The East Wing of the Morton Estate didn't smell like the rest of the house. It lacked the heavy scent of scotch and old leather; instead, it smelled of nothing—a sterile, expensive vacuum designed to house a secret.
Elena sat on the edge of a bed that cost more than her father's funeral. The silk sheets were so smooth they felt oily against her skin.
She didn't unpack. She didn't look at the walk-in closet filled with designer clothes tailored exactly to her measurements. Instead, she took off her heels, feeling the vibration of the house through her bare soles.
One. Two. Three.
She counted the footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, rhythmic, slightly dragging the left heel.
Marcus.
The head of security she had just publicly gutted. He was standing outside her door, probably imagining the different ways he could make her disappear.
Elena stood up and walked to the vanity. She didn't look in the mirror to admire her face; she looked for the telltale glint of a lens. She found the first bug in the smoke detector. The second was tucked into the ornate carving of the bedframe.
She didn't disable them. That would be too loud. Instead, she pulled a small, clear sticker from the lining of her bra and pressed it over the pinhole of the camera in the vanity. It didn't black out the feed; it looped a grainy, five-second video of her brushing her hair.
"Enjoy the show, Marcus," she whispered.
She reached into the hidden compartment of her vanity kit and pulled out a handheld scanner. The device hummed, a low-frequency vibration that rattled her teeth. She swept it over her own body first.
No trackers. Not yet. Damian was arrogant enough to think his walls were cage enough.
A sharp knock at the door made her spine stiffen.
"Miss Moore. Mr. Morton expects you in the medical suite. Now."
It was Marcus. His voice sounded like it was being squeezed through a pipe full of gravel.
Elena opened the door. Marcus was closer than he should have been, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder. He was a big man, the kind who used his size as a blunt instrument.
"You think you're smart, don't you?" Marcus leaned in, the smell of cheap cigarettes and mints hitting her face. "I don't know what game you're playing, but you won't be the first pretty thing to leave this estate in a black bag."
Elena didn't pull back. She tilted her head, watching a vein throb in his temple.
"Two million dollars, Marcus," she said softly, her voice barely a breath. "That's a lot of debt to a man like Volkov. How long do you think it takes for a Syndicate to get tired of waiting? A week? A day?"
Marcus's hand twitched toward her throat, his face turning a dark, mottled red.
"Touch me," Elena challenged, her eyes narrowing into slits. "And I'll tell Damian exactly which accounts you've been skimming from to pay interest. I'm the mother of his heir now. You? You're just an expense he hasn't cut yet."
Marcus hissed an insult under his breath, but he stepped back. The fear in his eyes was better than a thank-you note.
The medical suite was at the end of a long, white corridor that felt more like a laboratory than a home.
Damian was already there, leaning against a stainless-steel table, watching a woman in a white coat prep a needle. The blue monitors from his office had been replaced by the rhythmic beep-beep of a heart rate monitor.
"You insisted on autonomy," Damian said, not looking at her as she entered. "But I insist on knowing exactly what I'm putting into my family tree."
"I've already been tested, Damian. You have the files."
"I don't trust files I didn't commission," he said, finally looking up. He looked tired, but it was the kind of tiredness that made a man more dangerous—wired and erratic. "Sit. Dr. Aris needs a baseline blood sample."
Elena sat on the exam table. The cold paper crinkled under her. As the doctor approached with the needle, Elena's hand shot out, catching the woman's wrist in a grip that made the doctor gasp.
"I use my own lab for the genetic screening," Elena said, her voice dropping an octave. "We agreed."
"And I agreed to let you choose the care," Damian stepped forward, his presence filling the sterile room. He reached down and peeled Elena's fingers off the doctor's wrist, one by one. His touch was unexpectedly firm, his palm hot against her knuckles. "But this isn't a screening. It's a drug test. I won't have my son growing in a body filled with chemical stabilizers and sedative-laced tea."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
"Or whatever it is spies take to keep their heart rates from spiking when they lie."
"My heart rate is fine," Elena snapped.
"Is it?" Damian reached out and pressed his thumb against the artery in her neck. He held it there, feeling the thud-thud-thud of her blood.
The silence in the room stretched. Elena could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way the light caught a small scar near his eyebrow. He wasn't just checking her pulse. He was tasting her defiance.
"It's fast," he whispered.
"That's the adrenaline of being touched by a man I'm planning to bankrupt," she lied.
Damian's eyes darkened. For a second, she thought he might actually hit her. Instead, he let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh.
"Dr. Aris, take the blood. If she bites, call security."
He didn't leave. He stood there, arms crossed, watching the needle slide into Elena's vein. He watched the dark, crimson liquid fill the vial as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
As the doctor taped a cotton ball to her arm, a phone buzzed on the counter. Damian picked it up, his expression shifting from predatory to cold in a heartbeat.
"Speak," he said into the phone.
He listened for ten seconds, his jaw tightening until the bone looked like it might snap.
"Where? Fine. Don't touch the body until I get there."
He hung up and looked at Elena. The intensity in his gaze had changed. The cat-and-mouse game was over; the wolf had found a scent.
"It seems you were right about Marcus," Damian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "But you were wrong about the timing."
"What happened?"
"He didn't wait to be fired," Damian walked toward the door, gesturing for her to follow. "He just tried to walk out the front gate with an encrypted drive. One of the snipers you pointed out... he's a better shot than you gave him credit for."
Elena felt a cold chill settle in her chest. Marcus was dead? He was her best lead to the Volkov connection.
"Is the drive intact?" she asked, already moving.
Damian stopped at the door, looking back at her over his shoulder.
"That's the problem, Elena. The drive is empty. But Marcus's tongue was cut out before the bullet hit him."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her like a shroud.
"Now, tell me," he whispered. "How did you know he was compromised an hour before it happened? Because right now, the only person with a motive to silence my head of security... is the woman who just moved into the East Wing."