Adrian – POV

It started with a text. Then a ping. Then silence.

When you own the largest privately held tech-finance firm on the East Coast, sometimes silence doesn't mean peace, it means containment.

I stood in the glass-encased boardroom on the twenty-third floor of Westwood Holdings, watching six senior executives try, and fail, not to fidget.

The leak had been small, but precise, our quarterly projection for the Zentrex acquisition had landed in the inbox of a rival firm's legal team. We hadn't even finished due diligence, but someone inside had already fed it to them.

"I want this traced back within the day," I said, voice calm. They were already nervous enough, and I did not have the energy to yell. "Scrub metadata, cross-check access logs, track every login going back six weeks."

Dana from Compliance nodded, already typing away as everyone else exchanged terrified glances. Only one name ran through my mind.

Victor Greaves.

Old money. Older grudge. The ancient man had been circling our acquisitions like a vulture for decades. When my father died and I took over, Victor had offered me a seat on his board. I'd turned it down as I preferred a board of my own, and he hadn't forgiven me since then.

He wasn't a fool, he'd been doing this for far too long, so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. But this kind of leak was targeted, surgical, yet another sabotage attempt meant to undermine my company.

"Focus on everyone with Zentrex-level access," I said, already walking out. "Including Victor's plant, whoever they are."

If Victor wanted a war, he was going to get one.

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As I sat in the study, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves framing a room soaked in dusk light, a storm had begun rolling in from the coast, casting shadows through the tall windows like crawling ink. The fireplace remained cold, because I didn't need warmth, instead I needed clarity.

Yet for the first time in months, clarity was a stranger. She was in the East Wing. Celeste Whitmore Westwood.

All grace and hollow sadness, with eyes that continued to look defiantly ahead, even when she was very clearly afraid.

She wasn't beautiful in the manufactured way many women in my circles often were. She wasn't sculpted to perfection or polished for show. She was... honest, and that was the problem, because honesty couldn't be owned. It slipped through cracks.

I told myself she was nothing more than a name change. A safeguard. A body behind a ring that told the world I was stable, grounded. Investors preferred men with wives, not demons.

A wife softened the headlines, but Celeste wasn't soft. She was a silent thunder, and I was beginning to hear the rumble.

"Sir?" a voice cut into my thoughts.

Markus Laine stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, rain dripping from the shoulders of his dark trench coat. If he was here, it meant there was more bad news.

He wasn't part of the household staff. Markus was security, head of my private division. Tall, broad, and Finnish by descent, wearing his silence like armor, choosing instead to express his constant disapproval of everyone else with an icy glare. Ash-blond hair swept to the side, high cheekbones, steel-gray eyes that had seen too much war and not enough peace. He was the only man I trusted with information with the potential to destroy me.

"There's been a development," he said, voice clipped.

I motioned for him to enter.

He dropped a folder on my desk, the corner smudged with rainwater.

"Anonymous message. Encrypted. Traced back to a shell company with connections to Greaves Global."

I flipped the folder open and a single photograph stared up at me.

Celeste, sitting in the sunroom. Alone. Her head tilted as she looked through the window, hands folded neatly in her lap. The camera angle was from above, likely one of the manor's own security feeds.

Underneath it, typed in bold font:

"You always choose the broken ones. Let's see if you can fix this one before I do." My jaw tightened.

"Allegra," I muttered.

Markus nodded. "Her style all over it. Coded insult. Sharp, personal. She's been working with Greaves again. Traveling under aliases."

"Threat level?"

"Escalating. She wants your attention."

"She won't get it," I lied.

Markus raised an eyebrow. "I think she already has it."

I leaned back, steepling my fingers. "Increase surveillance," I ordered. "And find out who inside gave her access to that footage."

Markus nodded. "There's more." He tossed another photograph onto the desk.

Allegra stepping into a sleek black SUV, every inch of her screaming control. Black heels, dark blue trench coat, lips the color of sin. Trouble in silk.

"She's in the city," Markus said. "And she asked for you by name."

And I had no doubt she'd show up.