Chapter Seventeen
Dawn
The elevator ride up to Nikolai’s office feels longer than usual. I grip my coffee cup a little tighter, the familiar weight grounding me, but it does nothing to quiet the dull unease in my chest.
I’d convinced myself I was ready for today, that I could walk into the office and act like nothing had changed. But now, standing in the quiet space as the elevator doors slide open, I feel the weight of Saturday morning pressing down on me again.
I step out, my heels clicking against the floor, and head toward my desk in the side of his office. The building is already awake—phones ringing, the faint hum of conversation drifting from behind closed doors. I move through it like I always do, routine keeping me steady.
Until I hear his voice.
“Morning, Dawn.”
I freeze for half a second—just long enough to feel it—but keep moving like I didn’t. When I glance over, Nikolai is leaning against the office doorway, watching me.
He’s dressed in his usual attire, a sharp, dark gray suit, with a black tie decorated with subtle silver details. His hair is neatly combed back, gelled in place. His typical dark, calculating, powerful signature look.
I force a polite smile. “Morning.”
That’s it. No pause. No lingering. I keep walking, head down, sitting at my desk.
Then, I hear him pushing off the doorframe. He doesn’t say anything else. The tension doesn’t leave my body, but I let myself breathe.
I bury myself in work. Emails. Schedules. Checking over reports—anything to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from drifting back to that moment. To the folder in his dresser.
Nikolai doesn’t push.
He doesn’t call me to his desk, doesn’t stop over to mine. But I feel him watching me every now and then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary as he glances over to me.
It’s only 10 am when I screw up.
Nothing major. I grab the wrong file, mix up a meeting time. But Nikolai notices.
I hear my name, low and even. “Dawn?”
I pause, file still in my hand.
I turn slowly. He’s standing in front of his desk, looking at me. It’s not the usual unreadable stare he gives everyone. It’s softer. Controlled. Almost careful.
I straighten. “Yes, sir?” I make an attempt to remain professional.
He eyes me a moment, then flicks his gaze down to the file, then back to me. “That’s the wrong one.”
Shit.
I glance at the label—he’s right. I quickly swap it out and nod. “Got it.”
Nikolai doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Not in the way I’m used to—not with amusement. It’s something else. Almost concern.
I hate it.
I force a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine.” I say, answering the question he hasn’t spoken aloud.
His gaze sharpens—just a flicker, subtle, but there. He doesn’t believe me. But he nods once, slow. “Alright.”
Then he turns and walks out of the office, his movements measured, deliberate.
Like he’s giving me space. I don’t move until the sound of his footsteps fades.
Only then do I realize how tightly I’m gripping the folder in my hands, the edges pressing into my palms. I exhale, forcing my fingers to unclench.
The rest of the morning drags.
I keep my head down, focused on tasks that don’t require much thought. I send emails. Review reports. Sign off on things that I barely register.
I’m waiting.
Waiting for the right moment.
I need confirmation. I need to see it for myself.
But I have to be careful.
Blackthorn Inc. is never still. People are always moving—meetings, deals, quiet conversations behind closed doors. There are cameras, security logs. Too many eyes in too many places.
I can’t just slip away in the middle of the morning.
So, I wait.
Lunch hour is my best shot.
By noon, most employees are either out of the office or eating in the exclusive lounge. The executive floor is quieter, a lull settling over the usual movement. A rare stillness.
I shuffle some papers on my desk, keeping my head down.
Nikolai is still here. His presence lingers, a weight I can’t ignore. I hear the low murmur of his voice as he takes a call, the rustle of papers as he moves.
Then—his phone buzzes.
“Blackthorn.” He answers. A pause before he speaks again. “I’ll be there soon.”
The chair creaks softly as he leans back. I don’t look up, but I catch the movement in my peripheral vision—the shift of his arm, the way he reaches for his suit jacket, slipping it on.
He steps toward the door, pausing just long enough for me to notice. “I’ll be gone for a bit.”
His voice is casual. The words are nothing. But something about the way he lingers makes my stomach twist.
I keep my expression neutral. “Alright.”
Nikolai studies me a second longer, then nods, turning and disappearing down the hall.
I wait. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Then I push back from my desk, stand, and walk briskly to the elevator.
The executive floor is always busy—voices carrying down polished halls, the steady rhythm of heels clicking. But the deeper I go, the quieter it gets.
By the time I reach the restricted basement level, the noise is gone entirely.
