Chapter 1: The Heat Below
The silence of the room was deceptive. At 2:13 a.m., the city outside pulsed with nightlife, but in Amelia Holloway's apartment, it was still too still. A drop of condensation traced down the side of her whiskey glass, mirroring the single tear that slid down her cheek. The air conditioning hummed softly, but it couldn't chill the fire building in her veins.
She stood at the window, naked but for a silk robe clinging to her shoulders, watching the black skyline flicker with red lights and the occasional thunderous echo of late-night sirens. This wasn't the life she imagined when she left her father's mansion two years ago. She had run to New York for freedom, to bury the chains of a life lived under scrutiny, money, and the shadow of secrets she never agreed to carry.
Then came him....
Dorian Cross.
Her boss. Her sin. Her obsession.
He wasn't the kind of man you fell in love with. He was the kind of man you broke rules for. Dark suits, darker eyes, and a voice like midnight jazz smooth, slow, and haunting. A billionaire with a past so meticulously erased, even the internet whispered in ellipses. And for some reason, he noticed her.
The first time they touched was in the file room. Her back against cold metal drawers. His breath hot against her neck. The sound she made when he bit her shoulder still lived in the space between her thighs.
But tonight, it was more than lust curling under her skin. It was dread.
Because Dorian wasn't just her boss. He was her father's ghost in a tailored suit. The file she found earlier that day proved it.
**PROJECT EBONY** – the words stared back at her from her locked drawer. It wasn't meant for her eyes. Her father's name. Dorian's name. Blackmail payments. A dead woman's diary.
She remembered the way Dorian looked at her that morning. Like he already knew she had seen it.
And then the anonymous text:
"He'll kill you before you find the truth."
The sound of her phone vibrating shattered the moment. She turned. The screen flashed: Unknown Caller.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then… breathing.
"Amelia," the voice finally came, husky and deep. It wasn't Dorian.
"You need to listen to me," the voice said. "Don't go back to work. Don't trust him. And whatever you do—don't let him touch you again."
The line went dead.
A gust of wind slammed the window, snapping her back to the present. Her breath quickened. She reached for her robe's sash but froze. It was already untied.
Someone had been here.
Behind
her, the shadow moved.
Chapter 2: The Scent of Smoke
Part 1 – The Shadow Moves
Amelia freezes as the shadow behind her shifts again. The silk robe is loose around her, the window still rattling from the wind. Someone is in her apartment. And they are close.
The robe slipped slightly down her shoulder, the sash dangling like a noose. She didn't breathe. Not yet.
Behind her, the shadow wasn't still anymore.
It moved.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like it wanted her to hear it now.
She turned fast.
Nothing.
No one.
The hallway leading to the kitchen was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a streetlamp slicing in through half-closed blinds. Her heart beat so loud she felt it in her gums.
She stepped back, one foot brushing against the cold metal of her whiskey glass on the table. Still no sound but the AC hum, the buzz of the city beyond the window, and the echo of her own panic.
She scanned the room.
Then she saw it!...
The front door.
Unlocked. Open. Just slightly. Just enough.
She always locked it.
Her pulse screamed in her neck.
She reached for the nearest thing with weight—her crystal ashtray, heavy and jagged. No time to think. She moved barefoot across the hardwood, slow and silent, the robe floating just above her knees.
The scent hit her before the figure did.
Cigarettes and old paper. Not her brand. Not Dorian's cologne either. This was older. Smokier. More like a library that had been on fire.
She paused.
"Who's there?" she said, her voice flat but shaking at the end.
A second of silence.
Then a voice—low and quiet, right at the edge of the kitchen:
"If I wanted you dead, Amelia, you'd already be bleeding."
She raised the ashtray anyway.
"Show yourself."
A figure stepped out of the shadows. Tall. Lean. Wearing black. He moved like someone used to going unnoticed.
And he was watching her—not just looking. Watching. Like he'd been doing it a long time.
Amelia tightened the robe, though it didn't make her feel safer. "You have three seconds to tell me who the hell you are before I scream this whole building awake."
He didn't flinch.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, calm like a surgeon. "I'm here because you found something you weren't supposed to."
Her grip on the ashtray faltered slightly.
His eyes flicked to it. "That won't help you. Not against what's coming."
She didn't lower it. "Who are you?"
He took one step forward, out of the shadow—and in the light, she saw a face that didn't match the voice. Young. Early thirties maybe. Clean-cut jaw. A scar down his left cheek like a fingerprint that had been sliced off.
"My name's Calder," he said. "I used to work for your father. Until he tried to have me killed."