Three Weeks Earlier
The fluorescent lights of St. Mary's Hospital flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows across the worn linoleum floor. Aria Chen sat in the waiting room, her leg bouncing with nervous energy as she watched the second hand on the wall clock tick forward with agonizing slowness.
4:47 PM.
Dr. Morrison was thirteen minutes late.
She told herself that was normal. Doctors ran behind schedule all the time. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean the test results were bad.
It didn't mean her mother was dying.
Stop it, she commanded herself, digging her nails into her palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. Don't think like that.
But she couldn't help it. She'd seen her mother's face growing paler over the past six months, watched her vibrant, unstoppable force of nature reduced to a frail woman who could barely climb a flight of stairs without stopping to catch her breath. The cough that wouldn't go away. The weight loss. The way her hands trembled when she thought Aria wasn't looking.
Something was very, very wrong.
Aria's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, seeing a notification from one of her underground art buyers: When can we expect the next piece? Collectors are asking. - M.R.
She dismissed it without responding. Her various identities: the artist, the hacker, the medical consultant all seemed impossibly distant right now. None of those skills, none of that brilliance, could help her mother.
And that helplessness was eating her alive.
"Miss Chen?"
Aria's head snapped up. Dr. Morrison stood in the doorway a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and the sort of gentle expression that made Aria's stomach drop like a stone.
That was the face doctors wore when they had to deliver bad news.
"Please, come in." Dr. Morrison gestured toward her office.
Aria's legs felt like lead as she stood and followed. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, each step taking her closer to words she didn't want to hear. The office was small and cluttered with medical journals, framed diplomas on the wall, a dying fern on the windowsill that somehow felt prophetic.
"Sit down, please." Dr. Morrison settled behind her desk, and Aria noticed she didn't immediately reach for the folder of test results. Another bad sign.
Doctors who had good news didn't need time to gather themselves.
"How is she?" Aria asked, her voice coming out smaller than she'd intended. "My mother. The tests, what did they show?"
Dr. Morrison's expression softened with sympathy, and Aria felt something crack inside her chest.
"I'm afraid the results aren't what we hoped for," the doctor said gently. "Your mother has what we call Wasting Syndrome a rare degenerative condition that affects multiple organ systems simultaneously."
The words didn't make sense at first. They seemed to float in the air between them, refusing to land, refusing to become real.
"Wasting Syndrome," Aria repeated numbly. "I've never heard of it."
"Most people haven't. It's extremely rare we see perhaps a dozen cases worldwide each year." Dr. Morrison pulled up images on her computer screen, showing deteriorating tissue samples that made Aria's medical knowledge kick in despite her emotional turmoil. "The condition causes the body to essentially attack itself, breaking down muscle tissue, weakening the cardiovascular system, compromising immune function."
Aria stared at the images, her brilliant mind already processing the implications. Already understanding what the doctor was about to say.
"Without treatment, patients typically have six to eight months."
Six to eight months.
Half a year.
Less than a year.
Her mother the woman who had raised her alone after her father died, who had worked three jobs to put Aria through school, who had sacrificed everything so her daughter could have opportunities she'd never had, was going to die in less than a year.
"What's the treatment?" Aria heard herself ask. Her voice sounded strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Surgery? Chemotherapy? There has to be something"
"Traditional treatments are largely ineffective," Dr. Morrison said, and there was genuine regret in her tone. "We can manage symptoms, make her comfortable, but we can't stop the progression. The disease is too aggressive, affects too many systems simultaneously."
Comfortable. That was code for palliative care. For giving up.
"No." The word came out sharp, almost angry. "No, there has to be something. This is the twenty-first century. We have treatments for everything. Gene therapy, experimental drugs, clinical trials"
"I understand this is difficult to accept"
"You don't understand anything." Aria was on her feet now, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "That's my mother. The only family I have. There has to be something we can do. Someone who specializes in this. A different hospital, a different country I'll pay whatever it costs, I'll"
She stopped abruptly, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. Pay whatever it costs? With what money? She was a twenty-four-year-old with multiple income streams from her various identities, sure, but barely thirty thousand in savings total. The medical bills from these tests alone would wipe out a significant chunk of that.
