Zurich. Morning.
Sun leaked through the curtains.
Jane opened her eyes. No dream. Just silence.
She checked her phone. 6:34 a.m.
By 7:10, she was dressed in a purple silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored slacks. Hair pinned clean, lipstick very demure. The mirror said composed. But her eyes said otherwise.
The elevator chimed. She stepped in and pressed the button to the ground floor.
Jace Davis was already at the corner table, suit crisp, tablet open. He looked up.
"You look pale."
She blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. "Didn't sleep well."
"Again?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Sit."
She hesitated. "We are tight on time. The keynote starts in less..."
"We'll make time," he said flatly, eyes still on the screen.
A waiter set down two espressos. Jace stirred once and set the spoon aside.
"You've done well these few days," he said. "Despite… distractions."
Jane sipped her drink. "I'm just doing my job."
He watched her, then leaned back, voice low but unyielding. "After the conference, you'll have dinner with me. I've already made the reservation."
Jane narrowed her eyes. "And is this, by chance, a work dinner?"
"No. Just you and me."
Her pulse jumped, but she masked it with a cool arch of her brow. "Excuse me? Last I checked, my personal schedule is mine to manage, not yours."
A flicker of amusement tugged at Jace's mouth.
"You'll make time."
She folded her arms, irritation sharpening her voice.
"Maybe you're used to women jumping when you snap your fingers, Mr. Davis, but I'm not one of them. If I go to dinner, it'll be because I choose to, not because you ordered it."
His smile deepened, infuriatingly calm.
"I didn't realize seafood and small talk scared you."
Before she could bite back, he drained the rest of his coffee in one smooth gulp. Rising, he adjusted his jacket just as the valet pulled the car forward.
"Finish your espresso," he said over his shoulder. "It's going to be a long day. Dinner's at 8. Don't be late."
Jane stared at him, heat prickling her skin, her untouched espresso cooling in front of her.
Like the steadiness she thought she had found, fading. Already gone.
Carrington Estate. 2:05 p.m
The east wing looked like a studio, not a home. Ring lights buzzed, designer gowns hung on racks, and half-eaten macarons melted on silver trays.
Seraphina Carrington stood at the center: perfect hair, cool eyes. The queen of chaos.
"Why is the Barcelona team still using lowercase captions?" She snapped. "This is a luxury brand, not a hobby blog!"
Her staff winced. Elliot, her anxious manager attempting damage control, raised a clipboard.
"They fixed it, ma'am. New posts go live in ten..."
"Ten minutes too late. This isn't a bloody juice cleanse. This is Seraphina Carrington Lifestyle."
The intern at the table—barely twenty, hired two weeks ago—shrunk.
"Everyone out. Now! You stay." She said, pointing at Elliot.
The room emptied. Then the door opened again.
A man in a gray coat stepped inside. Silent, confident, belonging.
"Go," she told Elliot without looking.
"But..."
"Leave."
She locked the door.
The man slid a flash drive across the table. The Arkos logo glinted. One name was spoken. Seraphina swore under her breath. Five minutes later, he was gone.
A knock.
"I said not now," she snapped.
"Never the right time for you," Thea said, pushing in. She clocked the room. "We need to talk."
"If this is about your influencer conspiracy..." Seraphina's fingers brushed the drive; she palmed it and slid it into a hidden seam beneath a garment bag, gone in one motion.
"It's about dad. I found proof. The trials that ruined him. He was framed. The signature on the protocol is my boss. Jace Davis."
Seraphina laughed, dry. "You think I didn't know?"
Thea stiffened. "You knew?"
"Of course. And more."
"So, what's the plan?"
"Plan?" Seraphina smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her silk blouse. "There isn't one. This game started before you were born. If you don't see the board, don't touch the pieces."
"I told Alfred. He's looking into it."
That name made her pause. There was anger, then concern. A thin smile. "Oh, Thea. If only you knew."
"What does that mean?"
But Seraphina was already grabbing her phone and sunglasses. "Stay out of it. That's a warning."
She swept away, heels whispering over the velvet carpet.
Thea stood alone, dread twisting in her stomach.
Carrington's Pharmaceuticals. 2:44 p.m.
No one stopped her, everyone knew the CEO's daughters. The lobby was empty, the floor quiet. The staff had gone home for the day. Even his secretary's desk sat untouched. Thea moved through the familiar hall to her father's office, shut the door, and locked it.
Thea stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Then she locked it.
Ink, paper, dust. She crossed into the inner chamber, his private office. Years ago, she and Seraphina had cracked this system for the thrill. Back when they were closer. This wasn't that.
She uncovered the desktop; the old server hummed awake. From her coat she drew a flash drive. The one her private investigator had given her. He told her the contents were highly encrypted and could only be opened from the original source.
That source was here.
She plugged it in. Folders bloomed and her pulse spiked.
She scrolled unsure what she even was looking for, until a name caught her eye.
One she had never seen in any family file before.
Maris Carrington: Erased.
Notes: Removed from every records after incident.
Relocated. No digital ID.
Handler: Alfred Cooper.
Thea froze.
That was from eighteen years ago.
She opened another entry.
Emergency Override – Archive Protocol. The details were redacted, but one phrase wasn't:
Immediate termination failed. Secondary monitoring procedure followed.
Thea leaned back, hand over her mouth.
Maris. A Carrington. Erased. Relocated. And Alfred Cooper as handler.
Her voice shook, "Even Alfred? Really?"
Mr. Alfred: in the heart of every secret. Her father's confidant. Her mentor. Yet here he was —managing something buried so deep it had no shadow.
She copied the files to her own drive, ejected and powered down.
Her phone buzzed.
Alfred: Any luck with your investigation?
Her fingers hovered. She pictured the line again: "Handler: Alfred Cooper."
Thea: Dead end. Still digging.
She'd told him about her private investigator. But she regretted mentioning it to him.
She pocketed the drive, killed the lights, and smoothed her expression. Calm face, burning eyes.
On the way out she slid a thick envelope to the tech who'd killed the cameras. No questions.
Outside, a taxi pulled up. She got in.
Across the street, behind tinted glass, Seraphina watched from a black SUV. As the cab merged into traffic, she leaned forward. "Go."
Then she lifted her phone, still watching the road where Thea had vanished.