The room was bathed in the blue glow of monitors.
Bastian sat in a chair, his eyes glued to the screen. He had watched the footage twenty times in the last hour.
On the grainy black-and-white screen, he saw the woman in the trench coat.
He saw her storm in. He saw her grab Sacha.
And he saw the moment in the hallway—the moment he grabbed her wrist.
He hit Pause.
He zoomed in.
The image was blurry. The baseball cap and sunglasses obscured her face completely. All he could see was the line of her jaw and a few strands of black hair escaping the cap.
"It's useless, Sir," Ken said gently, standing behind him. "The resolution is too low. It could be anyone."
Bastian didn't answer. He stared at the pixelated image of her hand trembling.
I know that tremble, Bastian thought. I caused that tremble for three years.
"Who is she?" Bastian demanded, spinning his chair around. "Did you run the background check on Agent Eve?"
Ken nodded, looking nervous. He pulled up a file on his tablet.
"That's the strange part, Sir. She's a ghost."
Ken swiped the screen to show the profile.
Name: Eve.
Surname: Unknown.
Nationality: French (Presumed).
Public Appearances: 0.
"She appeared in the industry exactly five years ago," Ken explained. "Right around the time… well, around the time Mrs. St. Yves passed away. She built her reputation managing small indie talents in Europe, but she never attends award shows. She never gives video interviews. She conducts all business via email or through proxies."
Bastian's eyes narrowed.
"A top-tier manager who refuses to show her face?"
"Rumor has it she was involved in a bad accident and has facial scarring," Ken added. "That's why she wears the masks."
Scarring.
Bastian looked back at the screen. Or maybe she was hiding a face that the world—and her husband—thought was dead.
The hope in his chest was agonizing. It was irrational. It was crazy. But he couldn't kill it.
"Where is she now?" Bastian asked.
"She's at the Grand Imperial Hotel," Ken said. "But… Sir, the concierge called. They just requested a checkout. They're leaving for the airport in twenty minutes."
Bastian stood up. The chair flew back and hit the wall.
"She's running," Bastian growled. "Innocent people don't run."
"Sir, you can't stop her," Ken warned. "She's a foreign national. Unless she committed a crime, the police won't—"
"She did commit a crime," Bastian said, a dark, ruthless plan forming in his mind.
He pointed at the screen where Sacha was sneaking under the receptionist's desk.
"The kid trespassed. He entered a restricted area without a pass. He disrupted a corporate proceeding."
Ken's jaw dropped. "Sir… he's five. You want to arrest a five-year-old?"
"No," Bastian straightened his tie, his expression turning into the cold mask of the Tyrant Director. "I want to sue his manager. Prepare the legal team. We're going to the Grand Imperial."
Scene: The Grand Imperial Hotel.
"Sacha, put the robot in the bag! We don't have time to organize by color!"
Anaïs was frantic. Her suitcase was open on the bed, half-packed. She was throwing clothes in with zero regard for wrinkles.
Sacha sat on the edge of the bed, looking miserable.
"But I haven't even tried the croissants yet," he mumbled. "And we didn't get the check."
"We don't need the check," Anaïs snapped, zipping the bag shut. "We need to leave before your father figures out who we are."
"Why would he figure it out?" Sacha asked, tilting his head. "I told him my name is Sacha. I didn't say Sacha St. Yves."
Anaïs stopped. She looked at her son. He had no idea. He thought this was just a game. He didn't know that Bastian was the one person who could take him away from her.
"Sacha," she said, kneeling down and grabbing his shoulders. "Listen to me. That man is powerful. If he decides he wants you, he will take you. And he won't let Mommy see you anymore."
Sacha's blue eyes went wide. "He would steal me?"
"Yes."
Sacha's face hardened. He jumped off the bed and grabbed his backpack.
"Okay. Let's go. I don't want to be stolen. I'll kick his shins if he tries."
They rushed out of the room. Anaïs was wearing her disguise again—hat, glasses, mask. She kept her head down as they hurried to the elevator.
Ding.
Lobby level.
They stepped out. Anaïs gripped Sacha's hand tight.
"Just walk to the door," she whispered. "Don't look at anyone."
They made it ten steps.
They made it past the fountain.
They were five feet from the revolving doors. Freedom was right there.
"Ms. Eve."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was calm, polite, and terrifying.
Two men in black suits stepped in front of the revolving doors, blocking the exit.
Anaïs froze. She spun around.
Walking across the lobby, flanking the path like sharks, were three lawyers carrying briefcases. And behind them, walking with his hands in his pockets, was Bastian St. Yves.
He didn't look crazy like he did in the hallway earlier. He looked composed. He looked like the CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire.
"Going somewhere?" Bastian asked, stopping a few feet away.
Anaïs pulled Sacha behind her legs. She pitched her voice low, hiding her panic.
"Get out of my way," she said. "Or I call the police."
"Go ahead," Bastian said calmly. "They are already on their way. I called them."
Anaïs's heart stopped. "What?"
