33. DARK-WEB
ariella
After escaping the makeshift prison—Alistair’s faculty room, office, whatever label makes it sound less like what it was—I didn’t have time for anything as trivial as packing. There hadn’t been a pause long enough to think, let alone to gather belongings.
One moment I was getting out, the next I was getting out fast.
The fall from the first floor still lingers in my bones, a dull, spreading ache that pulses under my skin every time I shift.
There was no blood, rather impact and minor cuts.
Medical attention came in fragments—hurried, efficient, impersonal. Just enough to keep me functional. Not enough to erase the reminder.
So no, there’s no suitcase. No second pair of clothes. No plan.
By the time I was on the private jet, all I had was my purse, my phone, my passport, and my credit card.
The twenty-one-hour flight from England to Sydney dissolves into a stretch of time that feels both endless and gone in a blink.
I don’t remember deciding to sleep, only the weight of exhaustion dragging me under despite the chaos clawing at my mind. I shouldn’t have been able to rest—not with everything that’s happened ever since I stepped into his office—but my body didn’t ask for permission. It took what it needed.
As for my mind… my mind never quits. It just keeps shifting, replaying every other moment in fractured loops.
Things said.
Things done.
Things I shouldn’t be thinking about as much as I am.
The email Alistair sent me the following morning of escaping is persistently burning somewhere in the back of it all.
Nice try.
Two words. That’s all he sent.
No threats. No follow-up. No explanation.
I didn’t reply. Neither did he.
And somehow, that feels worse than anything else he could’ve said.
Right now, I’m in the backseat of a car, my head tipped against the cool glass of the window. The faint vibration of the engine hums through my skull.
It feels soothing for the headache.
A cup of coffee rests loosely in my hand, its warmth long faded. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Keeping them open requires effort—I’m not sure I have any left anymore.
Out of pure boredom, I booked a flight on my way back. I’m still surprised I was bored amidst everything that’s been happening.
The car slows, then stops at the main entrance of the CynoTech HQ. The door opens before I can reach for it.
“Miss Keinston,” Strad, Adrian’s butler, stands on the other side, composed as ever, his hand extended toward me.
I take it, letting him steady me as I step out. My body betrays me in small ways—stiffness, a slight imbalance—but I mask it before it becomes too obvious.
I follow him inside, my steps quieter than usual against the polished floor. There’s a part of me—small, sharp, irrational—that hopes I won’t run into Asher here.
It’s the exact reason I asked Adrian to meet me anywhere else. Neutral ground. Somewhere without complications.
But Adrian doesn’t bend for anyone’s convenience. And the thing he did for me—finding out whatever he dug up about Alistair—is already beyond expectations.
We ascend through the elevator to reach his floor in utter silence.
Strad stops in front of the giant oak door. He knocks twice, then twists the handle, pushing the door. He steps aside, letting me pass.
“Hi,” I raise my hand for a small wave, then bring it back down because Adrian doesn’t look up immediately.
His attention stays on the desktop in front of him, posture relaxed in a way that isn’t relaxed at all.
Only when I step fully inside does his gaze flicker toward me before returning to whatever held it before.
The office hasn’t changed. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City spilling out beneath like something he owns. Clean lines. Controlled space. No clutter. No distractions.
Just power, dressed as minimalism.
The door clicks shut. Only then does he look at me properly.
His gaze moves once, taking everything in. The lack of luggage. The fatigue. Barely concealed strain in the way I’m holding myself.
“Well, hello to you too, Ariella.”
I give him a small smile.
Something unreadable flickers in his expression. It’s gone before I can grasp it.
He doesn’t ask me to sit. I do it anyway.
The chair grounds me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
Across from me, he reaches for a tablet, already getting into business. For a second, he just holds it, his thumb resting against the edge like he’s weighing whether to hand it to me or not.
Then his eyes lift to mine. “Once you open this, you don’t go back to not knowing.”
There’s something in the way he says it that settles a dread feeling low in my stomach.
“That’s the point, right?” a nervous smile breaks free.
“No,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
I stay quiet, unable to find the proper response.
Then he leans forward and places the tablet in my hand. “Don’t scroll back twice.”
My brows draw together, confusion threading through the exhaustion.
“And don’t take any screenshots.”
“What? Why?”
His gaze locks onto mine. “If it’s what I think it is…” a deliberate pause. “We might get tracked from the most mundane actions.”
Something cold slips down my spine. Nonetheless, there’s no going back now.
The screen flickers to life the second I tap it once.