Chapter 7: Blood in the Water.
---
Kayla Ortiz didn't knock.
She never did.
Alyssa had just stepped out of her morning strategy meeting with Camille when she saw the reporter waiting in the penthouse lobby—coffee in one hand, press pass tucked into her coat, and a quiet storm simmering behind her eyes.
> "Mrs. Blackwood," Kayla said smoothly. "Care to give me a real quote this time?"
Alyssa blinked. "How the hell did you get past security?"
Kayla smiled. "You'd be surprised what a last name and a little bluffing can do."
A beat. A calculated pause.
> "I just want to talk," she said. "Off the record. For now."
Alyssa glanced at Camille, who looked like she was one gesture away from launching a full security lockdown.
But Alyssa raised a hand.
> "It's fine. I've got it."
---
They sat on the east garden terrace—far from cameras and ears.
Alyssa kept her arms crossed, spine straight, as Kayla studied her like a live headline.
> "You're either very brave or very stupid," Alyssa said coolly.
> "Maybe both," Kayla replied. "But I doubt you're the socialite you're pretending to be."
Their gazes locked.
> "You want to know about my father."
> "I want to know why Gregory Hart's daughter married Damon Blackwood. And why every file on your father's case just vanished."
Alyssa didn't flinch, though her pulse rattled in her throat.
> "You already have your theory. Why come to me?"
> "Because this whole arrangement reeks of power. And when something smells this bad, there's always rot underneath."
> "And what if I told you the truth won't help anyone? Not my family. Not yours. Not even you."
Kayla's expression shifted. Curiosity softened into something like respect.
> "Then I'd know I was right to dig."
She stood, slipping a card onto the table like a queen dropping her final move.
> "When you're ready to talk, call me. Before someone else decides what your silence is worth."
Then she walked away.
Just like that.
---
By the time Alyssa returned inside, Damon was already waiting—leaned against the wall like a coiled shadow.
> "You let her in?"
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
> "She was already in."
> "You spoke to her?"
> "Yes."
He stepped forward, anger humming just beneath his skin.
> "Do you realize what you've done?"
> "No," Alyssa snapped. "Do you? The longer you try to bury the past, the more it will crawl back out—dragging us both with it."
> "She's not just press," he hissed. "She's a loaded gun."
> "Then maybe stop handing her bullets."
Silence.
Thick. Tense.
Damon exhaled slowly, eyes burning.
> "If she publishes anything—"
> "Then what?" Alyssa cut in. "You'll bury her too?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because they both knew the line between defense and destruction had already been crossed.
---
That night, the storm finally broke.
Not in the sky. In Alyssa's inbox.
No subject. No sender.
Just one file.
Unmarked. No watermark. No introduction. Just names. Dates. Numbers.
She scrolled fast, hands trembling.
Until her eyes locked on the heading:
Blackwood Global Internal Audit – Confidential
And buried halfway through—
Gregory Hart – Suspicious Flag / Whistleblower Status – Internal Code: Blackstar
Her stomach dropped.
He hadn't stolen anything.
He'd tried to protect the company.
They'd marked him. Silenced him.
She rushed to print the file. But as the page slid out of the printer, her eyes caught something in the corner:
File shared anonymously by: E.M.
Her blood turned to ice.
Evan.
---
She called her brother.
Once. Twice. Five times.
No answer.
The sixth time, someone picked up.
But it wasn't Evan.
> "He's not here right now," a male voice said—low, calm, unfamiliar.
> "Where is he?" Alyssa demanded.
> "Relax. He's safe. For now."
> "Who the hell is this?"
> "Let's just say... someone who's been waiting for leverage. And thanks to your little PR circus, we've got it."
Click.
No name. No demand.
Just silence.
And threat.
---
Damon found her pacing like a woman possessed.
> "He's gone," Alyssa said, her voice a whispering panic. "Evan. Someone has him."
Damon's entire body stiffened. "What did they say?"
> "Leverage. Power. You."
He didn't ask again.
Within seconds, he was on the phone, rattling off commands like a man used to handling crises no one else could see.
> "Track Evan Hart. All hospitals, transport hubs, private cams. I want Baird on this."
> "Who's Baird?" Alyssa asked, breathless.
> "My fixer."
> "You have a fixer?"
He gave her a sharp look.
> "Of course I have a fixer."
---
An hour later, Camille returned with the footage.
Security tapes from Evan's clinic showed two men—masked, disguised as delivery drivers—entering his room.
He never walked out.
A black van with no plates pulled out twenty minutes later.
Gone.
Clean.
Cold.
---
Alyssa dropped into the nearest chair, all the fire drained from her body.
> "This is my fault," she whispered. "I pulled him into this."
> "No," Damon said. "They would've come either way. You just gave them a faster route."
> "What do they want?"
> "Me. Or what I own. Or both. And now they know your brother is my soft spot."
Alyssa looked up, eyes narrowing.
> "You don't have a soft spot."
> "Apparently I do."
> "Will you get him back?"
He looked at her. No facade. No armor.
> "Yes."
> "Even if it costs you?"
> "Especially then."
---
Later, Alyssa stood alone on the balcony, wind biting at her skin, the city flickering like a distant illusion.
She clutched the file in her hand.
Her father—framed.
Her brother—taken.
And Damon, caught somewhere between predator and protector.
Damon stepped beside her in silence.
She didn't look at him. Not right away.
> "If you lose everything saving him…" she murmured, "I won't pity you."
> "I don't want pity."
> "What do you want?"
He hesitated.
The city burned beneath them. Quiet. Heavy.
> "Redemption."
She turned to him.
And for the first time, saw the truth behind the mask.
Not the devil.
Not the billionaire.
Just the man.
Scarred. Cornered.
And maybe, just maybe… still capable of saving something.
Even if he had to lose everything first.