The city never truly slept, but Lucas's office felt like a different world altogether. From the glass walls, the skyline stretched in sharp lines and shimmering lights, yet inside, the air was still—heavy with anticipation. Midnight pressed against the windows, the hum of engines far below muted by distance, leaving only the faint tick of the clock.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, suit jacket draped over the armrest, sleeves rolled to his forearms. It wasn't careless—nothing about him ever was. It was calculated ease, the quiet before a storm.
He'd been waiting all evening. Waiting for Mark. He hadn't gone home because he needed to hear it first.
At precisely one minute past ten, the encrypted line buzzed, its vibration slicing through the silence. Lucas pressed the receiver, and the wall screen flickered alive.
Mark's face appeared—hardened, dirt-streaked. Behind him, even through the grainy feed, the wreckage was unmistakable. Twisted steel. Scorched stone. The remnants of their Moscow base.
Lucas's jaw clenched, silence sharper than any curse. Mark straightened despite exhaustion. "It's gone. All of it."
The words hung between them like smoke. Lucas's fingers tapped once against the desk, a measured rhythm over volcanic pressure.
"How?" His voice was low. Deadly calm.
"It wasn't an accident. Military-grade charges. Whoever set them knew exactly what they were doing."
Lucas leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his shadow stretching across polished wood. "Surveillance?"
"Wiped an hour before the blast. Hard drives fried, backups erased. Whoever did this had access codes, timings—everything."
"An inside hand."
Mark nodded grimly. "Has to be. No one else could've gotten through without tripping a single alarm. They knew guard shifts, supply runs. Someone betrayed us."
The silence stretched taut, like the pause before a blade strikes. Lucas's mind turned over names, faces, files. Every man and woman with clearance. Every possibility.
Finally, he spoke, each word clipped and precise. "I don't care how deep you have to dig. Find the leak. Trace every bank account, every whisper. I don't want shadows, Mark. I want a name."
"And when we have it?"
Lucas's eyes were shards of obsidian. "Then we make an example. Slowly. Publicly. So no one forgets what happens when they sell me out."
The weight of it pressed heavier than the ruins behind Mark.
"Understood," Mark said, voice low but firm.
"Assets?"
"Survivors salvaged what they could. Sensitive documents are gone, but offsite backups remain. The Russians didn't want our files. They wanted to cripple us. This was a message."
Lucas's gaze hardened. "Then I'll send one back."
"Do we retaliate now?"
"Not yet. A war without cutting out the traitor would be suicide. Secure the survivors. Lock Moscow down. And get me proof. Retaliation waits until I have their head in my hand."
Frustration flickered in Mark's eyes, but he masked it. Lucas noticed, of course. Patience was not weakness—it was strategy.
"Anything else?" Lucas asked.
"No. That's the report. I'll update you when I have leads."
"Do that." Lucas's hand hovered over the console, then paused. His voice dropped, sharp as a knife. "Mark."
"Yes?"
"Don't fail me."
Mark didn't flinch. "I won't."
The screen went black. Silence thickened. Lucas stood slowly, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below like a glittering chessboard, oblivious to the blood spilled to keep its shine. His reflection stared back: a ghost caught between two worlds. The billionaire everyone envied. The king no one dared cross.
But Mark's words replayed in his mind—surveillance wiped, explosives planted, betrayal.
He loosened his collar, poured amber whiskey into a glass. One drink turned into several before he realized. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, smoke curling like shadows he thought he'd outrun.
"They think Moscow will break me," he said into the empty room, voice low and lethal. "But this is only the beginning."
The cigar's ember glowed like a promise.
"The Russians drew first blood. I'll end it."
–––––––
Lucas's footsteps were uneven when he reached the apartment door. Whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He hadn't meant to drink so much. But tonight was different. Tonight, Moscow burned in his mind.
He fumbled briefly with the key before unlocking the door. The lock clicked softly—and Bella was there.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him. Shirt rumpled, face shadowed with exhaustion, jacket missing. He looked undone in a way she had never seen.
"You're late," she whispered, voice trembling. "I was worried."
Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him. For a moment, he stood stiff, surprised to find her waiting. Then, slowly, his arms closed around her, heavy and unsteady.
"Bella…" His breath was uneven against her hair. "I didn't… mean to—"
"You've been drinking," she interrupted gently, searching his face. Scolding would be useless. "Let's get you to bed."
He let her guide him, leaning on her more than he realized. In their room, she eased him down, hands steady as she removed his shoes, her care almost motherly. When her gaze lifted, she caught the storm in his eyes.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
For a long time, he didn't answer. His jaw locked, but then the words cracked out of him—raw, bitter, unlike the controlled Lucas she knew.