"There is one thing," Dr. Morrison said quietly.
Aria's head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. "What? What is it?"
"It's not... officially sanctioned. And the chances of accessing it are virtually nonexistent." The doctor hesitated, as if weighing whether she should continue. "There's a medicinal plant called Vitalis Radix. Ancient Chinese texts refer to it as the 'Root of Life.' A handful of studies from the 1970s suggest it might have properties that could slow or even reverse the progression of Wasting Syndrome."
Aria's mind was already racing, filing through everything she knew about rare medicinal plants. "Then why isn't it being used? Why aren't we giving it to her right now?"
"Because it's nearly extinct. The plant requires very specific growing conditions, particular soil composition, precise temperature ranges, exact humidity levels. It can't be synthesized in a lab, and every attempt to cultivate it outside its natural habitat has failed." Dr. Morrison pulled up an article on her computer. "As far as I know, there are only three or four places in the world where it's successfully cultivated, and none of them make it available for medical use."
"Where?" Aria leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. "Where is it grown?"
"Aria.."
"Where?"
Dr. Morrison sighed, recognizing the determination in her patient's daughter. She'd probably seen it before the desperation of people who refused to accept the inevitable.
"The largest known cultivation is on the Blackwood Estate, about twenty miles outside the city. They're a very wealthy, very private family. The patriarch, Charles Blackwood, started growing it decades ago as part of a botanical collection hobby of the extremely rich, that sort of thing. But they don't sell it. Don't donate it. Don't make it available for research. It's purely for their own..." She gestured vaguely. "Whatever purposes."
Blackwood.
The name echoed in Aria's mind like a bell. She knew that name. Everyone in the city knew that name.
The Blackwood family was old money the kind of wealth that transcended normal understanding. Real estate, technology, pharmaceuticals, shipping they had fingers in every pie, and their influence extended into political circles at the highest levels. Charles Blackwood had built an empire, and his grandson, Damien, was continuing and expanding the legacy.
Damien Blackwood.
Aria had seen his face in business magazines, on the news, in those tabloid articles about the city's most eligible bachelors. Impossibly handsome, ruthlessly intelligent, and notoriously private. He'd taken over as CEO of Blackwood Enterprises three years ago at age twenty-eight and had somehow managed to double the company's value while maintaining an iron grip on his personal life.
No scandals. No public relationships. No apparent weaknesses.
The Blackwood Estate was legendary a sprawling compound on the outskirts of the city, protected by state-of-the-art security and an army of staff. Getting an audience with Damien Blackwood would be nearly impossible for someone like her.
But getting into the estate...
An idea began forming in Aria's mind. Dangerous. Reckless. Probably illegal.
But…possible.
"Thank you, Dr. Morrison," Aria said suddenly, her decision made. "For everything. I'd like copies of all my mother's test results, please. And any research you have on Vitalis Radix."
The doctor looked at her with concern. "Aria, whatever you're thinking"
"I'm thinking I'm not going to let my mother die without trying everything." She met the doctor's gaze steadily. "Even the impossible things."
"The Blackwood family doesn't just give that plant away. They're... protective of their collection. Security is extreme. And even if you could somehow get access, harvesting it incorrectly could kill the specimen. It's not as simple as"
"I understand." Aria's mind was already working through logistics, possibilities, risks. "But I have to try."
Dr. Morrison studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll have my assistant prepare copies of everything. But Aria be careful. People have tried to steal from the Blackwood Estate before. It never ends well."
I'm not like other people, Aria thought but didn't say.
She'd spent her entire life being underestimated, the poor girl who somehow got a full scholarship to medical school, the quiet student who turned out to be a genius, the unassuming woman who could hack government databases or forge documents that would pass any inspection.
She'd been with many people, worn many masks, and survived impossible situations.
This would just be one more.
