The Breakfast of Spies:
The message on my phone was a seed of doubt, but looking at Alexander across the breakfast table was the harvest.
He sat there, sipping his black coffee and reading the financial news as if he hadn't spent the night before snapping a man's fingers in a dark hallway. The morning sun through the Sterling Estate windows was unforgiving, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. I watched the steam rise from his cup, wondering if those same hands had once held the match that burnt my world to ashes.
"You're staring, Ava," he said, not lifting his gaze from the tablet. "And you haven't touched your eggs. Is the 'Empress' lose her appetite after her first taste of blood?"
"I'm just thinking about the gala," I lied, my thumb tracing the edge of my phone in my pocket. The phantom vibration of that anonymous text felt like a burn against my hip. Don't trust the guardian.
"The gala is over. The Romanovs are retreating. You should be celebrating." He finally looked up, his winter-sea eyes scanning my face with a precision that made me feel naked. "But you look like you're preparing for a different kind of war."
"Maybe I am," I whispered.
He set his cup down with a controlled clink. "Information is the only currency that matters in this house, Ava. If you have a question, ask it. Don't let it rot in your mind."
I stared at him, the urge to scream the truth—to show him the message—nearly overwhelming me. But I had learned from the best. You never show your hand until the stakes are high enough to bankrupt your opponent.
"No questions, Alexander," I said, forcing a tight smile. "Just a headache."
I watched him leave for his downtown office an hour later, the black SUV disappearing through the reinforced gates. This was my window. Alexander Sterling was a man of patterns, and his pattern today involved a three-hour board meeting. Three hours to find the truth behind the "Guardian" who might be an arsonist.
The Silent Library:
The Sterling library was a cathedral of leather-bound secrets and mahogany shadows. I had been told never to enter without his permission, which made it the only place in the estate that mattered.
The door groaned as I pushed it open. The air inside was cool and smelled of old paper and expensive tobacco. I headed straight for the desk—a massive slab of dark wood that looked like it belonged to a king.
I started with the drawers. Most were filled with boring legal documents, land deeds, and offshore account statements. But the bottom right drawer was locked. Not with a key, but with a biometric scanner.
I felt a chill. I remembered the gala—the way he had gripped my wrist. I looked at my own thumb. Could it be? He had used my birthdate for the dome; would he use my identity for his vault?
I pressed my thumb to the cold glass. Click.
The drawer slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. Inside lay a single, weathered leather folder. My hands shook as I opened it. It wasn't full of money or deeds. It was a collection of newspaper clippings from twenty years ago.
"VOLKOV MANOR TRAGEDY: EMPIRE IN FLAMES."
"SHIPPING MAGNATE VIKTOR VOLKOV DECLARED DEAD; DAUGHTER MISSING."
In the center of the stack was a photo of the charred remains of my childhood home. But it was what was written on the margins that stopped my heart. Circling the name of Alexander's father—Arthur Sterling—was a thick, jagged ring of red ink.
Beside it, in Alexander's sharp, aggressive handwriting, were two words: "THE DEBT."
Underneath the clippings was a photograph I had never seen. It was my father and Arthur Sterling, standing in front of the shipping docks, laughing. But Arthur's face had been scratched out with a pen, so violently that the paper was torn.
Was this a record of a crime, or a record of a grudge? The text message echoed in my head: He's waiting for the right time to finish the job.
The Cold Confrontation:
I was so deep in the files that I didn't hear the door. I didn't hear the footsteps on the heavy Persian rug. I only knew I wasn't alone when the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Looking for something, Ava? Or are you just trying to find a reason to hate me even more?"
I froze. I didn't turn around. I could feel him standing right behind me, his shadow stretching across the desk, swallowing the photograph of our fathers.
"Why is this here, Alexander?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I slowly turned, holding the red-marked clipping. "Why is the date of my father's death marked in your personal files like a holiday? Why is your father's name circled in blood-red ink?"
Alexander didn't flinch. He stepped into the light, his tuxedo jacket gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins in his forearms. He looked dangerous—not like a businessman, but like a soldier who had just returned from a slaughter.
"Because that was the day I inherited a war I never wanted," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly hum. He moved closer, trapping me between his body and the desk. He reached out, his fingers cold as he gripped my chin, forcing me to look up into the storm in his eyes. "And the day I inherited you."
"You inherited a victim," I snapped, trying to pull away. "My phone... I got a message. It said you were the one who started the fire. It said you're waiting to finish me off."
Alexander's grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let go. A bitter, dark laugh escaped his lips. "If I wanted you dead, Ava, I wouldn't have spent ten years scouring every orphanage and foster home in Europe to find you. I wouldn't have spent a fortune keeping the Romanovs off your scent. I would have let you rot in that diner."
"Then explain the photo! Explain why you scratched out your own father's face!"
The Silver Ghost:
Alexander reached into the inner pocket of his vest. He pulled out a small object and set it on the desk between us.
It was a silver lighter. It was old, tarnished, but the engraving was unmistakable: the Volkov crest—a wolf howling at a sapphire moon.
"This was the only thing found near your father's body," Alexander said, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a haunting hollow tone. "I didn't keep it as a trophy, Ava. I kept it because it's the only proof that the man who killed your father is still out there."
I picked up the lighter. It felt heavy, cold, like a piece of a tombstone. "My father didn't smoke. He hated the smell."
"Exactly," Alexander whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from mine. "This lighter didn't belong to Viktor Volkov. It belonged to the man who stood over him while the house burned. I found it in the ashes when I was eighteen years old. I've been tracing its origin for two decades."
I looked at him, the seed of doubt in my mind beginning to mutate. "Who does it belong to?"
"The same person who sent you that text," Alexander said, his eyes turning into shards of ice. "The person who wants you to run away from the only man who can actually protect you. He's closer than you think, Ava. He's in your circle. He's in your past."
He reached out, his hand hovering over mine, not touching, but offering a choice.
"The fire wasn't an accident, and it wasn't my father. My father died trying to pull yours out of the study. They were murdered together. And the man who did it is playing a game with you. He wants you to believe I'm the monster so you'll run straight into his arms."
Suddenly, the lights in the library flickered and died. The estate's backup generators kicked in with a low hum, but the security monitors on the wall stayed black.
"He's here," Alexander breathed, pulling a suppressed pistol from his waistband.
He grabbed my waist, pulling me behind him as he backed toward the hidden vault behind the bookshelves. The "Cold War" between us was over, replaced by a terrifying reality. The "Guardian" might be the only thing standing between me and the man who held the match twenty years ago.
"Don't let go of my hand," Alexander commanded. "Unless you want to see what a real fire looks like."
The End
Akifa,
The Author.