The air here feels heavier, untouched by the sleek opulence of the floors above. No art-lined walls, no modern fixtures. Just a stretch of cold, unwelcoming concrete. The hallway is empty, the fluorescent lighting dimmer than it should be, casting everything in a sterile, almost sickly glow.
I stop in front of the steel security door, forcing my hands to steady.
SCAN BADGE
I do.
PROCESSING…
A beep. The mechanical click of the lock releasing. I exhale and push open the door.
Rows of filing cabinets stretch out before me into the dim corners of the room like endless, silent sentinels. Unlike the rest of Blackthorn Tower—all glass and polished perfection—this place feels abandoned. Forgotten.
Something that was built to be hidden.
No windows. No unnecessary decor. Just concrete walls, steel cabinets, and the faint hum of servers against the back wall. A room designed for function, not comfort.
A shiver works its way down my spine as I step inside, the door clicking shut behind me with an eerie finality.
No cameras.
At least, none that I can see.
I move toward the back, my footsteps unnervingly loud against the tile floor. My focus is locked onto the monitors in the corner—the only sign of modernity in the otherwise outdated space.
I slide into the chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and log in with my assigned credentials.
A prompt appears. Access Granted.
I hesitate for only a moment before typing.
Carter, Luke
The file loads.
The same surveillance photos from before. I scroll down. Campaign details. Financial records. The same things I’ve seen. But then—a bold line against the scanned document.
Leverage secured. Continue monitoring.
My stomach knots.
I scroll further. Nothing more to it that I haven’t seen.
I swallow hard and back out of Luke’s file, starting to look through the different links all neatly organized in the system. I start searching through, and suddenly I realize—this isn’t just about Luke.
This is a never-ending list of names.
Politicians. CEOs. Law enforcement. Celebrities. Judges.
Every single file has something. A secret. A scandal. A weakness Blackthorn can use.
Some are marked Compliant. Others, Pending Review.
Then there are the ones labeled with a single word. Eliminated.
A chill spreads through me. This isn’t just monitoring. It’s control.
I exhale, my pulse still hammering, and go to log out—
Footsteps.
My breath catches. They’re distant but steady, approaching from the hallway outside.
Shit.
I move fast, backing out of the system and shutting off the monitor. The chair scrapes softly as I stand.
No time to hide.
I walk toward the exit, keeping my pace steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. Like I belong here.
The footsteps round the corner just as I push through the door.
I don’t look back. But I feel it.
Someone watching.
I keep walking, heart pounding, the weight of what I just saw settling deep.
. . .
The drive home is quiet. The radio hums softly in the background, but I don’t really hear it. My grip on the wheel is tight, my mind still circling everything I saw earlier today.
I spent the rest of the afternoon forcing myself to act normal. I returned to my desk before Nikolai got back from his meeting, keeping my head down, pretending I hadn’t just seen something that made my stomach churn.
And he didn’t say anything. But he noticed something.
He watched me, not in an obvious way, but a way that said he could tell something was off. He just didn’t know what.
I exhale, turning onto my street.
I pull up into my usual parking spot and kill the engine, gripping the wheel a second longer before finally stepping out.
A cool breeze cuts through the warm air as I make my way to my apartment. Everything is normal. The streetlights flicker softly, the usual faint hum of music drifts from a neighbors unit.
I let out a slow breath as I open my door, stepping inside and clicking it behind me. A habit. Automatic, done hundreds of times. Only now do I exhale fully, tension bleeding from my shoulders.
Home.
The weight of the day lingers, but at least here, I can let it go. I toss my bag onto the couch, toeing off my heels near the door. My feet ache from a long day in them, and the relief of pressing against cool hardwood makes me sigh.
A glass of water. A snack. Maybe a hot shower to wash off the stress clinging to my skin.
I move toward the kitchen, rolling my shoulders, already thinking about what’s in the fridge—
I’m stopped in my tracks.
A small slip of torn white paper sitting on the counter. Not mine.
My steps slow. My stomach turns cold. It’s just sitting there. Not folded. Not tucked away. Not hidden. Just... placed.
I reach for it carefully, my fingers brushing against the smooth paper.
Black ink. “Stay out of the archives.”
A slow, sharp chill creeps up my spine.
I blink, rereading it, as if the words might change. As if they might suddenly make sense in a way that doesn’t feel like a noose tightening around my throat.
But they don’t.
I swallow hard. My apartment was locked. No forced entry.
A fresh wave of unease settles in my bones. Not a random intruder. Not someone off the street.
It was someone from inside Blackthorn.