The message came in at 3:47 a.m.Killian’s phone lit up beside him on the nightstand, the screen casting an eerie glow in the dark room. The house was silent save for the occasional sound of the guards outside changing shift.He hadn’t slept—he rarely did—but tonight, he hadn’t even tried.Tonight, his mind had been a battlefield. Thoughts, memories, calculations—everything circling the same woman, the same nerve wrecking feeling. He laid there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it held answers written in invisible ink.And then the message came.He sat up slowly, spine stiff from the hours of lying down restlessly. The bed was cold beside him. Empty, as usual. He reached for the phone, thumb unlocking the screen like reflex.He saw that it was a message from Ethan, his eyes narrowed as he scanned its contents.ETHAN: Got him. Name’s Preston Grey. Private investigator. Licensed. Clean record. But here’s the thing, boss… he’s no small man.Attached were files—neatly organized wit
It had been four hours since she whispered “You’re delusional” and disappeared into her room like she hadn’t just cracked open the cage he’d kept around his darkest urges.He hadn’t moved from the study since he went in and shut the door behind him.The drink in his glass had gone untouched, the bright amber liquid catching the dim light of the chandelier above. His jaw was tight. His heart a low, steady throb beneath the skin.Delusional?No.Strategic.Because if Elara thought for one damn second that he’d sit back while she twirled around town with a man like Preston Grey—wealthy, charming, powerful—then maybe she was the delusional one.She didn’t realize what she’d started. This wasn’t a petty game of jealousy anymore.It was war.Killian sat back in the leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as Ethan’s files played again on the projector screen behind him.Preston was good.Too good.The kind of man that could take Elara from him in plain sight—with a well-timed smile,
The city never slept, and neither did Ivy.Not tonight.Not since the gala.Not since that night.She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, perched on top of one of the most luxurious buildings in the city, watching the skyline pulse with artificial light. But beneath the glitter of a thousand high-rises, all she saw were shadows.Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—perfectly done hair, blood-red lips, eyes sharp and tired. The woman staring back looked composed.But on the inside she was unraveling.Behind her, Aiden stirred on the couch, half-asleep, his arm draped over his eyes. His presence usually steadied her. He was the calm to her calculated storm, her partner in both business, intimacy and crime. But not tonight.Tonight, her thoughts moved too fast for comfort.She crossed her arms, rubbing at her bare skin as if that could shake the lingering feeling from her bones. The one she had carried since the masked figure tried to grab her from behind th
The table was set to perfection.A private terrace at one of the city’s most exclusive garden restaurants called Golden leaf. Pristine white linens lay on the table, polished cutlery, and floral arrangements hand-picked that morning. It was the sort of setting made for reconciliation—or assassination.Ivy leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, a beautiful flute of champagne in her hand. She wore a cream Chanel blazer, pearl earrings that shimmered under the afternoon sun, and the kind of smile that had ruined lives.She didn’t expect Elara to show.She certainly didn’t expect her to be early.But there she was.Striding toward the table with the calm arrogance of a queen, clad in a black silk blouse, wide-legged trousers that made her look seven feet tall, and a smirk that made Ivy’s grip tighten on her glass.“Elara,” Ivy said, standing to greet her.“Ivy,” Elara replied smoothly, leaning in to brush her cheek with a kiss that never touched skin.They both sat.The silence between t
As she walked further away from the table, ivy wasn't finished. Ivy’s voice was sweet when it came. That dangerous, sugar-laced tone Elara had come to associate with poison.“So,” Ivy said, “tell me, Elara… how does it feel warming the bed of two men? One in the daylight, and one in the shadows?”Elara froze.It was the briefest pause which she was certain that Ivy saw. She turned slowly, walking back to the table and taking her seat in front of her barely touched food. “Excuse me?”Ivy smiled, predatory and smug. “You heard me.”The terrace was too quiet. Somewhere below, a fountain flowed peacefully. Birds chirped like they weren’t sitting in the middle of a battlefield.Elara’s mind raced.Preston. How the hell did Ivy know about Preston?When she mentioned his name the first time, Elara had shifted the topic because she wasn't sure how Ivy knew but didn't want to discuss it further.He was supposed to be invisible. Silent. Her leverage in the background. Killain didn’t even know
It had taken nine days, four ignored calls, and three dozen emails disguised in professionalism and charm for Ivy to finally get a response from him.Preston Grey.Preston Grey was a ghost.He didn’t operate through a firm or an office. No trail, no receptionist, no verifiable address. Just a burner email that replied in one lined sentence and cold confirmation. But she finally had him—an hour at The Silversmith, a low-lit whiskey bar tucked beneath the Avalon Hotel, where the city’s power players went to hide their dirt.And Ivy had plenty of dirt.She walked in thirty minutes early, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she slid into a booth at the far end. The bartender greeted her with a nod and a glass of her usual. She needed the heat of the bourbon to steady her nerves.Because Preston wasn’t just a PI.He was dangerous. Calculated. A man who’d been hovering too close to Elara for her liking. Too discreet to leave trails and too confident to be accidental.She needed
