Chapter 7 Alexi
ALEXI
I’ve watched the security footage forty-seven times.
Forty-seven loops of absolutely nothing.
The gala’s surveillance system shows a perfect evening. Guests arriving, champagne flowing, the usual parade of Boston’s elite pretending their money is clean. But the blonde? The one who stripped me bare with words while simultaneously gutting my servers?
And I have a feeling she’s the same blonde from the MIT café.
She doesn’t exist.
No entry timestamp. No exit. Not a single frame of her talking to me, those ice-blue eyes tracking my every reaction like she was cataloging weaknesses.
Because it was all fake. Every camera reveals exactly what she wanted me to see while she walked through that ballroom like a ghost.
Like the Phantom.
My laptop takes the brunt of my fury—I slam the screen down hard enough that the hinge cracks. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got twelve more scattered around my room, each one running traces that lead nowhere.
She played me.
Stood right in front of me, made clever conversation about cybersecurity consulting—Christ, the irony tastes like battery acid—while simultaneously orchestrating the most devastating breach we’ve had in years.
Smiled at me. Asked probing questions about my work that I answered like a fool, too distracted by the curve of her neck.
And I fell for it.
Every. Single. Second.
The Frankfurt servers are still a disaster. Three weeks of damage control ahead, explanations to clients, assurances that their data remains secure when we both know it’s been compromised for months. She’s been inside our systems so long, she probably knows more about our operations than us.
I grab another laptop, fingers flying across keys. Cross-reference every guest list, every invitation, every possible entry point. But she covered her tracks too perfectly.
Professional doesn’t begin to cover it.
My hands shake. Not from exhaustion, though I haven’t slept since the gala. Not from the energy drinks littering my desk like casualties of war.
From rage.
She stood there and laughed at me. Made me think I was the one in control—the one asking questions, hunting for answers. When really, she was dissecting me in real-time, testing responses, probably gathering intel for her next strike.
From rage and something else I refuse to name.
My reflection stares back from the darkened monitor. Three days of stubble, hair that hasn’t seen a comb since Tuesday. I look like hell. Feel worse.
Because I can’t stop seeing her.
The way platinum blonde hair caught the chandelier light. How her dress hugged curves that had nothing to do with the conversation we were having. The small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth when I mentioned security protocols, like she was holding back laughter at a private joke.
At my expense.
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.
Last night, alone in the dark with just the glow of monitors for company, I did something pathetic.
Replayed those mental snapshots while my hand moved with increasing desperation.
Imagined what she’d look like stripped of that elegant dress, those ice-blue eyes watching me with the same calculated assessment she’d used at the gala.
Came harder than I have in months, her name a whisper I hated myself for making.
I sat there after, hand still sticky, staring at the ceiling and wanting to put my fist through something. Through everything.
She’s the enemy. The Phantom, who’s been systematically destroying our security, exposing vulnerabilities, and making me look incompetent in front of my brothers.
She used me. Manipulated me with practiced ease while I stood there like a teenager with his first crush, too busy noticing the way her collarbone looked under gallery lights to realize I was being played.
And I still want her.
Want to strip away every layer of deception until I find something real underneath. Want to match that brilliant, twisted mind with my own. Want to make her lose control the way she’s made me lose mine.
It’s sick.
I’m obsessed with my own destruction, circling it like a moth drawn to flame, knowing full well I’ll get burned.
My phone buzzes. Nikolai, demanding updates on the situation.
I ignore it.
Instead, I pull up every scrap of code she left behind, searching for patterns. For anything that might tell me who she really is.
Because Iris Mitchell—if that’s even her real name—made one critical mistake.
She let me see her face.
Seven hours into the search, I find her.
Not through sophisticated algorithms or dark web contacts. Through a goddamn high school yearbook digitized by some well-meaning alumni association.
Iris Mitchell, the caption reads. Senior Class President. Full Scholarship to Stanford.
I stare at the photo until my vision blurs.
It’s her at eighteen, but unmistakably her. Same platinum blonde hair, though shorter. Same ice-blue eyes that seem to see right through the camera lens. The smile’s different, less guarded. Almost genuine.
Before she learned to weaponize everything.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with something between elation and disbelief.
She gave me her real name.
What kind of arrogant, reckless genius uses their actual identity while conducting espionage? While breaching some of the most secure systems in the northeastern corridor?
The same kind who walks into a gala and introduces herself to her target’s face.
I download the yearbook, then the one before it. Junior year shows her in the computer club, surrounded by awkward teenage boys who probably had no idea they were sitting next to a future cybercriminal. Sophomore year, she accepts a math award and shakes hands with a principal who looks proud.
Lincoln High School. Providence, Rhode Island.
Not even that far. A ninety-minute drive.
I’m already pulling up property records, cross-referencing addresses, and building a timeline. The Mitchells lived at 847 Maple Street until Iris was seventeen. Then the house sold—quick, well below market value. Parents listed as deceased in public records.
Both died in a car accident.
Convenient.
My pulse kicks up. There’s a story here, something that explains how a Stanford-bound prodigy ends up haunting the dark web with a vendetta against my family specifically.
Because it is personal. Must be. The way she looked at me at that gala wasn’t just a professional assessment. There was recognition underneath the performance. Hatred, maybe. Or something more complicated.
I need more.
Stanford’s security is laughable.
Twenty minutes to crack their archived student database. Another fifteen for medical records—turns out hospitals love using the same password schemes they did a decade ago.