Bastian signaled to one of the lawyers. The man stepped forward and handed Anaïs a document.
"Ms. Eve," the lawyer said. "This is a formal notice of a lawsuit filed by St. Yves Studios against you and your client, the minor known as Sacha."
"Lawsuit?" Anaïs laughed nervously. "For what? Eating a lollipop?"
"Trespassing," Bastian cut in. His grey eyes bored into her sunglasses. "Corporate espionage. Disruption of business operations. And destruction of private property—specifically, my shoes."
Sacha peeked out from behind Anaïs's leg. "It was an accident! Your feet are too big!"
"Silence, Sacha," Anaïs hissed. She looked at Bastian. "This is ridiculous. You're suing a child?"
"I'm suing his guardian," Bastian corrected. "For negligence and damages. The security footage clearly shows the boy entering a restricted zone. In this country, that carries a heavy fine. And given the espionage angle… a mandatory court appearance."
Court appearance.
The words hit Anaïs like a physical blow.
If she went to court, she would have to show ID. She would have to stand before a judge. She would have to take off the mask.
Bastian knew it. She could see it in the slight, cruel curl of his lip. He was trapping her. He didn't care about the trespassing. He wanted to force her into the light.
"You're bluffing," Anaïs said, though her voice wavered.
"Try me," Bastian said softly. "Walk out that door, and the police pick you up at the airport. You'll be detained until the hearing. Sacha will be placed in Child Protective Services until you are processed."
"NO!" Sacha shouted, grabbing Anaïs's leg tight. "You can't take me!"
Anaïs felt the blood drain from her face. Child Protective Services. He would separate them.
She looked at Bastian. He was winning. He held all the cards.
"What do you want?" she whispered, defeat heavy in her voice.
Bastian took a step closer. He lowered his voice so only she could hear.
"I want the truth," he said. "But since you won't give me that… I'll settle for the talent."
He pulled a second document from his jacket pocket. It wasn't a lawsuit. It was a contract.
"Sign the boy to St. Yves Studios," Bastian said. "Exclusive representation for three years. He stars in The Silent Grave. You stay in the city as his manager."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I see you in court, Ms. Eve," Bastian said cold-heartedly. "And I promise you, by the time my lawyers are done, the mask will come off."
Anaïs stared at the contract.
If she signed, she was walking back into the lion's den. She would have to see him every day. She would have to lie every day.
But if she signed, she kept Sacha. She kept her secret identity for a little longer.
She looked down at Sacha. He looked terrified.
She looked up at Bastian. He looked triumphant.
Anaïs knew it was a bluff.
No court would seriously detain a child over a studio trespass. No judge would separate a five-year-old from his mother over a scratched shoe.
But Bastian St. Yves didn't need the law to win.
He only needed time—and he had enough money to bury her in delays while the system sorted things out.
She couldn't afford even one night of that risk.
"Fine," she spat out. "Give me the pen."
Bastian's eyes flashed with victory. He handed her a fountain pen—the same heavy, expensive kind he used to sign their divorce papers five years ago.
Anaïs took it. Her hand trembled—that same telltale tremble.
She signed the name EVE in jagged, angry strokes.
"Satisfied?" she asked, shoving the contract back at his chest.
Bastian took the paper. He looked at the signature. Then he looked at her masked face.
"For now," Bastian said. "Welcome to the team, Agent Eve. I expect Sacha on set tomorrow at 8 AM. Don't be late."
He turned and walked away, his lawyers following him like a pack of wolves.
Anaïs stood in the lobby, clutching Sacha's hand. She felt like she had just signed a deal with the devil.
"Mommy?" Sacha whispered. "Did we lose the boss battle?"
Anaïs watched Bastian's retreating back. She narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses.
"No, Sacha," she whispered. "We just entered Level Two."
Later that night: St. Yves Penthouse.
Bastian sat alone in his study.
The only light came from the city skyline outside the massive windows. He held the signed contract in his hand, staring at the bottom of the page.
EVE.
The letters were sharp, angular, and aggressive. The V looked like a dagger.
He opened the desk drawer where he kept his most painful possessions. He pulled out the water-damaged anniversary card from five years ago.
I loved you, Bastian.
He placed the two signatures side by side.
Anaïs's handwriting was round, soft, and elegant. It was the handwriting of a gentle woman who loved poetry.
Eve's handwriting was the scratch of a predator.
Bastian let out a long, bitter breath.
"I'm losing my mind," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Of course it's not her."
For a moment in the hallway, when he smelled the rain and vanilla, he had let himself believe. He had hoped that the universe was kind enough to give her back to him.
But the universe wasn't kind. The universe was cold.
This Eve woman was just a ruthless manager from France. She trembled because she was angry, not because she loved him.
"She's dead, Bastian," he whispered to the empty room. "Stop looking for ghosts."
He shoved the contract into a file folder and slammed the drawer shut.
He would keep the boy because the boy was a genius.
He would tolerate the manager because she came with the boy.
But he would not look at her again. He would not let himself hope.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the rain falling on the city.