Chapter 1
523words
But tonight, I'm still holding a glass. The coldness of the crystal, seeping through my silk gloves, serves as my only anchor amid this sea of hypocritical warmth.
I stand at the top floor of Blackwood Tower, with New York's fractured lights sprawled beneath my feet. My gaze drifts over countless glittering faces until finally settling on him—Damian Blackwood.
He stands alone before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette tall and rigid, like a black dagger thrust into the city skyline.
Ten years. That boy who once flushed with anger after losing a chess game is now nothing but a cold, hard silhouette.
Perfect.
I take a deep breath. The air—thick with expensive perfume and ambition—makes my stomach churn. I push down the discomfort and slip on the mask of "Seraphina DuBois" before making my move.
My heels glide across marble, silent as death. Since that rainy night when I was ten—when my family perished—I've been trained to become a ghost. Tonight, the ghost returns for an appointment ten years overdue.
I walk directly behind him. A banker eagerly courting his favor falters mid-sentence under my icy stare, finally having the sense to shut his mouth.
"Mr. Blackwood."
He turns around. Those ice-blue eyes hold no warmth—only pure scrutiny. Like he's appraising an unmarked weapon, calculating its worth and lethality.
"Who are you?" His voice is deeper than I remembered, like a taut cello string about to snap.
"Someone who can help you catch the 'Seraphim.'" I don't answer directly. Instead, I pull out an unmarked silver USB drive from my clutch and place it on a passing waiter's tray.
"Seraphim." The name I gave myself. Three days, three billion. That was my blood-stained invitation to him.
I catch the reflection of the drive's cold metallic gleam in his pupils.
"Are you 'Seraphim'?" he asks, his voice carrying the dangerous edge of steel against stone.
"If I were," I meet his gaze unflinchingly, "you'd be calling the police right now, not making small talk."
"If you're not," the corner of his mouth curls into a smile devoid of warmth, "then you're wasting my time. And people who waste my time tend to have... unfortunate endings."
I laugh—genuinely, joyfully. Because in that moment, I see the Damian from my memories: proud, sharp, dangerous, and utterly uncompromising.
"That USB contains a complete analysis of how 'Seraphim' breached Stardust Technologies, along with... a strategy to draw them out without compromising the Blackwood Group's core interests." I pause, letting the information sink in. "My price? A position as consultant within the Blackwood Group."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want money." I set my champagne flute down on the marble countertop with a soft clink. "What I want is... a worthy opponent."
Something shifts in his eyes. The cold scrutiny transforms into something more dangerous—a predatory interest tinged with appreciation.
"Very well," he reaches for the USB drive, fingers closing around it deliberately. "Miss Seraphina DuBois, welcome to the Blackwood Group."
He remembered my name.
I turn to leave, my heels clicking against marble—each step echoing like the opening notes of a revenge symphony.
Game on.
