The glow from Adrian's penthouse windows spilled over the city like molten gold. There stood Elena in the center of his study, the flash drive burning a hole into her palm as if alive. Every file, every hidden transaction, every message to prove the extent of his empire and his crimes were burned into her brain.
But beyond this, nestled amidst the coded financials and encrypted documents, lay something she had not expected — a name. Her father's name. Not the way she feared, not as a traitor... but as someone Adrian had protected. The betrayal she thought she understood had suddenly become much more complicated.
The door clicked. Two things impinged on her consciousness: the constriction of her chest.
Adrian stepped in, dark and magnetic as always — a shadow incarnate. He still wore his jacket from the evening meeting, the faint scent of smoke and expensive whiskey lingering on him. His gaze fell upon her, upon the flash drive in her hand; flickers of understanding crossed his face.
"Elena," he said slowly, closing the door behind him. "You've been busy."
She swallowed hard. "I had to know the truth."
His jaw moved. "And? Was there anything you were looking for? Or are you still chasing ghosts?"
Tension stretched like a wire between them. He could walk out of this room, expose him, hand over the drive to an FBI contact she had been stringing along, and burn him to the ground. The thought twisted her gut further, as she very well knew that with Adrian's fall, hers would follow.
"You could have told me," she whispered. "About my father. About... all of it."
"I don't tell anyone anything unless I'm sure they can survive the knowledge," he said, stepping closer. "And I wasn't sure you could."
Her heart raced. He was close enough now for her to see the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth, the one she'd traced with her fingertip while they were in bed together.
"Survive?" she breathed. "Or stay loyal?"
He smiled softly; it was more a warning than an invitation. "Both."
Subconsciously, she slipped the flash drive into her pocket; she was not prepared to destroy him. Not yet; perhaps, never.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured, his fingers brushing along her jaw. "When you play in my world, you will cease to tell the difference between a cage and a home."
Her voice shook, not from sheer fright. "Then maybe you should show me the difference."
His eyes turned dark, and in the next moment, his mouth was on hers, savage and claiming and unapologetic. She should have thrust him away, instead, her fingers tangled in his shirt, tugging him closer until she felt the thunder of his heartbeat against hers.
The kiss parted long enough for him to murmur against her lips, "You've made your choice, Elena. Don't make me regret it."
And she knew below, she was still not near the end of the game. It was just the point at which the stakes had become lethal.