The safehouse fire was already yesterday's news. By morning, the headlines were full of speculation: a warehouse blaze in the Bronx, suspected arson, no survivors reported. The world had no idea that Damian Cross—once declared dead in a plane crash—was alive, moving silently beneath the surface.
And that's exactly how he wanted it.
From the window of a sleek, nondescript hotel suite, Ava watched the city pulse beneath her. New York was endless—neon lights, honking taxis, endless crowds weaving through the streets. Yet somewhere below, the same men who had stormed the safehouse were hunting them.
Behind her, Damian stood with a phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, clipped, sharp—the tone of a man accustomed to giving orders that were followed without question.
"Cross-check every transfer in the last forty-eight hours," he said. "If money moved, I want to know who signed it. No excuses."
He hung up and turned, his expression carved from stone.
"They had our location within hours," he said. "Which means someone with direct access leaked it."
Ava crossed her arms, her pulse quickening. "Someone you trust."
His jaw tightened. "Someone I trusted. Past tense."
The distinction sent a chill through her. Damian didn't forgive betrayal. Whoever the traitor was, their days were numbered.
He crossed to the desk, pulling up encrypted files on his laptop. Rows of names, photographs, and financial records glowed across the screen. Ava leaned in, recognizing some of the faces—powerful men and women from boardrooms, political circles, people who had toasted Damian at galas and smiled at his charity events.
"They all work for you?" she asked.
"They all work for something," he replied. "The question is, who's secretly working against me?"
Ava hesitated before asking, "How do you even know where to start?"
Damian tapped one of the files—a man in his late forties, sharp suit, the smug smile of someone used to winning.
"Adrian Voss. My CFO. He's had access to every offshore account, every contingency plan. He could've funneled information to the Syndicate without anyone noticing."
Her stomach twisted. "If you suspect him, why keep him close?"
"Because suspicion isn't proof. If I move too soon, I tip my hand. And the Syndicate thrives on fear. They'll use the uncertainty to pull others to their side."
Ava studied him for a long moment. The way he spoke—cold, methodical—it was easy to forget he was the same man who had kissed her in the forest just hours ago.
"You don't trust easily," she said softly.
Damian's eyes flicked to hers, sharp and unreadable. "Trust gets people killed."
She wanted to argue, to tell him trust was also the only thing keeping them together. But before she could, the laptop chimed—an incoming message on his encrypted channel. Damian leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned it.
"It's from Rourke," he said. "He's tracked a series of wire transfers. Shell companies moving money through fake accounts. And the authorization codes…" He paused, his voice tightening. "…came from my office."
Ava's breath caught. "So it is someone inside."
Damian closed the laptop with a snap. His face was calm, but his hands betrayed him—the faint clench of his fists, the coiled restraint of a man on the edge.
"They want me paranoid," he said. "And it's working."
Ava stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "Paranoia isn't weakness, Damian. It means you're still ahead of them."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—not the ruthless strategist, not the billionaire in control, but the man beneath it all. The man who had let her in, if only for a moment.
He reached out, brushing her hand with his. "You shouldn't be here, Ava. The deeper this goes, the more dangerous it becomes."
She held his gaze, refusing to let him push her away again. "Then stop trying to shut me out. I'm already in it, whether you want me or not. And if there's a traitor in your empire, you're going to need someone who sees what you don't."
His lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. "And you think that's you?"
"I know it's me," she shot back, surprising herself with her own boldness.
Silence stretched between them, charged and heavy. Then Damian's phone buzzed again, vibrating across the desk. He glanced at the screen, his face darkening.
"It's Voss," he said. "He wants to meet. Tonight."
Ava's pulse jumped. "That's too convenient."
"Exactly." Damian's voice was steel. "If he's innocent, this is a chance to clear him. If he's guilty…" His eyes glinted with something dangerous. "…then he'll lead me straight to the Syndicate."
Ava's chest tightened. "And if it's a trap?"
Damian reached for his gun, sliding it into the holster at his side. His movements were fluid, practiced, like second nature. He straightened, radiating control, danger, and something else—resolve.
"Then the game changes," he said. "And I stop playing defense."
Ava swallowed, her heart pounding. She knew what that mean
t. Tonight, someone was going to bleed.
And she prayed it wouldn't be Damian.