The image on her phone burned into Serena's mind long after she set the glass of wine down.
She'd seen paparazzi shots of herself before. This wasn't that.
The framing was too precise, the timing too perfect. She and Damien leaving the café, both mid-step, unaware of the lens trained on them. Whoever took this had been close—close enough to catch the glint of sunlight off Damien's watch and the faint crease in her jacket sleeve.
This wasn't a journalist fishing for gossip. This was surveillance.
The caption—You're not the only one watching—felt less like a warning and more like a taunt.
She didn't like being taunted.
---
Two hours later
The Langford penthouse garage was usually silent this time of night, the hum of the elevator the only sound. But tonight, as she slid into the back of her car, Serena caught a shadow of movement in the corner of her eye.
A figure—hood up, head down—slipped past the far exit.
"Ava," Serena said quietly into the car's intercom, "check the security feed from Bay 3. Someone's been moving in the restricted zone."
Ava's voice crackled through. "Already pulling it up… Got them. Black hoodie, dark jeans, about one-eighty centimeters. No badge."
"Send me the footage. And flag building security. I want a sweep in the next ten minutes."
"Yes, ma'am."
The car pulled out into the street, and Serena's gaze caught on the faint glint of headlights in the rearview mirror. They stayed two car lengths behind. No weaving, no attempt to overtake. Just steady.
Her fingers itched for her phone. She hated that the first number she thought of was Damien's.
She hated even more that she dialed it.
---
"Langford," Damien's voice came after two rings. "Didn't expect to hear from you twice in the same day. I'm flattered."
"I'm being tailed."
"Describe."
"Black sedan, no plates, keeping two lengths behind. Picked me up outside my building."
"Stay on the main roads. And whatever you do, don't go home."
She frowned. "Why—"
The line clicked dead.
---
Five minutes later, a silver motorcycle slid into the lane beside her car, helmet visor down. The rider pointed forward, motioning her driver to follow.
Her driver glanced in the mirror. "Do we—"
"Yes," Serena said, irritation prickling under her skin. "Follow."
They wound through a set of side streets, the black sedan shadowing them the whole way, until the motorcycle led them into the brightly lit underground garage of the Hotel Montclair—one of Damien's Paris properties.
The sedan didn't follow. It kept going, merging into traffic like it had never been there at all.
---
Hotel Montclair, Private Lounge
The lounge was quiet, save for the low hum of a jazz track filtering through hidden speakers. Damien was already there, leaning against the bar with a drink in hand. His helmeted rider—now unmasked—turned out to be a tall woman with sharp eyes and the kind of presence that made you think twice before asking questions.
"Serena Langford," Damien said smoothly, "meet Lyra. She handles… delicate matters for me."
Serena shot him a look. "You sent a biker to fetch me?"
"I sent someone who could lose a tail in under five minutes," he said, unbothered. "Which she did. You're welcome."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You called me. That counts."
Serena ignored the smug curve of his mouth and turned to Lyra. "Did you get a good look at them?"
"Too far for a plate," Lyra said, "but the car's a custom-tinted Jaguar XF. Not standard paparazzi fare."
Damien's gaze sharpened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning someone with money—and a reason to avoid being identified."
Serena's mind flicked back to Elena Rousseau and the man in her office earlier. "Could be tied to the leak."
"Could be," Damien said, "or could be someone else entirely. You've got enemies, Langford. So do I."
She folded her arms. "So now we're lumping our enemies together?"
He smirked faintly. "If they're watching both of us, it's efficient."
---
They moved to a booth in the corner, away from the main entrance. Damien pulled out a tablet, swiping through surveillance footage from the hotel's exterior cameras.
The black sedan appeared on screen, creeping along two blocks back before peeling off the moment Serena's car entered Montclair property.
"They didn't want to be seen here," Lyra noted.
"Which tells us two things," Damien said. "One—they know exactly who owns this hotel. And two—they wanted to keep you in play long enough to see where you'd go on your own."
Serena leaned forward. "So they weren't just following me—they were waiting to see if I'd lead them to someone else."
Damien met her eyes across the table. "And tonight, you led them to me."
---
They sat in silence for a beat, the weight of it stretching between them.
Serena broke it first. "This isn't just about the board, is it? Whoever's behind this is pushing the merger for their own gain, but they're also playing with something else—something they're not ready to show yet."
Damien didn't deny it. "I've been getting whispers for weeks. Quiet buy-ins from shell companies, movements in the luxury travel sector. It's like someone's building a chessboard underneath ours."
She exhaled slowly. "And they just made the mistake of letting us know they're watching."
Damien's smile was slow and deliberate. "Then it's our move."
---
Thirty minutes later
Lyra left to run the sedan's description through her own channels, and Serena stayed in the lounge with Damien. The tension between them was sharp enough to cut glass, but there was something else threading through it now—a grudging recognition that their interests were, for the moment, aligned.
"You know," Damien said, swirling the last of his drink, "you're surprisingly calm for someone who's being hunted."
"I've been in this game longer than you think," she replied.
"Games usually have rules."
Her lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Only for people who like to lose."
By the time Serena left the Montclair, it was past midnight. The city was quiet, rain slicking the streets. Her driver opened the car door, but she hesitated, scanning the shadows out of instinct.
No sedan this time. No obvious tail.
But as she slid into the seat, her phone buzzed again.
Another photo.
This one was taken through the lounge window -her and Damien in the corner booth, faces half-hidden but unmistakable.
The message attached was different from the first.
Next time, I won't need a camera