The night air of London clung damp against the tall glass façade of the Marriott Canary Wharf, its reflective windows throwing back the glitter of the Thames. Inside, the ballroom was alive, the crystal chandeliers rained down light, champagne flutes chimed, and laughter curled like smoke in every corner. It was the kind of gathering where fortunes were sealed with a smile, and betrayals were whispered behind velvet curtains.
But Lara Malik wasn't here for the champagne. She stood near the French windows, watching the room with the detached coolness of a hunter. In her fitted black gown, she blended perfectly into the sea of power brokers, diplomats, and corporate magnates who had gathered under the guise of a charity gala.
Charity was just the mask. Tonight's event was about deals. Deals worth billions, disguised as philanthropy.
Across the ballroom, her eyes locked onto a familiar figure Victor Halliday, the billionaire oil magnate whose empire stretched from the deserts of Abu Dhabi to the frozen coasts of Alaska. His silver hair gleamed under the chandelier, his tailored tuxedo as immaculate as his reputation. To the press, Victor was the embodiment of old-money respectability. But Lara knew better.
Victor Halliday was the spider at the center of a web that stretched across governments, corporations, and cartels. And tonight, he was the reason she had flown in from Geneva.
"Enjoying the view?" A voice slid smoothly beside her.
She turned, meeting the calm, amused eyes of Daniel Reed, the investigative journalist who had once been her lover and her most dangerous liability. Daniel was dressed sharp, but it wasn't his tuxedo that caught attention. It was the way he carried himself: too self-assured, too observant, as though he saw the lies behind every smile.
"Daniel," she said evenly, her lips curving into the kind of smile that concealed more than it revealed. "I should've known you'd turn up where the power is."
He grinned faintly. "I could say the same for you." His eyes flicked briefly across the room toward Victor Halliday. "You're watching him."
"And you're watching me." Lara's tone was velvet, but her mind was racing. If Daniel suspected her interest in Halliday, it could unravel months of preparation.
Daniel leaned closer, lowering his voice to a murmur only she could hear. "Careful, Lara. People who get too close to Victor Halliday have a habit of disappearing."
She tilted her glass, the bubbles catching the light. "Maybe that's the point."
Before Daniel could respond, the ballroom doors swung open. An announcer's voice boomed across the hall:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our distinguished guest of honor… Prime Minister Edmund Clarke!"
The crowd erupted in applause as the British Prime Minister strode in, flanked by security. Victor Halliday stepped forward to greet him, his smile impeccable. Cameras flashed, capturing what the tabloids would later call a moment of friendship between politics and commerce. But Lara's gaze caught something else a subtle nod exchanged between Halliday and a tall man standing at the edge of the room.
The man was Arab, mid-forties, his features sharp, his expression unreadable. Lara recognized him instantly.
Omar Rahmani.
Officially, he was the CEO of a shipping conglomerate based in Dubai. Unofficially, he was the key to moving weapons and contraband across continents without detection. And here he was, standing shoulder to shoulder with Victor Halliday in London, beneath the glittering chandeliers.
The stakes had just risen.
Later, after the speeches and the staged donations, Lara slipped out of the ballroom and into the quieter corridors of the hotel. Her heels clicked against the marble as she moved with calculated purpose. She needed a moment alone to piece together what she had just seen. Halliday. Rahmani. And the Prime Minister.
They weren't just business allies. This was a coalition. A power nexus operating under the cover of legitimacy.
She ducked into a side hallway and pulled out her phone. A secure line, encrypted. She dialed quickly.
"Zara," she whispered when the line clicked. "It's worse than we thought. Halliday and Rahmani are working together. And Clarke's involved."
On the other end, Zara's voice was taut. "Then the clock just started ticking. We don't have much time."
"I'll dig deeper tonight," Lara said. "There's something Halliday doesn't want the world to see, and it's here."
"Be careful. They'll already be watching you."
The line went dead. Lara tucked the phone away, exhaling slowly.
A sound behind her made her spin. A shadow detached itself from the wall.
Daniel.
He leaned casually against the corridor's arch, but his eyes were sharp. "Talking to ghosts, Lara?"
Her pulse quickened, but she didn't let it show. "You should mind your own business."
"I would," Daniel said, stepping closer, "if you weren't making it mine. You think you're invisible, but you're not. You've put yourself on a very dangerous chessboard."
"Dangerous is relative," she said. "You of all people should know that."
For a moment, their eyes locked ,old history simmering between them. Then Daniel slipped something from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. A USB drive.
"Take it," he said. "I've been digging into Halliday for six months. This is what I found. Use it or don't. But trust me, Lara, you're standing too close to the fire."
And with that, he walked away, leaving her with the weight of the tiny device burning against her palm.
Upstairs, in the penthouse suite, Victor Halliday poured himself a glass of whiskey. He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the lights of London shimmer against the black river.
Behind him, Omar Rahmani waited silently.
"She was here," Rahmani said at last. His voice was low, measured. "The woman. Lara Malik."
Victor swirled the whiskey slowly, his reflection cold in the glass. "I know."
"You want me to take care of her?"
Halliday turned, his eyes glittering with something darker than amusement. "Not yet. Let her move closer. Sometimes the best way to catch a spy…" His lips curved into a smile. "…is to make her believe she's winning."
Back in her hotel room, Lara plugged the USB into her laptop. Her fingers hovered for a moment, then she pressed enter.
Files opened. Names. Offshore accounts. Shipping manifests. Transactions that tied Victor Halliday to Omar Rahmani, and both of them to something even more dangerous: an organization known only as The Orion Circle.
Her breath caught.
She scrolled faster, her heart thudding in her chest. The Orion Circle wasn't just a rumor whispered in intelligence circles—it was real. And if Halliday and Rahmani were part of it, then the web stretched far wider than she had imagined.
At the bottom of the file was a single line of text, redacted except for one phrase:
"Operation Duskfall – London, 30 days."
Lara sat back, her pulse racing.
Thirty days. That was the timeline.
Whatever Operation Duskfall was, it was going to happen here, in this city, under the watchful eyes of power and press.
And she had just become the only one who knew.