Miley had not even caught her breath from the weight of her own words when her phone buzzed on the coffee table.She blinked, startled, and leaned forward to grab it. “It is my secretary,” she muttered, then swiped to answer. “Yes?”Her secretary’s voice was brisk, cautious. “Ma’am, there is a gentleman on the other line… he insists on speaking with you urgently.”“Right now?” she asked, brows tightening.“Yes, ma’am. He says it’s Mr. Callo.”Miley froze. “The Mr. Callo? As in Amado’s boss?”“Yes. Shall I connect the call?”Miley cast a quick glance at Julius, whose expression remained unreadable, then nodded to herself. “Fine. Put him through.”The line went silent for a heartbeat, and then came the gravelly voice of an older man, trembling with restrained panic.“Ms. Hart,” he began, “please allow me to express my sincerest, deepest apologies. I cannot begin to tell you the shame I carry over what has happened. I…I had no idea what that foolish man was doing in my name.”Miley sat u

It was a rainless dusk in a city that glittered too much after dark all chrome and glass, hiding far too many secrets behind mirrored towers. Julius sat in the back of a black sedan, parked two blocks from the safehouse. His hands rested on his knees, but every muscle was wired, still as stone. Across from him sat a man in a tattered hoodie, one eye clouded with a cataract and the other too sharp.“She resurfaced,” the man rasped. “Did not take her long.”Julius did not flinch. “Name. What is the name?”“She is going by ‘Clea Jenkins’ now. Fake citizenship out of Malterra. Same cheekbones, new passport. She is not just hiding, Colton. She is working. Sabotage-for-hire on the black market.”Julius’s jaw flexed. “Give me the client list.”The man hesitated. “Not written down. But I can give you one name.”Julius leaned forward.“Some startup out of Kesslyn Port. Biotech kids. Young, full of money, no clue. She has wormed her way into their backend already.”“You are sure it’s her?”“I

The headlines broke like a dam across every international wire by dawn.“Clea Jenkins, alias of tech consultant Quella Marcourt, blacklisted globally for coordinated sabotage, espionage, and attempted intellectual property theft.”“The Guild freezes all known assets tied to Clea Jenkins’s shell companies.”“Interpol confirms detention of Clea Jenkins in Montenegro pending extradition on corporate crime charges.”Miley sat at the edge of the conference table, a fresh cup of untouched coffee in front of her, steam curling up like smoke from the war they had just finished winning.On the wall behind her, a mounted screen streamed a muted news segment. Footage played in a loop: blurred security cam of Quella being escorted out of a boutique hotel, two plainclothes officers on either side, one hand hovering just above her arm. Her face was grainy but unmistakable.She was not struggling. Just staring forward with that same smug defiance she wore like perfume.Julius entered the room silent

“You’re calmer than I expected,” she murmured as they moved.Julius smirked. “That’s because I’m waiting.”“For what?”“Whoever decides to ruin the night.”She rolled her eyes. “So romantic.”“I try.”The dance floor filled with swaying bodies. Champagne clinked. Laughter returned. For a moment, the world tilted toward peace.Until stilettos clicked.A voice, too sharp, too loud, sliced through the music.“Well, well,” it sneered. “It’s amazing how easily lies are hidden behind fairy lights and fake applause.”Every head turned.And there she stood.Clea Jenkins. Or rather… Quella.Gone was the fake blonde bob and sunglasses. She wore her old face now, styled and sharp in ivory satin, with a smugness that reeked of defiance. Her presence hit the crowd like a cold slap.Security flinched into motion, but Miley raised her hand coolly. “Wait.”Julius’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue. Not yet.Quella walked in like she owned the place. “You know, it’s convenient,” she said, lifting a flu

The conference room was colder than it needed to be…its sterile glass walls and brushed steel fixtures doing little to ease the tension humming beneath Miley’s skin.Across from her, Leonard Ramsey reclined, legs crossed, one hand stroking the trim of his salt-and-pepper beard while the other tapped an expensive Montblanc pen against the surface of the table. His smile was the kind that made Miley want to clench her fists. Polished! Practiced! Predatory!“You understand, of course,” he said, his tone oozing mock sympathy, “these things need some more... personal touch. I do not just invest capital, Miss Rowe. I invest faith. And I need to know…” he leaned forward, voice dropping low, “....if your leadership holds up under pressure.”Miley met his eyes squarely. “Then I hope you have brought a checklist.”Leonard chuckled as if she were a child playing at business. “Confidence. I like that.” He flipped the pitch folder open and skimmed the executive summary Miley had printed for him.