Amara did not sleep that night.
She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, the city's distant noise humming softly through the open window. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again.
Adrian Voss.
The way he had looked at her.
The way his voice had sounded when he said her name.
The way his gaze had lingered, not with desire… but with interest.
It irritated her more than it should have.
She rolled onto her side, reaching for her phone. The screen lit up with the secure folder she had created years ago — files upon files about the Voss family.
Articles. Interviews. Court documents. Financial records.
She scrolled until she found his profile.
Adrian Lucien Voss.
Age: 30.
Education: Harvard Business School.
Reputation: Brilliant, private, emotionally distant.
Scandals: None.
None.
That alone was suspicious.
Men with power always had skeletons. Always.
She tapped on another file: internal corporate reports leaked by a former employee.
Her eyes narrowed.
Adrian had quietly reversed several of the aggressive policies his father had enforced.
He had settled lawsuits instead of dragging them out.
He had reopened negotiations with small companies Voss International had previously crushed.
He had even started a healthcare foundation under a different name.
Why?
Her chest tightened with something that felt uncomfortably like confusion.
This was not the enemy she had prepared for.
The Next Morning
Amara arrived at the café early, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. She worked freelance as a financial analyst under her false identity, a job that allowed her flexibility and access to elite networks.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated only a second before answering.
"Hello?"
A pause.
Then: "You left without saying goodbye last night."
Her breath caught despite her best efforts.
Adrian.
She straightened immediately, face carefully composed even though he couldn't see her.
"I didn't realize I owed you one," she replied coolly.
A low exhale on the other end. Almost a laugh.
"You don't," he admitted. "But I found myself… curious."
Curious.
That word again.
"About what?" she asked.
"About you."
Danger.
Her pulse quickened, but her voice stayed smooth. "I'm not particularly interesting, Mr. Voss."
"I disagree."
She glanced around the café instinctively, as if he might be watching her.
"How did you get my number?" she asked.
"I have resources."
Of course he did.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"Are you always this direct?" she asked.
"Only when I don't want to waste time."
Her fingers curled around her coffee cup.
"And what is it you want?" she asked.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"To understand why someone like you walks into a room like that… looking like you're carrying a war inside your chest."
Her breath stilled.
For a second, she forgot how to lie.
Then she recovered. "You're projecting."
"Perhaps."
His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it now. Something quieter. More personal.
"Have dinner with me tonight," he said.
It wasn't a demand.
It wasn't a command.
It was an invitation.
And that was somehow more dangerous.
Amara's instinct screamed at her to refuse. This was not part of the plan. This was too soon. Too close.
But another voice whispered inside her.
This is what you wanted. Access. Proximity. Trust.
She swallowed.
"Fine," she said. "One dinner."
"Good."
He named the restaurant. Private. Exclusive. Predictable.
"I'll send a car," he added.
"No," she said quickly. "I'll meet you there."
Another brief pause.
Then, quietly: "Of course."
The call ended.
Amara stared at her phone long after the screen went dark.
This was working.
She was getting close.
So why did it feel like she was the one being pulled in?
That Evening
The restaurant was dimly lit, intimate, the kind of place where secrets felt safer spoken aloud.
Amara arrived first.
Adrian arrived precisely on time.
He didn't apologize for being late.
He didn't offer flashy compliments.
He simply sat across from her, eyes steady.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
"Yes." His gaze lingered. "You seem like the type who keeps her word."
She forced a faint smile. "And you seem like the type who studies people too closely."
"Occupational hazard."
"CEO?"
"Human being," he corrected quietly.
That startled her more than she expected.
They ordered.
The conversation flowed easier than she had planned for. They spoke about books. About travel. About silence. About ambition.
He didn't dominate the conversation.
He listened.
Really listened.
It made things… complicated.
At one point, he studied her over the rim of his glass.
"You've changed your name," he said calmly.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
But she kept her expression neutral. "Excuse me?"
"Mira Laurent," he repeated. "It doesn't feel like the name you were born with."
The air shifted.
She held his gaze, pulse steady despite the alarm ringing inside her.
"And what does my real name feel like to you?" she asked softly.
He watched her for a long moment.
Then, quietly: "Like something you've buried for survival."
Too close.
Far too close.
She stood slowly, gathering her bag. "I think that's enough psychoanalysis for one evening."
Adrian didn't stop her.
But his eyes followed her as she walked away.
And neither of them noticed the woman seated near the bar, watching everything with narrowed eyes.
Lydia Arkwright.