Zurich was quiet.
Too quiet.
The jet touched down just after 6:00 a.m., the city still cloaked in pre-dawn mist. Snow curled against the edges of the tarmac like it had been ordered to stay in line. Precision. Discipline. Switzerland's specialty.
Emma stepped off the plane first.
She wore a long black coat, sunglasses too big for the early hour, and confidence like armor. No makeup, no jewelry. She looked like someone used to vanishing into crowds—and maybe she was becoming that.
Zane followed behind, flanked by a silent assistant she hadn't met before. No words passed between them, not even a glance. Just roles. Masks. Timing.
This was their cover story:
Separate hotels. Separate cars. Separate check-ins. Nothing to link them in public. Zane as the billionaire entrepreneur meeting with the Sable Group for a tech acquisition. Emma as a consultant for a "private security firm" with a coincidental booking at a different five-star hotel across town.
It was clean. Professional. Easy to deny.
And it made Emma feel like a pawn again.
A silent car waited for her—black, tinted, diplomatic plates. No driver in sight. Just a note on the windshield:
"Ms. Hart — your escort. – Z."
Of course.
She slid into the back seat, trying not to glance at Zane one last time. But she failed. Their eyes met for only half a second as he climbed into his own car across the tarmac.
Half a second—but it said enough:
Stay sharp. Stay safe. Don't trust anyone.
The ride into the city was smooth, silent. No traffic this early. Just cold buildings and colder sky.
Zurich looked like it had been carved from glass and steel. Perfect lines. No mess. No risk.
Emma hated it instantly.
At the hotel—The Dolder Grand—she checked in under the alias Natalie Greer. The receptionist didn't blink. Swiss discretion at its finest.
Her suite was high, wide, and sterile. A panoramic view of the lake. Heated floors. Fruit bowl on the table.
She didn't touch anything.
Instead, she swept the room twice. First with her eyes, then with a small bug detector Zane had handed her before boarding the plane. Nothing pinged red. For now.
She texted one word:
"Clear."
No reply came.
Standard protocol.
She knew Zane wouldn't answer unless something was wrong.
Emma took a slow breath and let her shoulders relax—for about thirty seconds. Then the phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
"You have a nice view. Lake's not bad either."
Her stomach flipped.
Her eyes darted to the window.
Nothing.
No red lasers. No cameras. No blinking lights. But whoever it was—Logan's people, most likely—they were already watching.
She didn't panic.
She didn't respond.
Instead, she picked up her coat, slid a knife into her boot, and walked out.
⸻
In the lobby, she paused at the concierge.
"I'd like to schedule a massage this afternoon."
The woman smiled. "Of course, Ms. Greer. Any preferences?"
"No oils. No talking. And I want a female therapist."
"Understood."
Emma didn't care about the massage. It was code.
The staff at this hotel were paid to notice things—and to discreetly pass messages if need be.
If someone followed her, they'd take note. Report it up.
It was dangerous to trust anyone in Zane's world—but sometimes you had to pay for protection, and this was her way of hiring eyes without asking for them.
She stepped out onto the icy sidewalk.
Two blocks.
That's how long it took before she felt it.
A presence. Too casual. Too slow to pass. Someone matching her pace just closely enough to be noticed.
Male. Average height. Beige coat. Gray beanie.
He didn't make eye contact. Didn't rush.
But when she stopped to check her phone at a corner café, he did too. Pretending to tie his shoe.
Emma kept walking.
Right into a boutique clothing store.
She didn't browse.
She walked straight to the back and slipped out through the service door.
Down an alley. Across a tram line. Through the kitchen entrance of a hotel she didn't stay in.
Five minutes later, she was back on the street—alone.
The beige coat was gone.
But someone new had picked up the trail.
She couldn't see them yet, but she felt it. A subtle disturbance. Like a cold breath on the back of her neck.
She texted again:
"Heat rising."
No reply.
Of course not.
This wasn't Zane's game now. It was hers.
And whoever was watching her was about to learn:
Emma Hart wasn't just arm candy for a rich man.
She was the reason they'd both survive this.
The meeting room sat on the 47th floor of a chrome-and-glass high-rise in central Zurich. It wasn't just expensive — it was designed to intimidate. No paintings. No clutter. Just a panoramic view of the city, a long black marble table, and silence sharp enough to cut bone.
Emma arrived first.
She wore navy — not black. Professional, clean. Confident but not loud. She sat halfway down the table, not at the head. Let them wonder about her role. Let them miscalculate.
A man entered ten minutes later.
Late forties. Silver-streaked hair. Impeccably tailored three-piece suit. No tie.
Gabriel Hesse — one of the public faces of the Sable Group. On paper, he was nothing more than an "acquisition advisor." In reality, he was a fixer. A strategist. And rumor said he had once helped a Saudi prince disappear for over a decade without leaving a single digital trace.
He nodded at her.
"Ms. Greer."
Emma stood but didn't offer her hand. "Mr. Hesse."
"I assume Mr. Lancaster will be joining us?"
"He should be on his way."
Hesse didn't seem worried. "Then we'll begin when he arrives."
Another man entered behind him — younger, thinner, glasses too clean to be functional. A tech analyst or maybe someone recording everything.
Emma didn't care.
Her eyes stayed on the glass.
Zurich shimmered in the distance. A beautiful façade. A hollow promise.
Exactly like this meeting.
The door opened again. Zane stepped in.
Immaculate. Ice-colored suit. Blue tie. Hair neat. Expression unreadable.
