The package sat in Lucien's safe for three hours while Eleanor's security team analyzed the exterior, ran scanners over it, and debated protocols for safely opening it. Three hours of mounting tension as Lucien paced his office like a caged animal and Ava tried to focus on work while her mind raced with increasingly dark possibilities.
Finally, Lucien announced he needed to attend an emergency board meeting about the Patterson Industries merger. Something about investor concerns and timeline adjustments that required his immediate attention.
"I'll be back in an hour," he said, pausing at her desk. "Eleanor is outside if you need anything."
"I'll be fine," Ava assured him, watching him disappear into the elevator with several of his executives.
She waited exactly five minutes after he left, long enough to be sure he wasn't coming back for a forgotten document. Then she stood up and walked purposefully toward his office, her heart hammering but her expression calm.
"I need to grab some files for him," she told Eleanor, who was stationed near the executive elevator. "For the board meeting."
Eleanor nodded without question. Ava had been established as having access to Lucien's office—it wasn't unusual for his assistant to enter when he was away.
Once inside with the door closed, Ava moved quickly to his desk. The computer was locked, as expected, but she'd been his assistant long enough to know some of his patterns. She tried his mother's birthday—the one personal date he'd actually told her about during one of their conversations.
Access denied.
His father's birthday. Denied.
The founding date of the original Drake Industries. Denied.
She was running out of attempts before the system would lock her out entirely. Think, Ava. What would Lucien use that was meaningful enough to remember but not obvious enough to be guessed by casual hackers?
Then it hit her. If he'd used her birthday for his penthouse safe, what would he use for his work computer?
She typed in the date her father died—the day that had changed both their families forever.
The screen unlocked.
Ava stared at it for a moment, feeling a mixture of triumph and unease. Another piece of evidence that she was encoded into every aspect of his life, even the parts she'd never been meant to access.
She navigated quickly through his files, looking for anything related to the safe or security systems. His desktop was meticulously organized—folders labeled by project, date, importance. She found one simply labeled "Personal - Restricted" and clicked on it.
A password prompt appeared. Of course he'd have multiple layers of security.
She tried several combinations—variations on dates and names that might matter to him. Each one failed. She was about to give up when she noticed a small text file on his desktop labeled only with her initials: "A.L."
Curiosity overrode caution. She opened it and found a single line of text:
If you're reading this, you're trying to access something I didn't want to share but knew you'd eventually need to know. The password is your mother's maiden name.
Ava stared at the message, her hands trembling slightly. He'd anticipated this. Had known that eventually she would try to access his files, and had left her a way in. Not by making it easy, but by creating a path that only she could follow.
Her mother's maiden name was Sullivan. She typed it into the password prompt and hit enter.
The folder opened, revealing dozens of subfolders—each one labeled with dates going back years. Investigation reports, forensic accounting documents, surveillance photos, communications between lawyers and investigators. This was his research into their fathers' deaths, compiled over more than a decade of careful, methodical investigation.
But before she could start reading, a new window popped up on the screen. Not an error message or security alert, but a simple text box that made her blood run cold:
Access Granted, Ava.
Below it, another line appeared as she watched:
I knew you would try. I would have done the same.
He was monitoring the system remotely. Had probably received an alert the moment she'd unlocked his computer. And instead of locking her out or calling to demand an explanation, he'd simply acknowledged that he'd expected this.
Another line appeared:
The safe code is your mother's birthday. The package is in the evidence folder marked "Current Threats." Read everything. You deserve to know what we're dealing with.
Ava stared at the screen, torn between relief that he wasn't angry and unease at how thoroughly he'd anticipated her actions. This was both a gift—access to information she'd demanded—and a demonstration that he was always three steps ahead, always controlling the situation even when it looked like he was giving her freedom.
A final line appeared:
I'll be back in 40 minutes. If you want to talk about what you find, I'm here. If you need space to process, I understand. But please, Ava—be careful. The people who sent that package are watching.
Then the text window closed, leaving her alone with access to files that might contain answers to questions she'd been asking for months.
Ava took a deep breath and opened the folder marked "Current Threats." Inside was a subfolder created just today, labeled with the date and time the package had arrived. She clicked on it and found a series of photos—high-resolution scans of the package from every angle, showing the plain brown wrapping, the typed address label, the absence of any identifying marks.
Below the photos was a preliminary security report from Eleanor's team. The package had been X-rayed and showed no explosives or chemical threats. It appeared to contain paper documents, nothing more dangerous than information.
