The sharp sound of buttons snapping shattered the quiet.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each metallic pop echoed unnaturally loud in the dim bedroom.
Emily felt the fabric give way under his hand.
Cool air brushed across her exposed skin.
For half a heartbeat, her mind went blank.
Then fury rushed in.
Sebastian lowered his head slowly.
His gaze fixed on the place just beneath her collarbone.
That was where it had been.
A silver iris.
Small.
Subtle.
Hidden enough to be intimate.
He remembered it vividly.
The curve of the petals.
The faint shimmer under chandelier light.
The way it caught moonlight on the balcony of the Ardent Crown in Las Vegas.
His thumb had traced it once.
She had laughed.
Soft.
Breathless.
Now—
There was nothing.
Her skin was unmarked.
Flawless.
Untouched by ink.
His eyes darkened.
Impossible.
He had reconstructed that night hundreds of times in his mind.
Every detail.
Every shadow.
Every scent.
He did not miscalculate.
And yet—
The tattoo was gone.
The shock lasted less than a second.
But it was enough.
Emily exploded.
The humiliation hit harder than the cold air.
Being abducted was terrifying.
Being accused was infuriating.
But being torn open and inspected—
That was intolerable.
"You're out of your mind!"
She twisted violently, adrenaline surging through her limbs.
Sebastian had loosened his grip just enough in distraction.
That mistake cost him.
She wrenched one wrist free.
The silver mask slid from her face and hit the floor with a metallic clang.
Her palm rose instinctively.
Crack.
The slap landed across his face with stunning clarity.
The sound seemed to freeze the room.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
Emily felt it.
The shift.
The air turned sharp.
His eyes changed.
Not surprise.
Not even anger.
Something colder.
More dangerous.
He had been caught off guard.
He had been looking for evidence.
Instead, he had been struck.
No one hit Sebastian Hawke.
Not in boardrooms.
Not in negotiations.
Certainly not in his own home.
And yet—
She had.
His jaw flexed slowly.
His hand came up.
Not to strike her back—
But to capture her wrists.
In one controlled movement, he forced her back into the mattress.
Pinned her.
His body hovered above hers, not reckless but deliberate.
His breathing was steady.
But his eyes burned.
"You still fight," he murmured.
"Of course I fight," she snapped. "You're insane."
The insult did not faze him.
But the word did.
Insane.
Perhaps.
Seven years searching for a woman who vanished like smoke.
Seven years reconstructing betrayal.
Seven years watching his father deteriorate under stress.
Seven years replaying her smile beneath a mask.
"You refuse to admit it," he said evenly. "So let's test your memory."
"Test it how?"
He did not answer with words.
His mouth covered hers.
The kiss was not tender.
It was not romantic.
It was a challenge.
A demand.
Emily's mind went white with outrage.
She clamped her lips shut, turning her face sharply away.
His teeth grazed her lower lip—hard enough to hurt.
A sharp sting flared.
She tasted blood.
The metallic tang filled the air between them.
Something in him reacted to it.
Memory crashed over instinct.
The casino lights.
Her body pressed against him.
The silver mask sliding off at dawn.
He deepened the kiss.
Not because he wanted her.
Because he needed to know.
Was she the same woman?
Did she respond the same way?
Did her breath hitch the same way?
She fought him with everything she had.
Her hands clawed at his shoulders.
Her knee drove upward.
Her nails raked his neck.
"You're sick!" she shouted when she managed to wrench her mouth free. "I'm not whoever you think I am!"
He caught both wrists in one hand again.
Forced them above her head.
His lips curved slightly.
"You should scream," he said near her ear. "I might enjoy it."
The words were quiet.
Measured.
Terrifying.
Her entire body tensed.
"You're disgusting."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he let his breath brush deliberately against the sensitive curve of her ear.
Her body betrayed her.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Her fingers trembled.
She hated that.
Hated the involuntary reaction.
"I don't even know your name," she shot back, trying to regain control.
A low chuckle escaped him.
"That's disappointing."
He leaned closer.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin.
"Sebastian Hawke."
The name struck something deep inside her.
Her pupils tightened.
Not recognition.
Not exactly.
But the sound of it resonated.
She didn't know why.
His gaze sharpened.
There.
Again.
That reaction.
He shifted, pressing closer.
Testing.
Pushing.
And then—
A sharp knock shattered the tension.
Both froze.
The knock came again.
Urgent.
Impatient.
Sebastian's expression darkened.
Emily's lungs filled in relief so sudden it almost made her dizzy.
He looked down at her for several seconds.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Then slowly released her.
"You're fortunate," he said coolly.
He stepped off the bed.
Adjusted his jacket with calm precision.
As though nothing had happened.
Emily remained still for a moment.
Then rolled onto her side, pulling torn fabric around herself.
Her heart pounded violently.
Her lips throbbed.
But beneath the anger—
There was something else.
When he had said his name—
Why had it felt… familiar?
Downstairs
"Mr. Hawke," Marcus said in a low voice as Sebastian stepped into the hallway. "Miss Ross is here."
Sebastian stopped mid-stride.
His expression shifted instantly.
Cold.
"Blue Ember Group has no Mrs. Hawke."
The correction was sharp.
Marcus swallowed. "Miss Ross refuses to leave."
Of course she did.
Sebastian descended the staircase slowly.
The living room lights were bright.
Vivian Ross stood near the center of the room.
Elegant.
Poised.
Her tailored dress fell perfectly along her frame.
When she saw him, her smile bloomed immediately.
"Sebastian."
She approached and took his arm naturally, as though claiming territory.
"I heard you didn't go to the office today. I was worried."
He regarded her without expression.
"You seem very well-informed."
Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I care about you."
"Do not monitor me again."
The softness in his tone vanished.
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"I wasn't monitoring. I was concerned."
"Concern is not surveillance."
His gaze was level.
She lowered her eyes briefly.
"Understood."
He disengaged his arm.
"Time to go home."
Her composure cracked slightly.
"I just arrived."
"Marcus."
The command needed no elaboration.
Marcus stepped forward.
"I'll escort Miss Ross."
Vivian felt heat rise in her chest.
Six years.
Six years engaged.
Six years waiting.
And now—
A rumor had reached her tonight.
A woman taken from the airport.
Brought here.
To Seacliff Heights.
That house was sacred.
Untouchable.
No one stayed there without meaning.
She had to see.
Had to confirm.
Before she could speak again—
A movement at the top of the staircase drew her attention.
She looked up.
And saw her.
Barefoot.
Hair slightly disordered.
Blouse torn.
Lip faintly red.
But her spine was straight.
Her gaze steady.
Vivian's heart dropped.
So this was the woman.
The ghost.
The one he had searched for.
Sebastian felt the silence shift behind him.
He did not turn immediately.
He already knew.
The tension in the room told him everything.
Slowly—
He looked back.
His eyes met Emily's.
Then shifted to Vivian.
A thin smile touched his lips.
Controlled.
Strategic.
The war he had waited seven years for—
Had just become three-sided.