(Lena’s POV)

By the time the elevator glided down to the lobby, my pulse was still racing. I’d been in Damian Vance’s penthouse for less than two hours, but the air up there felt different—denser, charged, like something was always about to happen.

Now that I was back on the ground floor, the city’s noise rushed in through the glass doors of Vance Tower—sirens in the distance, the thrum of traffic, the faint smell of roasted nuts from the food cart parked on the corner. Everything is normal. Ordinary.

Except nothing felt normal anymore.

I told myself not to overthink it. Damian’s phone call could’ve been about anything—an unhappy investor, a supplier issue, some high-stakes fashion drama that had nothing to do with me.

But then I remembered his exact words. Don’t answer any calls from unknown numbers tonight.

Which was why, thirty-five minutes later, standing in my tiny kitchen with leftover pasta in the microwave, my stomach dropped when my phone lit up with: Unknown Number.

I froze, phone buzzing in my hand.

One ring. Two. Three.

It stopped.

I exhaled—too soon.

It buzzed again. Same display: Unknown Number

Against my better judgment, I answered.

“Lena Marlowe,” a woman’s voice purred. Not a question. A statement. “I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr. Vance.”

I didn’t respond

“I’ll make this simple,” she continued. “Whatever he’s told you about the Morgan project… forget it. You’re in over your head.

My throat went dry. “Who is this?”

A low laugh. “Someone who knows what happens to people who get too close to him.”

The line went dead.

---

Sleep was impossible after that. Every shadow in my apartment felt like it was leaning closer. Every creak in the walls sounded like a footstep.

By morning, I’d convinced myself it was some kind of prank—until I walked into the design floor and found my desk drawer open

Inside was a single sheet of paper. No name. No signature. Just a short message, printed in bold black letters:

CHECK YOUR EMAIL BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

---

I ducked into an empty sample room and pulled out my phone. My inbox had one unread message from an anonymous address.

The email contained a single attachment—a scanned legal document with Damian’s signature at the bottom. I didn’t understand all of it, but one phrase kept jumping out at me like it was highlighted in red: Irrevocable Termination Trigger

I didn’t know what it meant exactly, but the implication was clear enough: if this clause got out, Damian could lose his position. And if someone had sent it to me, that meant they wanted me to do something with it.

My first instinct was to find Damian. My second was to run as far from Vance Couture as possible.

---

By noon, the tension in the office was thick enough to cut with shears. Damian was nowhere to be seen, but Victoria Kane was making her rounds—pausing at desks, asking pointed questions, her eyes lingering on me like she knew something

At one point, she leaned over my workstation, her perfume curling around me like smoke. “Be careful what you keep on your devices, Lena. The wrong file can ruin a person.”

Then she smiled and walked away

---

At five, my phone buzzed with a text from Damian.

Come to the penthouse. Now.

No explanation.

My mind was still spinning from the email, but my feet moved on autopilot, carrying me back into that private elevator, up to the glittering cage at the top of the tower.

The moment the doors opened, I knew something was different. The lights were dim, the curtains drawn against the skyline. Damian stood by the long table, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the very same document I’d been sent.

“Close the door,” he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes… no. They weren’t calm at all.

I did as he asked, my fingers trembling.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “exactly who gave you this.”

I swallowed hard. “—I-I found it in my email this morning. I don’t know who—”

“Don’t lie to me, Lena.” He stepped closer, the distance between us shrinking until I could feel the heat of him. “Because if you know, and you don’t tell me, you’re not just part of my company anymore—you’re part of my war.”

---

And right then, standing in Damian Vance’s penthouse with his shadow falling over me, I realized something with perfect, terrifying clarity—

I wasn’t sure which was worse: that I didn’t know

ow who was coming after him… or that a part of me had already chosen to stand on his side anyway.