Preston watched Ivy storm out of the Silversmith, her heels clicking against the polished floor like war drums fading into the distance.He chuckled, a low sound escaping from his chest as his hand reached forward, wrapping around the rim of his whiskey glass as he lifted it for the first time that evening. Her perfume still lingered faintly in the air, all expensive floral notes masking the rot underneath.The audacity.The manipulation.The desperation poorly hidden beneath tailored silk and veiled insults.He had met sharks before, predators with porcelain smiles and blood on their hands, but Ivy Beckett—she was something else. The kind of woman who couldn’t stand to lose and would rather scorch the earth than admit defeat.Still, it hadn’t been her arrogance that made him laugh.It was her assumption.That everyone had a price.That he’d abandon Elara for a better paycheck, a seat closer to the throne, or a night tangled in the sheets with her.Pathetic.Preston leaned back in the
The note arrived on a piece of perfectly folded paper sealed with a wax that only a man like Killian would use.So fancy. The note was simple. Five words written in that unmistakable slanted handwriting.“Be ready at 7. No arguments.”Elara scoffed, rolling her eyes the moment she read it. Typical Killain.But the second delivery was harder to ignore—a matte black box, smooth as sin, sealed tight. It also had a wax seal which made her roll her eyes again at his dramatics. He was acting like they were in the Victorian era or something. She opened it out of curiosity, expecting drama. What she found was worse.A dress. Elegant, beautiful and dangerous. Not flashy. Not desperate. This wasn’t a bribe—it was a statement. This one whispered control. Taste. Power.But worst of all? It was perfect.Black. Long-sleeved on one side, sleeveless on the other. A slit high enough to scream danger, but a neckline that whispered and teased. It shimmered under the light, silver threads woven into the
The conference room was quiet—too quiet. Everyone had left after the meeting, leaving nothing but the echo of heels, the hum of the AC and the bitter aftertaste of humiliation lingering in the air.Ivy sat at the head of the table, knuckles white around the armrests of her chair, her perfectly painted nails digging into the leather. Her heart was still racing, her breathing coming in fast as the scene from minutes ago replayed in her mind over and over.Elara.Killian.Walking into her company like they owned the place. Like they hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of her sanctuary. Like they weren’t deliberately trying to ruin her.That presentation had been flawless. The proposal—bold, innovative, and worst of all, exactly what her board had been begging for. Sustainability and fashion? Exclusive tech-backed partnerships? Combining Elara’s brand aesthetics with Hayes Corp logistics? It was a golden opportunity. Too golden.She should have seen it coming. But she’d been too busy
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Killain’s mansion, painting golden streaks across the marble floor. Elara sat at the edge of the kitchen island, sipping coffee and ignoring the man across from her like last night hadn’t happened at all.No mention of the rooftop dinner.No mention of the bracelet.No lingering looks. No heat.Just cool silence and the clink of porcelain.Killain’s jaw was clenched tight as he scrolled through his phone, pretending not to notice her ignorance. But Elara didn’t miss the way his fingers stilled every time she moved. He was watching her—quietly simmering, trying to figure her out.Good.Let him stew.She wasn’t going to fall for that charming act of his. Last night had been theatre. A stage. And she’d played her role well.Suddenly, the sound of her notification broke through the silence. She picked it up, unlocking it.A message. From a name she didn’t expect.Beckett Industries.She arched an eyebrow.“What’s that?” Killain asked ca
The note arrived on a piece of perfectly folded paper sealed with a wax that only a man like Killian would use.So fancy. The note was simple. Five words written in that unmistakable slanted handwriting.“Be ready at 7. No arguments.”Elara scoffed, rolling her eyes the moment she read it. Typical Killain.But the second delivery was harder to ignore—a matte black box, smooth as sin, sealed tight. It also had a wax seal which made her roll her eyes again at his dramatics. He was acting like they were in the Victorian era or something. She opened it out of curiosity, expecting drama. What she found was worse.A dress. Elegant, beautiful and dangerous. Not flashy. Not desperate. This wasn’t a bribe—it was a statement. This one whispered control. Taste. Power.But worst of all? It was perfect.Black. Long-sleeved on one side, sleeveless on the other. A slit high enough to scream danger, but a neckline that whispered and teased. It shimmered under the light, silver threads woven into the