But information could be the most dangerous weapon of all.
Ava's eyes moved to another folder—this one dated five years ago, labeled "Last Contact." She opened it and found similar photos of a previous package. This one had contained a single photograph: Lucien's father's suicide note, photographed at the scene. Beneath it was a handwritten message: We know what you're looking for. Stop.
The message was clear—someone had been watching Lucien's investigation, had access to crime scene evidence that should have been sealed, and was willing to use his father's death as a tool of intimidation.
There was another folder from seven years ago. This package had contained bank records—copies of the money laundering transactions that David Lane had facilitated, along with a list of names. Some were crossed out in red ink. Beneath the scanned documents was a note in Lucien's handwriting: Verified deceased. All investigators who got close to these transactions ended up dead within six months.
Ice formed in Ava's stomach. The pattern was clear—anyone who dug too deeply into the money laundering operation ended up having fatal "accidents." Car crashes, home invasions gone wrong, apparent suicides. The criminal organization that had coerced her father wasn't just ruthless; they were systematic about eliminating threats.
She found the safe code exactly where Lucien had said it would be—a document labeled "Safe Access Protocol" that listed her mother's birthday as the current code, with a note that it had been changed from his father's birthday three months ago. Around the time Paris had happened, Ava realized. Around the time his feelings for her had shifted from revenge plot to something more complicated.
She input the code into the safe control system integrated with his computer. The safe unlocked with a soft click that she could hear even from across the room.
Ava stood and moved to the wall safe, her heart pounding as she pulled open the heavy door. The mysterious package sat inside, still wrapped, still unopened. Next to it was a sealed envelope labeled simply "For A.L."
She pulled out the envelope first, her hands shaking slightly. Inside was a handwritten letter—Lucien's distinctive script covering two pages:
Ava,
If you're reading this, you've accessed my safe without my direct permission. I'm not angry. I'm actually relieved that you took initiative to get information rather than just trusting me to share it when I deemed appropriate.
The package that arrived today is the third warning I've received over the years. Each one comes when I've gotten too close to information about the criminal organization that coerced your father. Each one is a reminder that they're watching, that they know what I'm investigating, and that they're willing to escalate if I don't back off.
I've never opened these packages immediately. Each time, I've had them analyzed, secured, and filed away as evidence for an investigation I keep hoping will eventually lead somewhere. But the truth is, I'm terrified of what opening them might reveal. Not because I'm afraid of physical threats to myself, but because I'm afraid they'll contain threats to people I care about.
People like you.
I've spent years trying to protect you from this—from knowing that your father's death wasn't just tragedy but murder, from understanding that the same people who killed him might see you as a liability, from bearing the weight of knowing that asking questions could put you in their crosshairs.
But I was wrong to keep you in the dark. Wrong to think that controlling information was the same as providing protection. You deserve to know what we're dealing with, even if that knowledge comes with risk.
So here's what I know: The criminal organization that coerced your father is still operating. They launder money through dozens of legitimate businesses, have connections to political figures and law enforcement, and have successfully eliminated everyone who's gotten close to exposing them. My investigators have identified a few key players, but never the person at the top—the one giving orders, the one who decided your father and mine were problems that needed solving.
I think this package is another warning. A reminder that they're aware of recent activity—your research, Alexander Vance's investigation, perhaps even our conversation last night. They want us to know they're watching and that we should stop asking questions.
But I also think it might contain information. A taunt, perhaps, or a demonstration of how much they know about us. These packages always contain enough detail to prove they have access to information that should be secured, enough specificity to make their threats credible.
I've arranged for Eleanor's team to analyze the contents once opened. Whatever we find, we'll face it together if you choose to stay involved. Or I'll handle it alone if you decide this is too dangerous, too complicated, too much.
The choice, for once, is genuinely yours.
I'm sorry for all the times I didn't give you real choices. Sorry for manipulating your life in the name of protection. Sorry for being so damaged by what happened to our families that I couldn't see I was becoming the kind of person my father would have been ashamed of.
Whatever happens next, whatever you decide about us, thank you for forcing me to confront my own controlling behavior. Thank you for not running even when you had every reason to. Thank you for being stronger than I ever gave you credit for.
- L
Ava finished reading with tears in her eyes. The letter was perhaps the most honest thing he'd ever written to her—no manipulation, no calculated vulnerability, just raw acknowledgment of his failures and genuine appreciation for her strength.
