With a view of Santerra's central city park, I sit at a table in an expensive restaurant where the panoramic glass catches the sunset and reflects it in wineglasses like mirrors of other people's lives.
I am Isabella. And right now, I am playing a role.
Kaiden Starkwell sits across from me—impeccably dressed, calm, self-assured, like a man accustomed to buying not things, but destinies. His fingers rest on the white tablecloth, too close to mine. I feel the warmth of his skin without even touching him. Or do I imagine it? No. I don't. I always sense things like this.
"Kaiden," I say softly, slowing my voice as if stretching the pleasure. "I'm so happy I met you. You're… the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Of course, I think. The best thing is your bank account and your blindness.
He smiles, a little embarrassed. There is no vulgarity in his smile—only masculine pride and gratitude to fate for a late, but dazzling gift. For me.
"Isabella…" He says my name with a pause, as if tasting it. "You're young, slender, beautiful. But most importantly—you're intelligent. And tactful. That's a rare combination."
I place my hand over his. A light touch. Nothing excessive. Just a promise. His pupils dilate—I notice it and nearly smile too wide. Control yourself.
"I've grown used to you," he continues more quietly. "And I want you to lack for nothing."
There it is. Something inside me tightens with anticipation.
He pulls a small package from the inner pocket of his jacket. Too neat. Too heavy for a simple trinket. My heart beats faster than it should—I hate that gifts still have power over me.
"Kaiden?.." I play at surprise, though my fingers are already trembling.
I open the package. A platinum credit card. My name engraved perfectly, like a benediction.
"Oh my God…" I spring up too abruptly. "Are you serious?"
I laugh, almost squeal with delight, and throw myself into his arms. His hands wrap around me—awkward, but firm. I catch the scent of his cologne: expensive, confident, with notes of power.
"We are still in a public place," he whispers with a smile.
"Sorry," I pull back, pretending to collect myself. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into.
I sit down again, straighten my back, letting the dress emphasize exactly what it should.
"You're an incredibly generous man."
"I know how to please young beauties," he says confidently. An old hunter. Too confident.
He leans closer.
"Today the board of Hyperion Trust made a decision that will bring us hundreds of millions of euros. I want you to be my talisman. My good luck."
"I can be more than a talisman," I reply languidly, tilting my head. "I can be your joy. And your happiness."
And your mistake, adds a cold inner voice.
He pays without even glancing at the bill. We leave. The evening park breathes cool air; people laugh, unaware of the games unfolding right beside them.
We walk down the path.
And suddenly—a bench.
That very one.
Where I sat with Christian. Where we played at spies. Where I was handed the package. Where I realized I liked danger.
My heart stutters.
Does he know?
Is he leading me here on purpose?
Or is it a coincidence that's about to destroy me?
I steal a glance at Kaiden. He looks happy. Calm. His steps are confident.
But I am no longer sure of anything.
Because if he's playing too…
…then for the first time, I may not be the one controlling the rules.
**
I step into a spacious office where granite and glass argue over the right to dominate. Granite wins—cold, confident, like a fist striking a table. Everything here is about power. About endurance. About the unspoken rule that the weak do not cross this threshold.
Maxwell Draven, head of the Blacktrace Consortium, rises from his chair as if from a throne. He spreads his arms wide—an expansive, theatrical gesture, well rehearsed. He is pleased. Or exceptionally good at pretending.
"Christian Grayson, my dear friend," he says, his voice thick and oily, like an expensive whiskey. "It's a pleasure to see you."
Dear friend. I smile inwardly. In this office, friendship is measured in percentages and the number of zeros that follow.
"What can I get you? Don't be shy."
"Freshly squeezed orange juice. With ice."
He snaps his fingers. Only now do I register the security—two hulking men by the wall, motionless, indistinguishable from the décor. Not people. A warning.
The glass is placed in my hand. The ice burns my fingers with cold. I take a small sip. Sharp. Refreshing. It clears the head.
"I see business is booming, Maxwell," I say casually, as if we're discussing the weather rather than other people's lives.
His smile widens. He enjoys having his success acknowledged.
"Exactly, Christian." He leans closer, lowering his voice as though we're sharing a secret, not celebrating the heist of the century. "You secured invaluable information on Hyperion Trust's dealings. My traders are sharpening their knives already. We'll strip that arrogant old man Starkwell down to the bone."
To the marrow, I correct silently.
"Our pockets will be overflowing with cash," he continues, almost childishly delighted. "Can you taste success?"
I taste orange, ice, and blood. Success always smells the same.
"Your words are inspiring, Maxwell," I reply evenly. "But you know me. I don't care for promises. I care for results. Especially when they appear on my offshore account."
He laughs. Loud. Confident.
"I reward those who bring me profit. You'll get every last cent." A pause. A narrowing of the eyes. "But tell me… how do you manage to obtain secrets like these?"
I smile. Slowly. Almost lazily.
"That's why they're called secrets, Maxwell. You don't talk about them."
Isabella Delacour flashes through my mind. Her slender fingers. The tremor in her voice. The device delicately embedded into the fiber-optic cable of Kaiden Starkwell's penthouse. One mistake—and she's finished.
If he finds out.
A faint, almost erotic thrill ripples through me—not from her, but from the risk itself. From the game. From how easily people sell themselves for the illusion of safety.
What do I care about her?
I clawed my way out of poverty. I survived. I learned how to smile at the people I intend to destroy.
I lift the glass and take another sip.
Maxwell watches me with satisfaction. He thinks I belong to him.
But there's one thing he doesn't know.
In any game, I serve only one master.
Myself.