Two hours later, Aria sat in her mother's hospital room, watching the woman sleep. Mei Chen looked so small in the bed, her once-vibrant face pale against the white pillows. Her black hair, now streaked with more silver than Aria remembered, was pulled back in a loose braid.
She looked fragile. Breakable.
When did that happen? When had her indomitable mother become this frail creature?
"You're staring again, baby girl."
Aria started. Her mother's eyes were open, dark and still sharp despite the illness ravaging her body.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Mmm." Mei's lips quivered with a small smile. "And what are you observing?"
That you're dying. That I'm losing you. That I can't imagine a world without you in it.
"That you need to eat more," Aria said instead, forcing lightness into her tone. "You're getting too thin. I'm going to bring you real food tomorrow, not this hospital garbage."
"The food here isn't so bad."
"Mother, yesterday you told me the soup tasted like dishwater mixed with regret."
Mei laughed, then coughed a wet, rattling sound that made Aria's chest tighten. When the fit passed, she reached for the cup of water on her bedside table with trembling hands.
Aria was there instantly, holding the cup to her mother's lips.
"I can do it myself," Mei protested weakly.
"I know you can. Humor me."
After she'd drunk her fill, Mei settled back against the pillows with a sigh. Her eyes were still so sharp, still so knowingly studying her daughter's face.
"The doctor told you."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Aria said softly.
"And?"
"And we're going to fight it. There are treatments, clinical trials, experimental therapies"
"Aria." Her mother's hand found hers, squeezing with surprising strength. "Don't lie to me. I've been dying for months. I knew before the doctors did. I can feel it."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true." Mei's expression was calm, accepting in a way that made Aria want to scream. "We all die eventually, baby girl. Some of us just get less time than others."
"No." Aria pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. "No, you don't get to give up. You don't get to just accept this. We're going to find a treatment. We're going to fix this."
"Aria.."
"I mean it, Mother. I'm not letting you go without a fight."
Mei was quiet for a long moment, studying her daughter with an expression Aria couldn't quite read. Pride? Worry? Sadness?
"You're so much like your father," she finally said.
Aria froze. Her mother almost never talked about her father. The man who'd died when Aria was three so young she had no memories of him, only stories her mother rarely shared.
"What do you mean?"
"Stubborn. Brilliant. Convinced you can solve any problem if you just work hard enough, think long enough, and refuse to give up." Mei smiled sadly. "He was like that too. It's what got him killed, in the end."
"What do you mean?" Aria moved closer to the bed. "You never talk about how he died."
"Because it hurts. Because I watched him destroy himself trying to save someone who couldn't be saved." Mei's eyes were distant, lost in memory. "His sister was dying. Cancer. He was convinced he could find a cure if he just worked harder, tried more things. He pushed himself until there was nothing left. Until his body gave out from exhaustion and stress."
The words hit Aria like a physical blow. She'd never known this about her father. Had never known he'd died trying to save someone.
Just like she was about to risk everything to save her mother.
"Promise me something, Aria." Mei's hand reached for hers again. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless. Don't throw your life away trying to save mine. Don't become so obsessed with fighting death that you forget to live."
Aria couldn't make that promise. Wouldn't make it.
Instead, she leaned down and kissed her mother's forehead. "Get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow."
"Aria"
"I love you, Mother. More than anything in this world."
She left before her mother could extract any promises she had no intention of keeping.
Aria's apartment was a small studio in the cheaper part of town where sirens were a nightly lullaby and the neighbors' arguments bled through thin walls. But it was hers, and more importantly, it housed everything she needed for her various identities.
Three computer monitors sat on a desk cobbled together from IKEA parts and stolen milk crates. Medical textbooks lined shelves alongside art supplies and advanced mathematics journals. In the corner, several canvases leaned against the wall, her paintings, done under the pseudonym "A. Ren." Wealthy collectors paid thousands for her work without ever knowing the artist was a twenty-four-year-old woman who lived in a studio apartment and sometimes survived on ramen.
