Dominic + Arielle

There’s something about her.

From the moment Ava Monroe walked into my office this morning, something in me snapped to attention. I don’t mean the kind of attention I give during board meetings or when the stock drops two percent overnight. I mean the kind where your instincts start whispering—not just in the back of your head, but down your spine.

Like prey recognizing a predator in disguise.

She’s beautiful, yes. In the kind of way that makes men reckless. But there’s something more beneath the red lipstick and calculated glances. Something familiar. Dangerous.

And I don’t believe in coincidence. Not when it walks into your company with a forged resume and a name that barely exists.

I let her talk. Let her settle in, play the obedient role. But I watched her like I watch my competitors—waiting for the crack in the performance.

It never came.

But I know what I felt. And I never ignore my gut.

That night, I returned to my penthouse, tension simmering beneath my skin. I didn’t pour a drink. Didn't loosen my tie. I went straight to my secure terminal, the one no one touches but me. Even my head of security doesn’t have clearance for it.

I keyed in my code, thumbprint, retina. The screen unlocked with a low chime.

> Search term: Ava Monroe.

The profile came up faster than I expected.

Clean. Too clean.

No public records before two years ago. No family. No past employment that checks out. The name is real, sure—but the person behind it isn’t. Not in the ways that matter.

I’ve seen identities built from scratch before. But hers was... intricate. Meticulously planted. She’d even gone to the trouble of generating dummy hospital badges, years-old email threads, and a social media presence that looked organic.

She hadn’t just appeared—she’d been preparing.

So who the hell is she?

I opened a secure thread with my private investigator.

“Pull everything you can. Quietly. Full workup on Ava Monroe. Run image recognition from this footage—hotel exit, March 18, 4:47 A.M.”

I attached the file, expecting a smug sense of control. Instead, I felt a flicker of something else.

Dread.

Because deep down… I already knew.

Arielle’s POV (intercut)

He doesn’t know I was already there.

Not just in his system.

In his cameras.

In his walls.

That night, while he slept like a man with nothing to lose, I hacked through his building’s security.

The penthouse surveillance? Looping on a five-minute delay.

Hallway cameras? Gone.

The garage feed where I slipped out in a cab? Erased, frame by frame.

It wasn’t just about slipping away. It was about erasing the memory of my presence from every wire and sensor in his world. I didn’t just want to disappear. I wanted him to doubt he ever saw me in the first place.

Let him chase a ghost.

Let him fall for the illusion, then drown in it.

But now… he’s digging. I saw it in the encrypted chat logs on his terminal. The investigator he hired is real. Thorough. One of the best.

Too bad I’m better.

He’ll trace me to Ava Monroe.

He’ll find her—the librarian in Seattle, soft-spoken, allergic to shellfish, likes knitting.

Not me.

But then… as I dug deeper into his private server, I found something else.

A folder tucked behind layers of encryption.

Elara Winters – Confidential.

My sister.

I froze, breath catching in my throat.

She was supposed to have died in an accident. That’s what they said. The reports. The headlines.

But this… this wasn’t public data.

This was personal.

Files, medical scans, email threads flagged “internal only.”

One line in particular made my heart stop:

Subject: Elara's whistleblower claims – potential internal cover-up. Sensitive.

My blood turned to ice.

He knew.

Dominic Blackwell knew something back then. Maybe everything.

Had he tried to help? Or… was he the one who buried her story before she died?

I stared at the folder, hand hovering over the keys.

I could open it.

I could learn everything.

But once I crossed that line—he’d know someone breached him. He’d start locking things down. Asking questions. Looking at me with more than suspicion.

And if he finds out who I really am, this game becomes something else entirely.

War.

Dominic’s POV (resumes)

The PI pinged me late that night.

“No flags yet. But I’ll keep digging. This one’s buried deep.”

Of course she is.

Because she wants me to find her… just not all of her. Not yet.

I looked at the grainy hotel photo again. Her face turned away, hair falling like ink over her cheekbone.

I should’ve deleted that image. But something stopped me.

She’d slipped away before dawn like a secret.

But secrets always leave traces.

And I always find them.