"I lost it," he muttered. "One of my branches. Years of work… gone. Just like that." His hand clenched over the sheets. "Do you know what it's like, to watch it burn overnight? To know you should've protected it better?"
Her chest ached at the torment in his voice. She sat beside him and drew him into her arms. At first, pride resisted. Then, he gave in—forehead pressed to her shoulder, breath uneven.
"Lucas," she whispered, fingers stroking through his hair. "Not everything goes the way we want. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. But losses… they're not the end. You'll build again. Stronger. Bigger. That's who you are."
His arms tightened, desperate, almost childlike. For once, he allowed himself to be held together.
"You really believe that?" His voice was hoarse.
"I do," she said firmly. "And until you believe it again, I'll believe it for you."
Something in him eased. The tension in his face softened, and with a weary sigh, he let himself rest against her. But tonight, he wasn't ready to let go entirely. His hand lingered at her waist, thumb brushing absentminded circles, grounding himself in her presence.
Bella felt the shift in him—the raw vulnerability buried under steel. She tucked a strand of hair away from his forehead, her heart tightening at how different he looked like this. Unguarded. Human.
"I don't deserve you," he murmured suddenly, words slipping out before he could stop them.
Her chest squeezed. "You don't get to decide that. I'm here because I want to be."
His eyes opened, darker now but not with anger—with something deeper. They lingered on her face, on the softness in her eyes, on the way her hand still stroked his hair. Slowly, as though he couldn't stop himself, his forehead tilted to rest against hers.
Bella's breath caught. The closeness was dizzying, her heart stumbling. His whiskey-laced breath mingled with hers, his hand tightening slightly at her waist. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her.
And then he did.
His lips pressed against hers—warm, needy, unhurried. A kiss carrying exhaustion, longing, and something deeper he couldn't name. Bella melted into it, her fingers sliding into his hair, clutching him as if afraid he might pull away. His other hand spread against her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
The taste of him—whiskey, smoke, and something achingly familiar—made her shiver. She kissed him back without hesitation, her lips parting under the slow, hungry pressure of his mouth. The kiss deepened, raw and consuming, like he'd been holding himself back for far too long.
When he broke away, it was only to trail his mouth lower—along her jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck. Bella gasped softly, her hands fisting into his shirt as fire raced through her veins.
"Lucas…" she whispered, the sound more plea than word.
Her eyes fluttered shut as his lips grazed her throat. She didn't stop him. Every nerve leaned into his touch, desperate and alive. Her body arched toward him when his kisses grew rougher, more insistent.
A soft moan escaped before she could contain it. The sound vibrated in the quiet room, and she felt the way it affected him—the way his hand tightened at her waist, the way his breath caught against her skin. His mouth pressed harder to her throat, teeth grazing lightly, as though he wanted to mark her but restrained himself.
His lips returned to hers suddenly, almost desperately, fiercer this time. His tongue slid against hers, demanding, devouring, while one hand tangled in her hair, angling her head for more. Bella drowned in the taste of him, in the heat spiraling lower and lower.
Her fingers gripped his shoulders, clinging like an anchor. Each kiss seemed to unravel him—rage, sorrow, exhaustion pouring out through his mouth against hers. And she met it with equal fervor, giving him every ounce of tenderness and fire she held.
When his lips left hers again, they trailed down—over her jaw, across her throat, to the hollow where her pulse throbbed beneath his mouth. He kissed there, slow at first, then with a hunger that stole her breath.
"Lucas…" Her voice trembled, head tilting back instinctively, baring her neck. She didn't want him to stop. Not tonight. Not when his touch soothed the storm inside him and maybe hers too.
Her moan filled the air again, and his body tensed, muscles rigid as though fighting a war inside himself. His hand faltered, then stilled completely.
His forehead dropped to her shoulder, chest heaving, breath ragged.
Bella's brows knitted, confusion threading through her haze of heat. Her trembling hands still clutched his shirt. "Why—why did you stop?"
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were storm-dark, raw, burning with equal parts need and restraint. His thumb brushed her cheek with aching tenderness.
"Because when it happens…" His voice was hoarse, each word dragged from somewhere deep. "I want to be sane. I want to remember every second. Not blurred by whiskey, not broken by grief. You deserve that. We deserve that."
Her chest tightened, throat thick with unspoken emotion. She wanted to argue, to tell him she didn't care at least not now. But the way he looked at her—with reverence in his restraint—silenced her.
Instead, she cupped his face, thumbs brushing his jaw. "Let's sleep."
His expression softened. His lips found hers once more, slower this time, almost reverent. A seal to the promise he had just made. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her as though she were his only salvation.
Even as exhaustion claimed him, his grip never loosened. Bella lay in his embrace, lips still tingling, heart racing with feelings she couldn't yet name.