Chapter Ten - Diana
I spend four days mapping the estate’s patterns before I’m confident enough to move.
The household staff follows predictable routes—meals delivered at set times, laundry collected Tuesdays and Fridays, cleaning restricted to mornings when I’m supposedly still sleeping.
Felix leaves the estate most weekdays between nine and eleven for meetings I can only guess at. He returns by early evening, usually going straight to his office before eventually appearing in the hallway outside my room with that controlled expression that gives away nothing.
They underestimate me. Everyone here does, except maybe Felix.
That’s the advantage I’m counting on.
Thursday morning, I watch from my bedroom window as Felix’s black SUV pulls through the front gates and disappears down the tree-lined drive. Oleg is with him, which means the secondary security team is running operations inside.
I wait fifteen minutes to be sure, then slip into the hallway wearing jeans and a sweater that blend into the background. The guard stationed outside my door—a younger man named Anton—barely glances up from his phone.
“Going downstairs,” I say casually, like I’ve done this a dozen times.
He nods without stopping me.
The main level is quiet except for kitchen sounds filtering from the back of the house.
I move through the foyer toward the west wing, keeping my steps measured and purposeful.
Looking like you belong somewhere is half the battle; Ethan taught me that years ago during an undercover interview at a political fundraiser.
The security console sits unattended during the shift change, exactly as I predicted. A small tray beside the monitor holds three access cards, each tagged with different clearance levels. I palm the one labeled “Administrative West Wing” and keep walking.
Felix’s office door is at the end of the hallway, heavy wood with a biometric scanner I can’t bypass. I’ve watched him unlock it enough times through the security camera feeds to know he doesn’t always engage the full lock when he leaves in a hurry.
I press the stolen keycard to the scanner and hold my breath.
The light blinks green. The lock disengages with a soft click, and I’m inside before I can second-guess the decision.
The office is exactly what I expected—minimalist, precise, designed for function rather than comfort.
A large desk dominates the center, dual monitors positioned at precise angles, filing cabinets lining the wall behind it.
Everything is organized with the kind of obsessive control that mirrors the man who works here.
I move to the desk, hands shaking slightly as I try the drawer handles. Locked, all of them. The monitors are still active, screen savers displaying abstract patterns that suggest the terminals are in sleep mode rather than fully powered down.
I touch the mouse on the left monitor. The screen wakes immediately, no password prompt.
He left it unlocked.
Either he didn’t expect anyone to breach his office, or he’s confident enough in the estate’s security that casual mistakes don’t matter. Either way, I’m not wasting the opportunity.
The desktop shows folders organized by coded labels—alphanumeric sequences that mean nothing to me. I click through systematically, scanning file names and trying to identify anything that references Ethan or me.
The third folder contains encrypted communications routed through a secure messaging platform I don’t recognize. The interface is sleek and professional, tagged with symbols I’ve seen before in Ethan’s research files.
I scroll through message threads, pulse hammering in my throat. Most of it is coded language about logistics and timelines, nothing explicitly incriminating without context. But then I find a subfolder labeled “Containment: Clarke.”
My hand freezes on the mouse. I click it open.
Inside are documents spanning eighteen months—email exchanges, surveillance reports, risk assessments. The earliest file is dated three weeks before Ethan’s death. Subject line: “Clarke Investigation, Escalation Protocol.”
I open it.
The language is clinical, detached, discussing my brother like he’s a problem requiring management rather than a person.
References to his investigative work, the networks he’d traced, the political exposure his findings would create.
A recommendation section suggests “containment through Sartore channels pending Rudenko approval.”
There’s no explicit kill order. No smoking gun that says murder Ethan Clarke and stage it as an accident.
Except the phrasing is deliberate enough to confirm what I already knew: this wasn’t random. Ethan’s death was discussed, evaluated, and approved through channels that included Felix’s organization.
I grab a pen and notepad from the desk and start copying filenames, dates, anything that might help me reconstruct this later. My hands shake hard enough that the writing comes out barely legible, but I force myself to keep going.
Footsteps echo in the hallway.
My stomach drops. I freeze, pen still pressed to paper, listening to the measured pace approaching the office door.
The footsteps stop outside.
I have maybe three seconds before whoever it is enters. The door is still closed, but the keycard access doesn’t require unlocking from inside. If Felix came back early, if Oleg is doing a security sweep, if anyone with clearance decides to check the office—
The handle turns.
I dive beneath the desk, cramming myself into the narrow space between the chair and the filing cabinets. My knees press against my chest, breath trapped in my lungs, pulse roaring loud enough that I’m certain it’s audible.
The door opens. Footsteps enter, confident and unhurried.
I can see polished leather shoes through the gap beneath the desk. Expensive, well-maintained. The kind Felix wears.
The footsteps move toward the windows first, pausing there briefly. I hear the faint sound of curtains being adjusted, then he turns back toward the center of the room. The chair shifts as he leans against the desk edge, so close that I could reach out and touch his leg if I moved even slightly.
Silence stretches. I count heartbeats, trying to slow my breathing enough that the sound won’t betray me.
“Come out, Diana.”
His voice is calm, almost conversational.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He knew. The entire time, he knew I was here.
I don’t move. Maybe if I stay silent, if I wait long enough—
“I can see you.” His tone doesn’t change. “You have three seconds to come out on your own, or I’ll drag you out. Your choice.”
