The room still smelled like desire—leather, scotch, skin. But the tension that followed was colder. Sharper. Like a blade left on ice.
Ana sat on the edge of the desk, hair tousled, legs crossed tightly. The man who had just claimed her body with ruthless passion now stood by the window, silent and unreadable. Hayden always looked like he was planning a war. This time, she knew he was.
She looked down at the open folder—the file he had spent two years compiling on her. Every page was an invasion, every note a wound. But now that the initial shock had worn off, something strange tickled at her instincts.
A missing puzzle piece.
Ana reached for the last few pages again. Not the photo. The documents beneath it.
"Who's this?" she asked, pulling out a scanned ID card with a name she didn't recognize. *Clara Rossi.*
Hayden glanced over his shoulder. "You weren't supposed to see that."
Her spine stiffened. "Why?"
"Because it's not relevant to what I planned to tell you."
Ana's eyes scanned the attached notes. Clara Rossi. Italian national. Art student. Disappeared six years ago. Last seen in Florence—enrolled at a gallery internship connected to her own alma mater.
Her pulse stuttered.
"This girl… she looks like me."
"Coincidence."
Ana shot him a glare. "You don't believe in coincidences."
Silence. Then Hayden moved toward her slowly, deliberately, taking the paper from her hand.
"She was one of my first surveillance projects," he said. "I thought she might be connected to your father's money laundering operations. She wasn't. But she got too close. So I cut the cord."
"What do you mean 'cut the cord'?"
He didn't answer.
Her voice cracked. "Is she dead, Hayden?"
He looked at her, and something flickered in his eyes—regret? No. Never regret. Hayden Moretti didn't believe in regret.
"She disappeared," he said flatly. "That's all that matters."
"You used her." Her hands trembled. "Just like you used me."
He stepped forward, but she backed away. "You knew I would find this."
"I hoped you wouldn't."
"But you kept it in the file."
"Because I keep everything," he snapped. "I don't erase my sins, Ana. I keep them close. Like weapons. Like scars."
"You're a monster."
"And you're still here."
Ana hated that he was right. Part of her still burned for him—still wanted to believe that what they had wasn't a complete lie. But the weight of truth was heavier now. Darker.
She walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To think."
"You'll come back."
She stopped without turning around. "Don't be so sure."
—
The night air slapped her skin the moment she stepped outside. One of the guards watched her, his hand brushing the edge of a concealed weapon, but said nothing. She walked past him, needing to breathe. To be alone.
Inside that estate was a man who had rewritten her life. Who had stalked her, manipulated her, seduced her.
And she let him.
She'd told herself it was survival. But now… now she wasn't sure.
Ana sat down on the edge of a marble fountain and buried her face in her hands. The sound of water trickling behind her was soft, almost soothing. But the chaos in her mind roared like a storm.
She pulled the stolen copy of Clara Rossi's photo from her coat pocket. Hayden hadn't noticed she took it.
The girl in the picture had the same soft features. Similar golden hair. Even the way she smiled—shy, reserved—felt eerily familiar. It was like looking at a ghost. A warning.
What if Clara had trusted him, too?
Her fingers curled around the paper.
"Miss Nicholas," came a voice.
She turned.
One of Hayden's men—Matteo—stood a few feet away. He looked nervous.
"Mr. Moretti asks that you come back inside."
"I'm not ready."
"There's something you need to see," he said. "It's about your father."
Ana's breath caught. "What?"
Matteo held out a phone.
A paused video.
"Press play."
She hesitated, then tapped the screen.
Grainy footage flickered to life.
Her father—Alexander Nicholas—sat at a lavish dinner table. Not years ago. Recently. Laughing. Drinking wine.
Across from him?
Enzo Moretti.
Hayden's father.
Ana felt like the ground was tilting.
"Where did this come from?"
"We intercepted it last week," Matteo said. "Hidden camera in a private estate outside Palermo."
"They're alive," she whispered. "And… they're working together."
Matteo nodded grimly. "This whole war may have been smoke and mirrors, Miss Nicholas. A cover."
She stared at the screen as the two old men toasted glasses.
*To blood and empire.*
And just like that, everything changed again.