Iris Mitchell. Full-ride scholarship. Double major in Computer Science and Applied Mathematics. Graduated summa cum laude at twenty-one with a thesis on quantum encryption that probably laid the groundwork for half her current exploits.
Medical records show routine checkups, one concussion sophomore year—sports injury, flag football of all things—and a prescription for sleeping pills that’s been renewed quarterly for the past seven years.
Interesting.
The Phantom has nightmares.
I download everything, building a profile that grows more fascinating with each file. She’s brilliant, obviously. But there’s a darkness threading through it all. Gaps in her timeline that don’t add up. A six-month period after graduation where she vanishes completely from digital records.
Then reappears working for a cybersecurity firm in D.C.
Government contractor, probably. NSA or CIA recruitment right out of college fits her skill set.
Something happened there. Something that sent her underground.
The current address pops up in a utility cross-reference: 1247 Commonwealth Avenue, Unit 4B, Beacon area. Upscale but not flashy. Close enough to BU that she probably blends in with the graduate student crowd.
Close enough to our Beacon Hill mansion that she’s been practically next door this whole time.
The irony makes me want to laugh. Or scream.
Her last known phone number takes more work—a burner trail through three different carriers before I find the current line. Active. Used sparingly, mostly encrypted messaging apps.
I set up a secure channel, routing through enough proxies that even she’ll have trouble tracing it back immediately.
My fingers pause over the keys.
This is the moment. Once I send this message, she’ll know I found her. Know that I’m not just some incompetent target she can toy with from the shadows.
The game changes.
I type fast before I can second-guess myself.
Sloppy work at the gala, Iris. Using your real name? Expected better from the Phantom. Though I enjoyed our conversation. We should do it again sometime. Maybe somewhere without quite so many cameras you’d have to spoof. -A
My thumb hovers over send.
Then presses.
The message has been delivered. Then read.
I watch the screen, pulse hammering against my ribs, waiting for her response.
The three dots appear immediately.
She’s typing.
My entire body locks up, muscles coiled tight as I watch those dots pulse. Disappear. Reappear.
Finally, her response comes through.
Cute. You ran facial recognition on yearbook photos and think you cracked the code. That’s adorable, really. Here I thought you were supposed to be the family genius. Disappointing.
My jaw clenches hard enough my teeth ache.
Found your address too. Your real phone number. Your entire Stanford transcript. Want me to keep going?
The dots pulse again. Longer this time.
You found what I let you find, Alexi. Every breadcrumb is carefully placed. You think I’d use security footage I didn’t control? Stand in front of you without ten exit strategies? Please.
She follows it with another message before I can respond.
That yearbook’s been online for six years. Public record. If I cared about hiding my identity, do you really think it would take you seven hours to find a high school photo?
Fuck.
My fingers fly across the keys.
So, you wanted me to find you.
No. I wanted to see how long it would take. Seven hours is... underwhelming. I had bets with myself you’d crack it in four. Maybe I’ve been overestimating the competition.
The words hit like a slap. My vision tunnels on the screen, rage building hot and sharp in my chest.
You’re bluffing. Playing games because I’ve got you cornered.
Cornered? Baby, I’m in your northeast server cluster right now. The one you think is air gapped. Want to know what file I’m currently reading?
My blood goes cold.
I pull up the monitoring system for our most secure network. The one that’s physically isolated from everything else. The one that’s supposed to be impossible to—
There.
A ghost signature, barely visible. Moving through classified files like she owns the place.
Like she’s been there all along.
Impressed yet? Her next message asks. Or should I keep demonstrating exactly how little you know?
My hands freeze over the keyboard.
She’s right. About all of it. The yearbook, the trail—too easy. I should have known the moment I found her that it was exactly what she wanted me to find.
But there’s something else in her messages. Something underneath the taunting words and casual demonstrations of superiority.
Want to know what file I’m currently reading?
She’s asking. Showing off. Proving a point with the desperation of someone who needs me to understand exactly how outmatched I am.
Which means I rattled her.
Somewhere between finding her yearbook photo and tracking her address, I got under her skin enough that she had to respond. Had to prove she’s still ten steps ahead. Had to make certain I knew she was in control.
People who are in control don’t need to demonstrate it quite so thoroughly.
I lean back in my chair, studying her messages with new eyes. The pattern’s there, written between every carefully chosen taunt.
She’s showing me her hand.
Not intentionally—she’s too smart for that. But the Phantom, who’s spent months breaching our security without leaving a trace, doesn’t suddenly reveal herself at a gala for no reason. Doesn’t use her real name unless she wants to be found.
And now she’s proving she can access our most secure systems in real-time because she needs me to know.
Needs me to see her.
My pulse steadies. The rage crystallizes into something sharper, more focused.
Because here’s what I know for certain: she’s the only person I’ve ever encountered who might be better at this than me. The only one who can dance through my security like it’s nothing, leave traces I can barely detect, and exploit vulnerabilities I didn’t know existed.
All this time chasing her, and I’ve learned more about my own weaknesses than the previous three years combined.
She’s brilliant. Possibly more brilliant than me, and that realization should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like finding something I didn’t know I’d been searching for.
I type slowly, deliberately.
You’re right. I’m impressed. No one’s ever gotten that deep into our systems. No one’s ever made me work this hard.
The dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.
She’s typing and deleting. Uncertain for the first time.
Good.