Preston watched Ivy storm out of the Silversmith, her heels clicking against the polished floor like war drums fading into the distance.He chuckled, a low sound escaping from his chest as his hand reached forward, wrapping around the rim of his whiskey glass as he lifted it for the first time that evening. Her perfume still lingered faintly in the air, all expensive floral notes masking the rot underneath.The audacity.The manipulation.The desperation poorly hidden beneath tailored silk and veiled insults.He had met sharks before, predators with porcelain smiles and blood on their hands, but Ivy Beckett—she was something else. The kind of woman who couldn’t stand to lose and would rather scorch the earth than admit defeat.Still, it hadn’t been her arrogance that made him laugh.It was her assumption.That everyone had a price.That he’d abandon Elara for a better paycheck, a seat closer to the throne, or a night tangled in the sheets with her.Pathetic.Preston leaned back in the
It had taken nine days, four ignored calls, and three dozen emails disguised in professionalism and charm for Ivy to finally get a response from him.Preston Grey.Preston Grey was a ghost.He didn’t operate through a firm or an office. No trail, no receptionist, no verifiable address. Just a burner email that replied in one lined sentence and cold confirmation. But she finally had him—an hour at The Silversmith, a low-lit whiskey bar tucked beneath the Avalon Hotel, where the city’s power players went to hide their dirt.And Ivy had plenty of dirt.She walked in thirty minutes early, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she slid into a booth at the far end. The bartender greeted her with a nod and a glass of her usual. She needed the heat of the bourbon to steady her nerves.Because Preston wasn’t just a PI.He was dangerous. Calculated. A man who’d been hovering too close to Elara for her liking. Too discreet to leave trails and too confident to be accidental.She needed
As she walked further away from the table, ivy wasn't finished. Ivy’s voice was sweet when it came. That dangerous, sugar-laced tone Elara had come to associate with poison.“So,” Ivy said, “tell me, Elara… how does it feel warming the bed of two men? One in the daylight, and one in the shadows?”Elara froze.It was the briefest pause which she was certain that Ivy saw. She turned slowly, walking back to the table and taking her seat in front of her barely touched food. “Excuse me?”Ivy smiled, predatory and smug. “You heard me.”The terrace was too quiet. Somewhere below, a fountain flowed peacefully. Birds chirped like they weren’t sitting in the middle of a battlefield.Elara’s mind raced.Preston. How the hell did Ivy know about Preston?When she mentioned his name the first time, Elara had shifted the topic because she wasn't sure how Ivy knew but didn't want to discuss it further.He was supposed to be invisible. Silent. Her leverage in the background. Killain didn’t even know
The table was set to perfection.A private terrace at one of the city’s most exclusive garden restaurants called Golden leaf. Pristine white linens lay on the table, polished cutlery, and floral arrangements hand-picked that morning. It was the sort of setting made for reconciliation—or assassination.Ivy leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, a beautiful flute of champagne in her hand. She wore a cream Chanel blazer, pearl earrings that shimmered under the afternoon sun, and the kind of smile that had ruined lives.She didn’t expect Elara to show.She certainly didn’t expect her to be early.But there she was.Striding toward the table with the calm arrogance of a queen, clad in a black silk blouse, wide-legged trousers that made her look seven feet tall, and a smirk that made Ivy’s grip tighten on her glass.“Elara,” Ivy said, standing to greet her.“Ivy,” Elara replied smoothly, leaning in to brush her cheek with a kiss that never touched skin.They both sat.The silence between t
The city never slept, and neither did Ivy.Not tonight.Not since the gala.Not since that night.She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, perched on top of one of the most luxurious buildings in the city, watching the skyline pulse with artificial light. But beneath the glitter of a thousand high-rises, all she saw were shadows.Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—perfectly done hair, blood-red lips, eyes sharp and tired. The woman staring back looked composed.But on the inside she was unraveling.Behind her, Aiden stirred on the couch, half-asleep, his arm draped over his eyes. His presence usually steadied her. He was the calm to her calculated storm, her partner in both business, intimacy and crime. But not tonight.Tonight, her thoughts moved too fast for comfort.She crossed her arms, rubbing at her bare skin as if that could shake the lingering feeling from her bones. The one she had carried since the masked figure tried to grab her from behind th
It had been four hours since she whispered “You’re delusional” and disappeared into her room like she hadn’t just cracked open the cage he’d kept around his darkest urges.He hadn’t moved from the study since he went in and shut the door behind him.The drink in his glass had gone untouched, the bright amber liquid catching the dim light of the chandelier above. His jaw was tight. His heart a low, steady throb beneath the skin.Delusional?No.Strategic.Because if Elara thought for one damn second that he’d sit back while she twirled around town with a man like Preston Grey—wealthy, charming, powerful—then maybe she was the delusional one.She didn’t realize what she’d started. This wasn’t a petty game of jealousy anymore.It was war.Killian sat back in the leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as Ethan’s files played again on the projector screen behind him.Preston was good.Too good.The kind of man that could take Elara from him in plain sight—with a well-timed smile,