My options narrow to nothing. I unfold myself from beneath the desk, movements clumsy and shaking, and emerge into the open space feeling exposed and furious in equal measure.
Felix stands beside the desk, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that gives away nothing.
He’s still wearing the suit from this morning, but his tie is loosened slightly and his sleeves are rolled to his forearms. He looks like he just returned from a business meeting, calm and controlled despite finding me rifling through his encrypted files.
“How long have you been back?” I manage, voice coming out steadier than I feel.
“Long enough.” He gestures toward the notepad still clutched in my hand. “What did you find?”
I don’t answer. I’m calculating distance to the door, whether I could make it past him, how far I’d get before security stopped me. The math doesn’t work in my favor.
Felix moves suddenly, closing the space between us with two strides and pinning me against the desk edge. One hand braces beside my hip, the other catching my wrist to stop me from grabbing the notepad I dropped during the scramble.
The proximity is electric and hostile, his body caging mine without full contact. I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something sharper—adrenaline, maybe, or controlled anger.
“Let go of me.” My heart hammers visibly against my ribs, pulse jumping in my throat.
“You broke into my office.” His voice drops lower, dangerously quiet. “Accessed confidential files, copied information you have no clearance to see. Do you really think you’re in a position to make demands?”
“You left the terminal unlocked.” The deflection is weak, but it’s all I have.
“I left it accessible to see what you’d do.” His grip tightens slightly on my wrist, not painful but firm enough to communicate control. “You’ve been watching the guard rotations, timing the shift changes, looking for vulnerabilities. I wanted to know how far you’d go.”
The realization hits cold and sharp. This was a test. He gave me just enough leash to see if I’d hang myself with it.
“You had no right!”
“I had every right.” He leans closer, his face inches from mine. “This is my house, my organization, my operation. You’re here because I allow it. You breathe because I’ve decided keeping you alive serves my interests better than the alternative.”
Tears gather despite every effort to hold them back, frustration and fear blurring together. “I found the files about Ethan. The containment protocol. You knew they were going to kill him.”
“I told you that already.”
“You didn’t tell me you approved it! I thought you’d just… turned a blind eye.” My voice breaks despite myself. “The recommendation went through your channels. Sartore asked permission and you let them.”
Felix’s expression doesn’t shift, but something flickers behind his pale eyes. “I didn’t approve Ethan’s death. It would have happened with or without my involvement.”
“Semantics.” I try to wrench my wrist free; his grip doesn’t budge. “You could have stopped it. You could have warned him, pulled him back, done something—and you chose to let my brother die because it was easier than getting involved.”
“I chose to avoid a war that would have killed dozens and ended with Ethan dead anyway.” His other hand moves from the desk to cup my jaw, tilting my face up so I can’t look away.
“Please,” I whisper, hating how my voice trembles. “Please let me go.”
Felix’s thumb brushes across my cheekbone, catching a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. The touch is almost gentle, incongruous with everything else about this moment.
“You have no idea what world you stepped into,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my forehead.
“The files your brother left behind, the networks you’ve been trying to reconstruct, that’s not political corruption you can expose through transparency reports.
It’s organized crime infrastructure that’s been built over generations.
Senators, shipping routes, offshore accounts, enforcement structures that make people disappear when they ask the wrong questions. ”
“Then let me leave.” My pulse races beneath his hand, visible and vulnerable. “If I’m such a threat, if I don’t understand what I’m dealing with, let me walk away and forget everything.”
“You wouldn’t forget.” His grip shifts, fingers threading through my hair at the base of my skull. “You’d go straight to a journalist, or federal prosecutors, or someone you think could help. Within forty-eight hours, you’d be dead. Sartore’s people are watching for exactly that move.”
“So I’m supposed to stay here? Be your prisoner indefinitely while you—” I can’t finish the sentence, the reality of it too overwhelming.
“While I keep you alive.” He leans closer, so close our mouths are almost touching, breath mingling in the shrinking space. “Which is more than anyone else in this world will do.”
The proximity shifts something volatile in the air between us. My heart hammers against my ribs, fear mixing with awareness I don’t want to acknowledge. His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there long enough that heat floods through me despite everything.
I wait for him to close the distance, to turn this restraint into something else entirely. Part of me wants him to, wants the anger and fear to tip into something simpler and more dangerous.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, his mouth curves slightly, something dark and satisfied in the expression.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I like when you beg.”
The words land like a slap. I shove against his chest with my free hand, but he’s immovable.
Felix steps back then, releasing my wrist but not my gaze. The sudden absence of contact feels abrupt, leaving me cold where his body was pressed against mine.
“You’re not leaving this estate,” he says, tone shifting back to controlled authority. “Not today, not next week, not until I’ve neutralized the threat Sartore represents. Accept that now, or keep fighting and make yourself miserable. The outcome won’t change.”
He picks up the notepad I dropped, scanning the filenames I copied with clinical detachment. Then he tears the pages free, folds them precisely, and tucks them into his jacket pocket.
“Dinner will be sent to your room at six.” He moves toward the door, dismissing me without another glance. “I suggest you eat it this time.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, the lock engaging automatically.
I’m alone in his office, breathing hard, tears drying on my cheeks.