***
The digital clock on the obsidian desk flicked to 5:00 PM with a sharp, mechanical click.
Delilah didn't linger. She closed the weathered brown folder with a finality that echoed in the silent office. Rising from her seat, she reached for her blazer, the silk lining sliding over her shoulders like a second skin. She adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of her nose, her reflection in the glass window now a silhouette of sharp angles and hidden intent.
She stepped out of her office, her heels striking the marble floor with a rhythmic, predatory pace. Janessa Jones was already standing, tablet in hand, the perfect image of a devoted executive assistant.
Delilah stopped briefly at the edge of Janessa's desk. Her voice was a cool, steady alto that brooked no argument.
"Represent me at the charity gala tonight. I want a full report on my desk by tomorrow morning."
Before Janessa could even offer a formal "Yes, Miss Highmore," Delilah was already moving toward the private elevator. She didn't look back; she had no interest in the high-society vultures tonight.
As the elevator doors slid shut, the professional mask on Janessa's face didn't slip, but her movements became more fluid less like a secretary, and more like a soldier.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a secondary, encrypted device.
Her thumbs flew across the screen, sending a brief, coded burst of data to a secure server.
Subject: Lia
Status: Departed DI
Destination: Unknown.
Commencing shadow protocol.
Janessa tucked the phone away and looked toward the elevator.
**
Delilah's heels echoed through the cavernous concrete of the parking basement, a sharp contrast to the low, steady thrum of the building's ventilation. She bypassed the rows of luxury German sedans, heading toward the shadows of the corner bay.
Standing beside the heavy, armored black SUV was a man who looked like he had been carved out of weathered oak. Feng Muran stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his spine as straight as a bayonet.
Though his hair was salted with grey and lines of fifty years were etched into his face, his posture held a rigid authority that the baggy driver's uniform couldn't hide.
"Uncle Feng," Delilah greeted. The icy mask she wore for the boardroom didn't melt, but it softened, the corners of her lips tilting upward in a rare, genuine spark of warmth.
Feng didn't just open the door; he scanned the perimeter of the garage with a single, sweeping glance a habit of a man who had spent his youth in war zones rather than city streets. He bowed his head slightly, his movements precise.
"Young Miss. You're early," he noted. His voice was like gravel over silk rough, but deeply disciplined.
Delilah climbed into the leather interior, but her eyes lingered on him as he moved to the driver's side. She remembered asking him, years ago, why he lived such a solitary life. He had simply told her that he had let go of the woman he loved to honor a different kind of vow.
He was more than a driver. A former high-ranking Special Forces officer, Feng Muran had traded his medals for the Highmore-McGuire livery after a mysterious accident ended his military career. To the world, he was a chauffeur. To Delilah, he was a silent fortress.
He slid behind the wheel, his large, scarred hands gripping the steering wheel with the familiarity of a soldier holding a rifle. He checked the rearview mirror, his grey eyes locking onto hers for a split second.
A soft, rhythmic rap against the tinted rear window broke the silence of the basement. Delilah pressed the control, and the glass slid down with a silent hiss.
Out of the gloom of the parking pillars, a figure stepped forward. Vesper was dressed in matte black, blending so perfectly into the darkness that they seemed to be made of it.
Without a word, she handed Delilah a slim, metallic flash drive. With a subtle tilt of the head, the operative signaled toward the back of the garage, where another shadow lingered near a secondary vehicle. They were the invisible wall between Delilah and the world.
"No need for that," Delilah said, her voice echoing slightly in the concrete space. She glanced at the back of Feng's head in the driver's seat. "Uncle Feng can protect me. Just continue monitoring Detective Park."
After receiving the guards' initial report about the basement phone call, Delilah had immediately pivoted. She wasn't just waiting for the detective to slip up; she was conducting a reverse investigation, tracing every digital footprint Park left to determine exactly who was pulling his strings.
Vesper offered a sharp, silent nod and melted back into the darkness.
"Let's go, Uncle Feng," Delilah said, sliding the window back up.
Feng Muran adjusted the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting hers. "Where to, Young Miss? To your condo, or do you want to go somewhere else?"
Delilah leaned her head against the headrest, the cool leather a brief comfort against the tension of the day. "Home, Uncle."
Feng didn't need further clarification. He nodded and turned the ignition. The engine purred to life—a low, powerful hum that vibrated through the floorboards.
Her home wasn't the glass-walled penthouse in the city center that the media buzzed about. It was the estate in Molave Hills, a three-hour drive away from the neon-soaked capital of Aerthos.
It was a long journey through winding roads and rising elevations, but no matter how many luxury condos she owned, the ancestral silence of the hills was the only place where she could truly breathe.
The SUV glided out of the basement and into the evening rain, leaving the corporate world of Diadem International behind as they headed toward the mountains.
