Ava hadn't slept.
She'd tossed and turned all night. Replaying every moment of the gala. The way Lucien had looked at her in that dress. The possessive weight of his hand on her back. The dangerous edge in his voice when he'd warned her about smiling at James Rothschild.
But most of all—she couldn't stop thinking about what had almost happened on that balcony.
The memory made her cheeks burn. Shame mixed with something else she refused to name. She had seen the hunger in his dark eyes. She had felt the tension between them, sharp and crackling like electricity.
For one terrifying, exhilarating second, she had thought he might actually—
But he hadn't. The moment had been shattered by returning guests. And Lucien had transformed instantly, slipping back into the mask of the controlled, professional man she knew. They had reentered the party as though nothing had happened. Yet she had felt him beside her for the rest of the night.
Now, sitting at her desk at 7:30 AM, dark circles under her eyes, her third cup of coffee cooling at her side, Ava tried to work. Tried to forget the way her heart had raced when he had stepped toward her on that balcony.
"Miss Lane."
Her head lifted. Victoria stood by her desk. Impeccable as always. A cool smile fixed in place.
"Mr. Drake needs you to retrieve a document from his private archive," Victoria said, handing her a key card. "The Morrison Industries acquisition file from 2019. He needs it within the hour."
Ava took the key card. Grateful. A task would pull her from her desk, away from her thoughts.
"Where is the archive?"
"Sub-basement level three. Take the executive elevator. End of the hall—you can't miss it."
The elevator carried her down past levels she hadn't known existed. Sub-basement three. A place few employees were ever meant to see.
The hallway was sterile. Windowless. Lit by harsh fluorescents that made everything look cold, institutional.
The archive room stood exactly where Victoria had said. Ava swiped the card. The door opened. She stepped into the scent of paper, ink, filing systems.
Rows of shelves stretched floor to ceiling. Metal. Heavy. Labeled boxes and cabinets—decades of corporate records.
She searched the section marked 2019 Acquisitions. Scanned for Morrison Industries. Everything in perfect order. Every box neatly labeled. Lucien's obsession with control, made physical.
Reaching up, she spotted it: Morrison Industries – Q3 2019. She stood on tiptoe, tugged. Too heavy. The box slipped.
It crashed to the floor. Papers exploded around her in a white cascade.
Cursing, Ava dropped to her knees, scooping documents into shaking hands.
That was when she saw the first photograph.
Her.
Walking out of her old office. The receptionist job. Her blue cardigan—the one she had thrown away after a stain ruined it. Her hair shorter, the way she had worn it six months ago.
Her fingers trembled. She picked up another.
Romano's Café. She sat hunched over medical bills, exhausted, rubbing her temples. She remembered the moment. Remembered the ache.
Another photo. The bus stop. Rain streaking the glass.
Another. Grocery shopping. Counting prices, brand by brand.
Another. Central Park bench. Feeding pigeons on her lunch break.
The photographs kept coming. Dozens. Hundreds. Each one a violation. Each one a piece of her life. Months before she had even known the name Lucien Drake.
Her breath faltered. She opened a folder marked A.L.
Subject: Ava Marie Lane
DOB: March 15, 2002
Current Address: 1247 Amsterdam Avenue, Apt 4B
Employment: Receptionist, Hartwell & Associates (2023–2024)
Financial Status: Significant debt. Medical expenses.
Family: Mother, Patricia Lane. Patient at Saint Mary's Hospital.
Behavioral: Punctual. Financially responsible despite hardship. Strong family loyalty…
On and on. Pages of it. Her life broken into bullet points. Notes on her personality. Her routines. Her vulnerabilities.
At the bottom, in Lucien's handwriting: Suitable candidate. Proceed with employment offer.
The world tilted. The job interview. The way he had hired her on the spot. His knowledge of her debts. None of it had been coincidence.
He had been watching her. Studying her. For months.
The times she had felt watched. The prickle at her neck walking home. She had blamed the city. Paranoia.
It hadn't been paranoia at all.
Lucien Drake had been stalking her.
Her hands shook. Some photos were crisp, expensive, taken by professionals. Others were raw, candid—phone camera angles.
Her apartment. Her mother's hospital. The little flower shop where she bought daisies to brighten their apartment. All of it catalogued. Studied.
Why? Why her? What could Lucien Drake want with a receptionist from Queens?
The door opened behind her.
She froze.
She didn't have to turn. His presence pressed into the air like gravity.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
His voice was calm. Dangerously calm. The same tone he used in meetings. But there was something beneath it. Something sharp.
Ava turned slowly. Photographs clutched in trembling fingers.
Lucien stood in the doorway. Perfect suit. Impeccable posture. Expression unreadable.
But his eyes burned.
"How long?" Her voice cracked. Barely a whisper.
"How long what?" Smooth. Conversational. As though this were nothing but quarterly reports.
"How long have you been watching me?"
He stepped inside. Closed the door with a soft click. Final.
"Long enough."
"Months." Her voice broke. The proof lay scattered across the floor.
"You were perfect." He moved closer, that predator's grace unmistakable. "Desperate enough to be grateful. Smart enough to be useful. Beautiful enough to be worth the investment."
Investment. As though she were a commodity.
"You're sick," she whispered, backing into the shelving.
"I'm thorough." His hands clasped behind his back. Casual. Calculated. "I don't make decisions without complete information. When I decide I want something, I learn exactly what I'm acquiring."
Acquiring. Not hiring. Not helping. Acquiring.
"I'm not something you can own." Her voice shook with anger, brittle against the fear clawing at her.
His lips curved. Not a smile. Something sharper.
"Aren't you?" His hand swept toward the photographs. "Your lease? Mine. I bought the building. Your mother's hospital bills? Paid through a shell company. The clothes, the food, the bed you sleep in? All of it exists because I allow it."
Each word landed like a blow. Her mother's sudden better care. Bills vanishing. She had believed it was luck. Charity.
It had been him. Always him.
"You can't do this," she whispered.
"I can do whatever I want, Ava. I own you. Just as I own this building. Or that dress you wore last night." His voice sank, low and dangerous. "The question is: what am I going to do about the fact that you've seen something you shouldn't have?"
The threat hung in the air. Heavy. Inescapable.
Ava looked down at the evidence at her feet. Photographs. Reports. Proof.
Proof that could destroy him—if anyone ever saw it.
Which meant she was a liability.
And Lucien Drake did not tolerate liabilities.