Chapter 2 #2
The men begin to talk—trade routes, negotiations with a South American contact, delays at port. I listen with half an ear, cataloging the real information between the lines: new shipments, bribed customs agents, and one name mentioned three times too casually— Black Forge.
An offshoot branch. One I hadn’t known was still active.
Dominic pours wine into my glass, and I let him.
It's all part of the theater. The men around him believe I’m the polished jewel of Blackdawn—obedient, efficient, cold when I need to be.
They don’t know I’ve started digging into Black Forge’s financials late at night, searching for something that could crack open the entire operation.
Damon lifts his glass in my direction. “To Seraphina,” he says, voice smooth. “The real engine behind your empire, Dominic. You should be proud.”
Dominic’s mouth lifts in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s effective. Trained well.”
Not loved. Not even admired. Just useful.
Damon doesn’t look away. “Effective is an understatement. You know, I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I murmur.
He chuckles, delighted. “Sharp. I like that. But truly—I believe there’s a future for you outside the operational wing. Something more... executive.”
My fork clinks against the porcelain plate as I set it down. “If this is about that idiotic proposal you hinted at earlier, spare us all the performance.”
Dominic’s head tilts slightly. “Proposal?”
Damon doesn’t flinch. “Just a hypothetical. A potential merger, you might say.”
He says it like it’s business, but his eyes are greedy. Hungry. Like I’m something to possess, not partner with.
I look at Dominic. “You’d let this leech speak to me like I’m a prize to win?”
Dominic doesn’t blink. “He’s a valuable investor.”
Of course. That’s all that matters.
Damon leans in slightly. “I was only saying you have potential, Seraphina. You shouldn’t waste it buried in logistics.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, smiling coldly. “Maybe I’ll take over everything. Starting with your head on a spike.”
The silence is instant. Tense.
And then Dominic laughs. Short, sharp, and laced with warning. “She gets that from her mother. Fire and poison.”
I sip my wine slowly, savoring the silence that follows. Damon’s eyes don’t leave me—but they’ve changed. Less amused. More… wary.
Good.
Let him see the teeth behind the gloss.
Let them all see what happens when the pretty doll on the shelf learns how to break her glass case.
I don’t go straight home.
The driver circles twice before pulling up to the building—a secure high-rise under an alias company name, paid in full by Blackdawn. No doormen. No neighbors. No security cameras that report to anyone Dominic can reach. It's one of the few freedoms I still have: silence.
The moment the locks click behind me, something inside loosens. Just slightly. The heels come off first. Then the blouse. The mask I wore all day slips next—expressionless, practiced, forgotten. I don’t think of it as home. It's not.
The penthouse is sleek and cold. Black floors. Gray furniture. Sharp corners. It wasn’t designed for comfort, only control. I call it the penthouse on purpose. Ownership would suggest I belong here. I don't.
I head straight for the bathroom and take a quick shower—hot water, harsh soap, no time to linger. Routines are part of the cover, too. By the time I settle at the desk in the study, I’ve pulled on a thin black T-shirt and loose sweats, skin still damp, hair towel-wrapped .
The terminal glows to life beneath my fingers.
The files I smuggled onto the hidden drive today are minor—shipment details, handler rotations, satellite logs.
But even scraps form patterns. And patterns tell stories.
I just have to keep piecing them together before the wrong person starts asking why I care.
But it’s the seventeen-year-old that keeps tugging at my mind.
I search the system again, this time bypassing my administrative access and diving deeper into the backend archives. Redacted files are rarely deleted—just buried.
It takes ten minutes to crack the lock. What I find is worse than I expected.
The boy’s name was Kieran Ward. No listed country of origin. No record of family. Just three lines:
Noncompliant. Escaped containment twice. Showed signs of behavioral conditioning resistance. Unstable. Dangerous. Termination recommended.
Termination.
I exhale slowly, jaw clenched. He’s not merchandise. He’s a loose end. A liability. One they plan to erase.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I copy the file. Not to the usual archive. This one I keep separate. Personal.
A soft ping cuts through the quiet—a secure message, blinking in a folder I never use unless it’s urgent.
Sender: Unknown Subject: WARD. Message: You’re not the only one watching. – D
My pulse spikes.
D wasn’t new. They’d been lurking in system sublayers for weeks now—just out of reach, too careful to trace.
Maybe ex-Blackdawn. Maybe something else.
But if they were real—if they were connected to the resistance rumors circling Facility E—then I’d finally found a crack in the wall big enough to crawl through.
I scan the metadata. It’s wiped clean.
Whoever “D” is, they’re inside the system—inside Blackdawn—and watching the same things I am.
Someone else is hunting the truth.
Or worse... hunting me.