'd chosen a table in the far corner, half-hidden by a curve of the wall, giving her a view of both the entrance and the bar. The lounge wasn't busy—only a scattering of late-night regulars and a pair of businessmen speaking in low voices near the fireplace.
On the far side of the room, in a service alcove cleverly disguised as a coat-check station, Damien waited with a slim comms receiver in his ear. A single earpiece linked to the tiny microphone hidden in the gold clasp of Serena's clutch. He had a perfect view of her table through a narrow crack in the wood paneling.
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Cross Arrives
At precisely 8:03 p.m., Daniel Cross walked in.
He didn't hesitate at the door, didn't scan the room nervously—just moved with a casual confidence that said he knew he belonged anywhere he chose to be.
He was in a dark charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. Broad shoulders, solid build. His hair was short, military neat. His eyes found her almost instantly.
"Ms. Langford," he greeted, sliding into the seat opposite her without being invited. His tone was respectful, but there was a faint wariness in the way he studied her.
"Mr. Cross," she replied, smiling faintly. "Thank you for coming."
"I make it a point not to ignore messages that use the words discretion essential," he said.
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The Opening Moves
Serena tilted her head, letting her gaze linger just long enough to feel deliberate. "You've been with Mr. Blackwood for what… six years now?"
"Seven," Cross corrected. "Security and risk management."
"That's a long time to keep someone safe."
"It's my job," he said evenly.
"And yet," she said, leaning back in her chair, "there are things slipping through the cracks."
A flicker—quick, almost imperceptible—passed through his eyes. "Such as?"
"You were at the estate two nights ago," Serena said. "You heard the merger proposal. You also heard Damien and I didn't agree on terms. And then, less than an hour later, a Paris financial outlet publishes a speculative piece about the deal. You tell me—does that sound like airtight security?"
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In the Alcove
Damien's grip on the edge of the panel tightened. He could hear the measured calm in Cross's voice, but he could also hear the slight shift in breathing. Cross was paying attention now.
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Cross Deflects
"You're suggesting I leaked the information?" Cross asked, his tone cool but not offended.
"I'm suggesting you know who did," Serena countered. "And I'm suggesting that whoever it was, they've been very comfortable operating under your watch."
He gave a small shrug. "Speculation and coincidence aren't proof."
"No," Serena said. "But patterns are."
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Applying Pressure, Langford Style
She leaned forward, her voice lowering just enough to draw him in. "Three wire transfers. Cayman account. Regular intervals, small amounts—low enough to dodge banking red flags. You want me to believe those are a coincidence too?"
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't look away. "You've been checking my finances."
"I've been checking everyone's finances," she said. "That's what you do when your company's about to be swallowed whole by market gossip."
Cross didn't speak for a moment. Then: "And if I told you those transfers were payment for consulting work? Completely above board?"
"I'd ask you to explain why that consulting work is tied to a shell corporation that doesn't exist on paper."
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The Shift
That did it. A muscle in his jaw tightened. His gaze flicked—not to the bar, not to the door, but to the far right corner of the room, where Damien's alcove was hidden. Only for a second, but Serena caught it.
"You know he's listening," Serena said quietly.
Cross said nothing.
"You also know I wouldn't have called you here unless I thought there was a reason to give you the benefit of the doubt," she continued. "So here it is: I think you've been playing both sides. And I think you're smart enough to know which one's going to collapse first."
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The Offer
He leaned back in his chair, studying her as though weighing something. Finally, he spoke.
"You want me to switch allegiances."
"I want you to tell me who you're working for," she said, "and in exchange, you'll keep your job—and more importantly, you'll walk away from this alive when it's over."
Cross gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "And Damien's just going to agree to that?"
"Damien doesn't have to," Serena said. "I do."
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In the Alcove Again
Damien's jaw clenched. He didn't like her making promises on his behalf, but he also couldn't deny she had Cross's full attention now.
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The First Crack
Cross reached into his jacket slowly—not for a weapon, but for a business card. He placed it on the table between them, face down.
"You didn't get this from me," he said. "And if you follow it, you won't get a second chance."
Serena flipped the card over. A single name was printed on it, no company, just a number beneath: Victor Hale.
She looked up, but Cross was already rising from his seat.
"Next time you need me," he said, "don't invite me somewhere with hidden microphones."
He walked out without looking back.