ONE MONTH EARLIER
The room was silent except for the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Damian Cross sat at his desk, a man carved into stillness, as though the world itself waited for his next move. The city lights beyond the glass wall of his office glowed against the darkness, but his attention was fixed on the photographs scattered before him.
There were pictures of a woman he had never seen before in his life, some were from security footage, while some from a camera hidden in the jacket of one of his men.
The file should have irritated him more than it did. A betrayal within his company always carried weight, but tonight Damian felt only a detached curiosity. Betrayals were inevitable. People could always be bought, no matter how loyal they claimed to be. He had built his empire knowing that truth and had never been foolish enough to ignore it.
What he hadn't expected was her.
"Who is she?" His voice was low, controlled, carrying more calm than ever.
Across from him, Maxwell stood with his usual crisp precision. He was more than just an assistant but more like a shadow, always two steps behind Damian, always ready to clean the blood others pretended didn't exist.
Maxwell gestured toward the photographs. "This is the woman your staff member sold the blueprints to."
Damian's eyes slid over the image again, his expression unreadable. "Blueprints of my residence."
"Yes, sir."
"Which residence?"
"The Aurelian penthouse. Specifically, the east wing."
Interesting. Damian leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepled. The Aurelian wasn't just another luxury property; it was his fortress, layered with security. Anyone who wanted those blueprints wasn't looking for a quick profit they were looking for him.
"Name?" he asked.
Maxwell hesitated. That hesitation was all Damian needed to know that something about this woman was already slippery.
"We couldn't confirm an identity," Maxwell admitted. "She used an alias several, actually. The staff member referred to her as 'Ava Sinclair.' But the documents she carries are forged. High quality, but not impenetrable."
Damian's gaze sharpened, a blade of interest flashing briefly before settling back into calm. "Not impenetrable?"
Maxwell laid out a second folder. Inside were copies of forged IDs, passports, a driver's license, a socialite's portfolio. To the untrained eye, it was flawless. To Damian, it was a mask too carefully painted.
"She's skilled," Maxwell said. "But not invisible. Her trail vanishes after a year in the city. Before that nothing."
Nothing. Damian's fingers tapped once against the desk. It was rare for him to feel the faint itch of intrigue, but this woman managed it with nothing more than absence.
He studied her face again. Her Dark hair was pinned back, a faint smirk caught in one photograph as she leaned against a car window. The kind of woman who wanted to appear like she belonged in every room she entered. Too polished for desperation, too cautious for recklessness.
"Most thieves," Damian murmured, "take money. Not blueprints. Which means she doesn't want profit. She wants access."
Maxwell inclined his head. "That was my thought as well."
Damian leaned forward, spreading the photographs with a deliberate motion. One shot showed her meeting the staff member at a café. Another captured her slipping a folded envelope across the table. The staffer's face was tense, hers calm, almost detached.
Not a novice, then. Not easily rattled.
"What do you want done with her?" Maxwell asked. The question was sharp, professional. remove, silence, erase.
For a long moment, Damian said nothing. He simply stared at the images, his mind dissecting every angle. He could have her disposed of within the hour. One call, one quiet order, and she would vanish like she never existed. That was the simple choice.
But Damian Cross had never been simple.
Instead, he asked, "What else?"
Maxwell hesitated again, then produced a final slip of paper. it was a police record. Or rather, the ghost of one. Half-redacted, half-buried under bureaucracy.
"We traced her movements as far back as we could. She once filed a missing person's report. A sister, Lily Sinclair."
Damian's eyes flickered to Maxwell.
"She disappeared last year," Maxwell continued. "Last seen leaving the Cross Foundation Gala."
The silence in the room shifted and darkened. Damian remembered the gala. He remembered the girl with bright eyes, barely old enough to hold herself with composure. She had been charming, eager, and like so many others, she had disappeared into the noise of his world.
But apparently not forgotten.
Damian's jaw tightened, a subtle movement, but Maxwell noticed.
"So," Damian said softly. "The sister."
Maxwell gave a single nod.
That was when Damian finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow, deliberate breath. It wasn't annoyance. It wasn't amusement. It was the sound of calculation, of a predator adjusting the hunt.
A sister searching. A mask perfected. A game played quietly beneath his roof.
"She thinks she's clever," Damian murmured. "Walking into my world with forged names and borrowed courage."
"What do you want me to do?" Maxwell asked again.
Damian considered it, his long fingers brushing the edge of a photograph. Her eyes stared back at him. the eyes were not timid, not careless. A woman with purpose. Purpose was dangerous.
"Nothing," he said at last.
Maxwell blinked. "Sir?"
"Do nothing," Damian repeated, his tone smooth as glass. "No alarms. No interference. Let her believe she's moving unseen."
"That's a risk."
"It's an opportunity."
Damian's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it never reached his eyes. "A woman like her doesn't walk into my house without giving me something in return. Let her play her game. We'll see how far she's willing to go."
Maxwell gave a slow nod, though his posture remained tense. "You believe she's after you personally?"
Damian's eyes returned to the photograph. "Everyone is, one way or another."
He gathered the files into a neat stack, dismissing them with the precision of a man who never wasted movement.
"Have her watched," he added. "Discreetly. No contact. I want to know who she speaks to, where she sleeps, what keeps her awake at night."
Maxwell's mouth tightened, but he nodded. "Understood."
Damian rose from his chair, moving to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled below, glittering and endless, a maze of secrets and lies. His reflection stared back at him, sharp and controlled, and in the faint overlay, the woman's face from the photograph.
Elena Sinclair. Ava Sinclair. Whatever name she chose to hide beneath.
She thought she was hunting him.
But she had walked into his cage, and he had no intention of letting her leave until he had stripped her of every secret.
"Find her," Damian said quietly, almost to himself. "And keep her close."
Maxwell gave a final nod and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Damian remained at the window, watching the pulse of the city. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his thoughts were already moving like shadows, measuring, calculating, waiting.
Some doors were not meant to be opened. But if this woman insisted on trying, then she would learn the truth the hard way.
And Damian Cross intended to be the one to teach her.