She had many faces, many identities. It had always been a survival mechanism being the smart girl who could hack systems, the artist who could forge documents, the medical prodigy who'd finished her degree at twenty. Multiple skill sets meant multiple income streams, and after growing up poor, watching her mother work herself to exhaustion, Aria had vowed never to be helpless.
Never to be at the mercy of circumstances she couldn't control.
Now, all those skills were going to serve one purpose: infiltration.
She pulled up everything she could find on the Blackwood Estate. Property records, tax documents, utility bills, satellite images. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling data from sources that weren't exactly legal but were definitely useful.
The estate was massive over two hundred acres, with the main house alone spanning thirty thousand square feet. Gardens, greenhouses, a private lake, staff quarters, guest houses. Security was top-of-the-line: cameras, motion sensors, biometric locks on sensitive areas, regular patrols by armed guards.
This wasn't just a home. It was a fortress.
And somewhere in that fortress was a greenhouse containing Vitalis Radix.
"Okay," she muttered to herself, opening a new window. "Employment records."
It took her ninety minutes to hack into the estate's private HR system longer than usual, which meant someone had paid good money for their digital security. The firewalls were sophisticated, layered, designed to keep out exactly the kind of person Aria was.
But not sophisticated enough.
She scrolled through employee records, looking for patterns. Turnover rates, typical positions, background check requirements. The Blackwoods employed over fifty people: housekeepers, groundskeepers, chefs, security personnel, personal assistants, drivers.
There.
A housekeeper position had recently opened up someone named Margaret Sullivan had retired after twenty years of service. They'd be looking for a replacement soon, and given the timing, they'd probably want someone who could start immediately.
Aria opened another window and began constructing her new identity.
Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-two years old. Impeccable references from wealthy families in other cities families she'd researched enough to fake correspondence from. Experience in high-end household management. Spotless background check.
It took her the rest of the night, but by sunrise, Sarah Mitchell existed in every database that mattered. School records going back to high school. Previous employment with verifiable references (people she'd carefully prepared to vouch for this fictional person). Social media presence dating back three years carefully curated posts about coffee and sunsets and inspirational quotes that said absolutely nothing about who "Sarah" really was.
It was one of her better identities. Clean. Believable. Completely untraceable back to Aria Chen.
"Sorry, Damien Blackwood," she murmured, looking at a photo of him on her screen.
Even in a still image, he was striking. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. Intense gray eyes that seemed to see through the camera lens. Dark hair swept back from a face that looked like it had been carved by someone who understood exactly how devastating male beauty could be. He wore power like other men wore cologne naturally, effortlessly, with an edge of danger that probably made smart women run the other direction.
Aria had never been particularly smart when it came to self-preservation.
"You're about to hire a very dedicated new maid," she said to his image. "One with enough skills to rob you blind if she wanted to. But don't worry, I only want one thing. One plant. And then I'll disappear like I was never there."
She didn't let herself think about the ethics of it. Didn't let herself worry about what would happen if she was caught. This was about survival her mother's survival and Aria would do whatever it took.
Even if it meant lying to one of the most powerful men in the country.
Even if it meant infiltrating his home under false pretenses.
Even if it meant stealing something irreplaceable.
Her phone buzzed with a text from the hospital: Your mother is asking for you.
Aria grabbed her jacket and headed for the door, but not before glancing back at Damien Blackwood's photo on her screen.
Those eyes seemed to follow her, seemed to see through every lie she was constructing.
I'll get that plant, she promised silently. No matter what it takes. No matter who I have to deceive.
She had no way of knowing then that "whatever it takes" would cost her far more than she could have imagined.
That the man whose home she planned to infiltrate would become her addiction, her obsession, her undoing.
That she would give him her body, her innocence, parts of herself she didn't know existed and that losing him would hurt worse than anything she'd ever experienced.
But that revelation was still three weeks away.
For now, she was just a desperate daughter with a mission and a
plan.
Nothing nothing was going to stop her.
Not even the dangerous, beautiful man who was already watching her in ways she couldn't yet imagine.