Silence engulfed the interior of the SUV for the majority of the journey. The soft, melodic hum of jazz drifted from the speakers, a stark contrast to the heavy thoughts swirling in Delilah's mind. She kept her gaze fixed on the scenery outside.
The golden hour was breathing its last, casting a fiery glow across the landscape; the leaves of the passing trees shimmered like hammered copper, and the coastal road hugged the ocean, where the waves caught the dying light.
It was a beautiful, tranquil sight until they rounded a curve and a familiar place appeared through the trees
"Stop the car, Uncle Feng!"
The tires screeched slightly as Feng Muran brought the heavy vehicle to a halt, maneuvering it to the shoulder of the road. His brow furrowed, his eyes searching the rearview mirror in confusion.
"Stay here. Don't follow me, Uncle," Delilah commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.
She stepped out into the cooling air and crossed the road. Her eyes scanned the surrounding area; the convenience store that used to stand nearby was gone, swallowed by time and neglect. Directly ahead of her stood a weathered entrance, its hanging sign almost entirely obscured by thick, tangled vines.
Veterans Lair.
The iron gate was tightly shut, bound by a heavy chain covered in thick, orange rust. A massive padlock held it all together, looking like it hadn't been touched in a decade.
Delilah didn't hesitate. She scanned the ground, found a heavy, jagged rock, and gripped it firmly.
With a series of sharp, rhythmic blows, she smashed the padlock until the internal mechanism finally snapped.
As she pulled the chain free and shoved the gates open, the hinges protested with a piercing, ear-splitting screech that echoed through the quiet hills like a dying scream.
She stepped inside the perimeter, the sound still ringing in her ears, her eyes searching the shadows of a place that time.
The air inside the perimeter was stagnant, smelling of damp earth and rotting wood. Delilah stepped over a pile of skeletal leaves, each crunch under her boot sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence.
This had once been a kingdom.
In her mind's eye, the rusted, skeletal remains of the climbing frames flickered back to life with vibrant primary colors.
She could almost hear the high-pitched echoes of her own laughter and the steady, reassuring presence of Aerin's voice.
Back when the world was small and safe, this playground had been their sanctuary. Aerin would bring her here whenever the pressure of being a Highmore became too much, letting Delilah be a child for just a few hours more.
Now, the facilities stood like tombstones. Thick, hairy vines strangled the swing sets, and waist-high weeds bowed under the weight of the evening dew. The slide, once a streak of gleaming silver, was now a jagged ribbon of dull, oxidized metal.
Delilah moved deeper into the decay, her heart hammering a slow, painful rhythm against her ribs. She stopped before the Great Oak.
The tree was a titan, its gnarled roots clawing at the earth like frozen lightning. Its bark was thick and protective, bearing the scars of decades.
Delilah reached out, her fingers trembling. She didn't just touch the wood; she searched it. Her palm skimmed over the rough ridges until her skin caught on a familiar indentation.
She traced the mark a small, shallow carving she had made years ago, right before the world fell apart. The wood had grown around it, trying to heal, but the scar remained.
As her fingertips lingered in the groove, the cold, calculated CEO of Diadem International vanished.
A single breath shuddered out of her. The smell of the hills and the touch of the tree brought back a tidal wave of grief so sharp it felt like a physical blow. She stood there, a towering woman in an expensive suit, looking like a lost child anchored to the only thing that hadn't changed.
The rough bark bit into her fingertips as she traced the lines. It was a crude, lopsided heart, the wood having stretched and warped the carving over the years. But the initials inside were still unmistakable: A and D. A bond carved in a time when forever felt like a promise rather than a burden.
The strength that had carried Delilah through boardrooms and hostile takeovers suddenly evaporated. Her knees hit the damp earth, the expensive fabric of her slacks soaking up the moisture of the neglected soil. The silence of the hills was broken only by the sound of her breath, hitching and jagged.
The dam she had built around her heart finally cracked. The cold, blue eyes that had stared down Detective Park and her own board members were now swimming in salt.
"I'm sorry, Ries..." she whispered into the hollow of the tree, using the private nickname only they knew. "I'm sorry for being such a failure as a sister."
The memory she had fought to bury surged forward like a black tide, cold and suffocating. She felt the phantom heat of the flames, the screech of metal, and the crushing weight of the guilt she carried every hour of every day. If she hadn't been so playful, if she hadn't been so weak, if she hadn't needed protecting the accident would never have happened.
Aerin had traded her life and her dreams to become a shield, and Delilah was left standing in the ruins of that sacrifice.
She bowed her head, her forehead resting against the carved 'A', her shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs.
In the shadow of the Great Oak, the powerful CEO of Diadem International was gone; there was only a girl in the dirt, drowning in the shadows of nine years ago.
To be continued ...