The door clicked shut behind her.
Ayla stood in the corridor, still holding the folder Lucian had given her, her mind spinning from the weight of what had just happened. Somewhere in the depths of this gleaming high-rise tower was a brother who had sold her future for a chance at freedom. Somewhere behind her was a man who now owned that future—if she didn't play this right, he'd own her soul too.
"This way," said the taller of the two guards, motioning down the corridor.
No names. No conversation. Just crisp footsteps echoing off marble and steel.
She followed, her pulse low and steady, her breathing even. She had learned a long time ago how to look calm when everything inside her was chaos. That was the first rule of survival in a broken world.
They brought her to a suite on the twenty-ninth floor. The locks clicked behind her. She was inside before she realized she hadn't even seen a key.
The suite was luxurious in a way that felt more like a cage than comfort.
Soft lighting. Hardwood floors. Cream walls. A minimalist desk, a velvet couch, and a queen-sized bed that looked far too untouched. There were no mirrors. No clocks. No television. No exit without a code. She checked.
There was also no phone.
Of course not.
Lucian had said no contact. No escape. This wasn't a room — it was a curated prison dressed in gold.
Ayla dropped the folder on the desk and moved to the windows. They were tinted, bulletproof, and sealed. She couldn't even open them for air.
She leaned her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes.
Six months.
Six months under Lucian D'Argento's thumb, doing who-knew-what for a criminal empire she barely understood.
But she had no choice.
Or rather — she did.
Obey. Or burn.
She opened the folder.
The task Lucian gave her wasn't just a decoding assignment. It was surveillance. Embedded names. Routes. A shell company suspected of laundering through tech investments — one that just so happened to be connected to a firm her old employer once negotiated with.
That's why he picked me, she thought bitterly. Because I'm convenient. Disposable.
She began to piece the web together, eyes darting over the patterns, flipping between pages.
Names appeared. Disguises. Bank transfers with slightly altered digits. She could see it — the trail someone had tried to hide but didn't expect someone like her to find.
Ayla worked through the night, hunger forgotten. She didn't sleep. She couldn't.
By morning, she'd cracked the first code, flagged three aliases, and mapped out the company's offshore account structure with frightening clarity.
Whoever Lucian was targeting… they were deep inside the system.
And he had just given Ayla her first weapon.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, the door opened.
Lucian entered.
No knock. No warning. Just presence.
He wore a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, exposing ink along his forearm — a single serpent coiled around a dagger. His gaze swept the room once, then landed on her.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
"I didn't need to."
He walked past her, picked up the folder, and skimmed it in silence.
When he looked back up at her, there was something unreadable in his expression — not surprise, not quite approval. Something more dangerous.
"You traced an entire laundering network in twelve hours."
"Twelve hours and two cups of instant coffee," she said flatly.
Lucian's lip twitched. "You'll need better caffeine if you want to survive here."
"I'm not planning to stay long enough to develop a taste."
He stepped closer. Ayla held her ground.
"I'm giving you a way out," he said softly, "and you're fighting it like a cornered animal."
"I am a cornered animal," she snapped. "You took me without consent. You threatened me. And now you want gratitude because you gave me a desk?"
Lucian tilted his head slightly. "You're sharper than I expected."
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not afraid of you."
The smile that followed wasn't warm. It was cold and razor-edged.
"You should be."
Lucian walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey — at eight in the morning, like it was coffee. He offered none to her.
"I reviewed your academic record," he said casually. "Scholarships. Two degrees. One in advanced mathematics. Another in behavioral data modeling. Exceptional work. You should've been running a tech firm, Ayla. Not decoding my enemies."
"I was," she said. "Until my brother dragged me down with him."
"Loyalty," he murmured, sipping the drink. "It's a double-edged thing."
Ayla folded her arms. "I'm not doing this because I'm loyal to Mason. I'm doing this because if I don't, I die."
Lucian leaned against the counter, watching her with interest. "You don't want him dead?"
"I want him to suffer. But I'll decide how. Not you."
That surprised him. For just a second, she saw it — the faint flicker of intrigue in his otherwise unreadable face.
"Interesting," he said. "You're not what I expected."
"Good," she replied. "Because I'm not here to play by your expectations."
He stood. Walked toward her again.
She didn't move, even when he stopped just inches away, the air between them sharp and full of heat.
"You think you're in control here," he said softly.
"No. I think I'm dangerous in the right cage."
A pause.
Then Lucian leaned in, and whispered, "Careful, Ayla. You keep talking like that… and I might just like you."
He left without another word.
The door locked behind him.
Ayla exhaled slowly, pulse finally slowing.
She turned back to the window and let her eyes drift across the skyline. She knew she was still his prisoner. Still owned. Still trapped.
But in that moment, something shifted.
Lucian thought he was breaking her.
But he didn't know that Ayla Monroe had come here with her own mission.
She wasn't here to survive.
She was here to infiltrate.
And when the time came, she would ruin him.