She turned her attention to the package, pulling it carefully from the safe. It was surprisingly light, just as the security report had indicated—paper, nothing more. But the weight of what that paper might contain felt enormous.
She should wait for Lucien to return. Should follow proper security protocols and have Eleanor's team present when she opened it. Should do the careful, cautious thing.
But Ava had spent months being careful and cautious and following rules set by other people. And she was tired of waiting for permission to know the truth about her own life.
She tore open the brown paper wrapping, revealing a plain cardboard box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a single photograph and a typed note.
The photograph made her knees weak. It showed her mother at the hospital, sitting in the garden area where Ava often took her for fresh air and sunshine. The photo was recent—taken within the last week based on what her mother was wearing. And standing in the background, just visible at the edge of the frame, was Ava herself.
The message below was typed in simple courier font:
David Lane's family. Still asking questions. Still worth watching. Consider this a reminder that some answers cost more than you can afford to pay.
Stop digging into the past, or the past will bury what's left of your future.
Ava stared at the photograph, at the clear evidence that someone had been following her to her mother's hospital visits, had been close enough to photograph them both, had access to their routines and schedules. The threats Lucien had described weren't theoretical dangers—they were immediate, present, watching from close enough to take clear photographs.
She heard the elevator chime and looked up to see Lucien returning, earlier than he'd said he would be. He must have cut the board meeting short when he'd received the alert that she'd accessed his files.
He stopped in the doorway of his office, taking in the scene—the open safe, the unwrapped package, the photograph clutched in her trembling hands. Their eyes met, and she saw fear and resignation warring in his expression.
"You opened it," he said quietly.
"I opened it." She held up the photograph so he could see. "They've been following me. Following us to the hospital."
Lucien crossed the room in three quick strides and took the photo from her hands, his face going pale as he studied it. "This was taken last Tuesday. When you visited after work."
"How do you know—" she started to ask, then remembered. Tuesday was when she'd stayed later than usual, when her mother had been having a particularly good day and they'd sat in the garden watching the sunset together. "Were you there?"
"I always know when you visit your mother," he admitted. "Not through surveillance anymore—through the hospital's visitor log that I have access to as her financial sponsor. I check it obsessively, make sure you're safe, that nothing unusual happened during your visits."
"Apparently something unusual did happen. Someone took this photograph without either of us noticing."
Lucien's hands clenched into fists around the photo, his jaw tight with barely controlled fury. "They were that close. Could have approached you, could have—" He cut himself off, breathing hard. "We need to increase security immediately. Hospital visits need to be accompanied, your route needs to vary, we need—"
"Lucien." She placed her hand over his, stilling his agitated movements. "Stop. We agreed to discuss these things together, remember?"
He looked at her, and she saw genuine terror in his dark eyes. "They threatened you. Photographed you. Made it clear they can get to you whenever they want. How am I supposed to stay calm about that?"
"You're not supposed to stay calm. You're supposed to work with me to figure out how we respond." She kept her voice steady despite her own fear. "But making unilateral decisions about my security won't help. It'll just push us back into old patterns."
He stared at her for a long moment, visibly struggling with his instinct to take control. Finally, he nodded and sank into his desk chair, pulling her down to sit beside him rather than across from him.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We figure this out together. What do you think we should do?"
The question—genuine, not rhetorical—felt like a victory. Ava looked at the photograph again, at the evidence of how close danger had gotten, and felt her fear crystallize into something harder and more determined.
"I think we need to know more about who we're dealing with," she said. "We need to find out who sent this, who's been watching us, who killed our fathers. Because running and hiding won't make this go away—it'll just make us easier targets."
"That's dangerous," Lucien warned.
"Living is dangerous." She met his eyes directly. "But I'd rather face it with information and agency than hide in a gilded cage waiting for them to decide what happens next."
He studied her face for a long moment, and she saw something shift in his expression—fear giving way to reluctant admiration, the need to protect warring with respect for her courage.
"Alright," he said finally. "We investigate. Together. But with proper security and careful planning."
"Together," Ava agreed. "With proper security and careful planning."
They sat in his office, the threatening photograph between them, and began planning how to fight back against shadows that had haunted both their families for decades.
For the first time since entering his world, Ava felt like they were actual partners rather than captor and captive. The threat was real, the danger was immediate, but at least now they were facing it as equals.
Or as close to equals as a billionaire CEO and his assistant could ever be.