"Apologies," he said. "Security protocols."
Gabriel rose. "Of course. Shall we begin?"
They did.
Files were handed around.
Emma skimmed hers, pretending to study the financials. She already knew the numbers were real. The Sable Group didn't play with fake math — just real money with very dark origins.
They talked acquisition.
Terms.
Shares.
Projections.
Zane handled most of the conversation. Calm, firm, charming when needed. He knew how to dance this dance.
But Emma watched the room.
Every blink.
Every twitch.
Every time someone shifted a pen or touched their earpiece.
Something was wrong.
The meeting should've felt tense. It didn't.
It felt choreographed.
Like everyone knew their lines except her.
Midway through, Gabriel Hesse leaned back and folded his hands.
"You'll understand if I ask a personal question, Mr. Lancaster."
Zane didn't blink. "Try me."
"You've had a… colorful history with certain former operatives. Especially one known to the Eastern Bloc."
Emma's jaw clenched.
Zane's voice didn't change. "And your point?"
"I just wonder if you can truly separate your emotions from your investments."
Zane smiled. "I find emotions make me better at choosing where to invest."
Gabriel returned the smile — razor-thin and full of malice.
"A romantic perspective. One that can be exploited."
Emma's hand curled around the pen in front of her.
Was this about her?
Or was it about Logan?
Or both?
Before Zane could reply, another file slid across the table toward him.
Not from Gabriel. From the silent man with the glasses.
Zane opened it.
Emma leaned just enough to see the contents.
A photo.
Of her.
Not recent.
One from five years ago — grainy, surveillance-style, standing outside an embassy in Prague.
Her throat went dry.
Only three people in the world had ever seen that photo.
And Logan was one of them.
Zane didn't flinch.
He closed the folder.
And calmly said, "I think we're done here."
Gabriel smiled wider. "Not even close."
But Zane was already standing.
Emma followed.
They didn't run.
They didn't shout.
They walked — as if nothing in that room had changed their blood temperature.
But inside, both of them were boiling.
They were being watched.
They were being warned.
And the game had just shifted into something far more dangerous.
The envelope was waiting on her bed.
No stamp. No hotel delivery slip. Just a thick white envelope with her alias, Natalie Greer, handwritten in perfect cursive.
Emma stood there for a long moment, the door to her suite still open behind her.
The cleaning staff hadn't come in.
Security hadn't called.
Whoever left it had walked in like they owned the place.
She closed the door quietly and drew the curtains.
Then she opened the envelope.
Inside: a single photograph.
Old. Folded once.
She unfolded it slowly, her breath caught halfway between suspicion and dread.
It was her.
Six years ago.
Standing outside a worn-down apartment building in Tangier. Hair shorter. Eyes sharper. Blood on her cheek.
And beside her… a man.
Julian.
The man who saved her life.
The man who'd died because of her.
Emma's stomach dropped like stone in water.
No one had this photo.
No one.
Except Logan.
Because Logan had taken it. Because Logan had killed Julian forty-eight hours later and smiled while doing it.
Her hands trembled.
She turned the photo over.
Something was written in the same cursive:
"You always did look better in red."
Emma dropped it like it had burned her fingers.
She paced.
Fast. Sharp turns. Her heartbeat like gunfire in her chest.
This wasn't just surveillance.
This was a message.
A trigger.
And it worked.
She grabbed her phone. Called Zane directly — protocol be damned.
He answered on the second ring. "Emma—"
"We need to talk. Now."
⸻
Ten minutes later, she stormed into his suite.
No knocking. No waiting.
Zane was alone, jacket off, sleeves rolled. He looked tired. But alert.
She threw the photo at him.
He caught it, looked once, and didn't ask any questions.
"He's here," she said, pacing again. "He's not sending people. He's not playing chess. He's here, in Zurich. Watching."
Zane stayed quiet.
She turned on him.
"You knew, didn't you? You knew he'd find us this fast."
"I suspected."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
Zane stood slowly.
"Emma—"
"No. Don't Emma me." Her voice cracked. "That photo… That man… I loved him. And Logan made me watch him bleed out in an alley."
Zane's jaw tightened. "I know."
"Do you?" she snapped. "Because you walk around with your plans and your backup plans and your security clearances while I'm the one being hunted like prey!"
Zane didn't react to the volume.
He walked over and picked up the photo again. Looked at it longer this time.
Then he asked, quietly, "Do you want out?"
Emma blinked.
"What?"
"Do you want out?" he repeated. "Because if you say yes, I'll get you on a plane tonight. No questions. No guilt."
She stared at him.
And realized — he meant it.
For the first time, Zane Lancaster was offering her freedom.
And for the first time, she didn't want it.
Her voice came softer. "You don't get it. This isn't just revenge anymore."
"What is it?"
She met his eyes.
"It's survival."
He nodded once. "Then we adapt."
She laughed, bitter. "To what? A ghost with access to my past and your future?"
Zane's eyes darkened. "To whatever it takes."
They stood in silence.
The photo sat on the glass coffee table between them, like a landmine waiting to go off again.
Emma finally spoke.
"If he sends another message, I won't read it."
Zane replied, "If he touches you, I'll kill him."
No bravado.
No threat.
Just fact.
Emma sat down on the edge of the couch, exhaustion crashing through her in waves.
"You ever feel like he's already five steps ahead?"
Zane joined her. Close, but not touching.
"Let him run. I'm not chasing anymore."
She turned to him.
"Then what are we doing?"
He looked at her, eyes steady.
"We make him chase us."