Aria Vale
The air inside the Monarch gala was thick with perfume and lies.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, catching the edges of every polished surface—sequins, diamonds, bloodless smiles. I moved through the crowd like smoke, glass in hand, red silk clinging to me like a dare.
I felt their eyes on me.
His eyes.
Damian Wolfe didn't arrive so much as descend. All black suit, no tie, and that expression—carved from cool marble and meaner nights. My pulse didn't skip.
Not this time.
He cut through the room like he owned it. Like he always had.
And when he stopped in front of me, the tension folded neatly into place.
"Miss Vale," he said, voice smooth as bourbon. "You're stunning."
"You're predictable," I replied. "Late entrance. All eyes. Still chasing spectacle, are we?"
His smile was slight, but lethal. "Only when the audience is worth it."
I took a sip of champagne, pretending not to notice how close he was. "Tell me, Damian—how are your files these days? Any more rats chewing through your walls?"
"I took care of the infestation." His gaze sharpened. "Though I've found... new cracks."
"And what's crawling through them?"
He leaned in, voice dropping. "Something old. Something clever."
"Something you underestimated."
"Or something I was waiting for."
The crowd moved around us, glittering and oblivious, but we were still—two predators in formalwear, pretending not to be circling.
His voice brushed my ear. "What do you really want, Aria?"
I turned my head, inches from his lips.
"Everything you took," I said.
And for a second—I swear—I saw something real flicker in his eyes.
Then it was gone.
---
~Meanwhile ~
The Bishop
The storm drain groaned behind me as I slipped through.
Concrete. Cold. Blackout gear tight on my skin. I moved fast and low, ducking through the maintenance corridor that ran under Sector 3. No noise. No signature. Just silence and intent.
Ramsay's safehouse came into view—a matte-black compound nested behind fake utilities.
He was already inside.
I perched on the catwalk overhead, eyes on the vault window. That bait drive Aria had crafted? It was plugged in. Running. Humming with hidden hooks and worms.
And Ramsay?
Hooked.
He clicked through the files like a hungry dog, not knowing we were already inside his teeth. His guards flanked him—complacent, bored.
Then the door opened again.
And someone else stepped in.
Smaller frame. Hooded. Female.
I adjusted the lens.
And my breath froze.
I didn't know her name. But I knew the intel photo—burned years ago, tagged "deceased."
Aria Vale's mother.
Still alive. Standing beside a Monarch broker with classified drive access.
I snapped the image. Transmitted it through my encrypted line.
"Wolfe," I murmured. "You're gonna want to see this."
---
Damian Wolfe
The photo came through on the secure screen.
My world shifted.
At first, I saw Ramsay—just another greasy middleman in the Syndicate's underbelly.
But then... her.
I stared, cold blooming in my chest.
She was supposed to be dead.
My fingers twitched against the desk as the Bishop's voice filtered in again. "She came in after the file was accessed. Not a coincidence."
"No," I said quietly. "Not a coincidence."
Because now everything made sense—and nothing did.
The drive. The bait. Aria's sharp turns and sharper silences. The way she looked at me like she knew something I didn't.
She did.
She was never just playing me.
She was drawing me in.
Because this wasn't revenge anymore. Not just her father. Not just the past.
No.
This was war.
And I had no idea what side I was really on.
---
Trust was a dead language.
But I still knew how to speak it fluently—when I wanted something.
I invited her to the penthouse.
Not with words. Not with a call or a card or a message.
I let the door open for her. Let the scent of aged bourbon and soft leather slip into the places she still haunted. The scent of a man who had burned her once and was waiting for her to strike back.
She arrived just after midnight, the way I knew she would.
No security. No hesitation.
Red lips. Fire eyes. Dressed like sin.
Aria Vale never looked afraid.
She looked like the bullet before it hit.
"You called?" she said, stepping into the dim room like it belonged to her. "Or did you just miss the sound of me not trusting you?"
I poured two glasses.
"I was thinking about ghosts," I said.
She didn't blink. "Yours or mine?"
"Do you believe in resurrection, Aria?"
A flicker—barely there—crossed her face.
"I believe in consequences."
I handed her the glass. Let my fingers brush hers. "And what if the dead weren't dead?"
She tilted her head. "Is this about my father?"
"No," I said carefully. "It's about your mother."
The silence that followed was colder than the drink.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "She died not too long after dad died. You know that. You saw the report."
"I know what the report said.
But you and I both know how easy it is to fake a report."
That did it.
The faintest twitch at her jaw. Not understanding—confusion.
Real confusion.
Interesting.
"You think I'm working with my mother?" she said flatly.
"I think you're too smart to walk into a war blind.
And I think the drive you planted wasn't just bait. It was a message."
"To who?"
"That's what I'm asking you."
Her eyes narrowed. "No, Damian. That's what you're accusing me of. So either spit it out or stop circling."
I stepped closer. "She's alive. I have eyes. I have proof."
The words landed like thunder.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then—slowly—she laughed.
It wasn't light. It was sharp. Shaken. Furious.
"You think I wouldn't know?" Her voice cracked. "You think I wouldn't feel that? My mother was dead. I buried her. I burned what was left. You were there. You saw the ashes."
"Maybe someone wanted you to see ashes."
She looked up at me then, and what I saw wasn't anger.
It was fear.
Raw. Unhidden.
Not fear of me.
Fear that I might be telling the truth.
"Where did you see her?" she asked, voice low.
I watched her closely. "Sector 3. Monarch stronghold."
She took a step back, unsteady.
I caught her wrist. "If you didn't know, you do now."
"And if you're lying?" she whispered.
"I'm not."
Her pulse was hammering beneath my fingers.
This wasn't the trap I thought it was.
She wasn't the liar.
She was the daughter who had been kept in the dark too long.
And now?
Now she was about to burn down every shadow until she found the truth.