The crystal chandeliers of the Maheswara Grand Ballroom hummed with a frequency that vibrated in Victor’s marrow. The air was thick—a cloying mixture of five-thousand-dollar-an-ounce perfume, aged scotch, and the distinct, metallic tang of lies.Victor adjusted the charcoal-grey silk of his mask. It was a minimalist piece, covering just enough of his face to make him a mystery, though his physique—broad-shouldered and encased in a bespoke suit that hugged his frame like a second skin—already had half the women in the room whispering behind their fans. He looked like a predator who had accidentally wandered into a flock of prize-winning sheep.Across the room, Marcus Maheswara stood center stage, a champagne flute held loosely in his hand. He looked soft. Success—or rather, the theft of it—had made him bloated with unearned confidence."I’m telling you, the 'Ares Project' was always my brainchild," Marcus laughed, his voice carrying over the soft violin quartet. He was leaning into a g

The wind was still screaming in Victor’s ears as the matte-black Ducati skidded to a halt in the subterranean garage of his high-rise penthouse. The scent of burnt rubber and salt air clung to his leather jacket. He hopped off the pillion, his movements fluid despite the adrenaline beginning to ebb."Get the servers live, Lucius," Victor said, tossing his helmet onto a workbench. "I want the Maheswara Group’s internal trading logs on my monitors before the sun hits the horizon."Lucius kicked the kickstand down, his face illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights. "Already on it, boss. But you might want to change first. You look like you just climbed out of a war zone.""I did," Victor replied, his mind flashing back to the amber eyes on the balcony. "And I think I left a piece of myself behind."*The following morning, the sun bled over the city skyline, casting long, golden shadows across Victor’s living room. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, shirtless, the scars on

The heavy mahogany door to Ariella’s private office hadn’t even fully clicked shut before Victor had her pinned against it.The scent of her—jasmine, gunpowder, and that intoxicating, clean heat of a woman who knew she’d just won the world—flooded his senses. He didn’t use his hands at first; he used his weight, his broad chest crushing the breath out of her as he stared into those predatory amber eyes."You have five minutes, you said," Victor growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "What makes you think I’m going to spend them talking?"Ariella didn’t flinch. She let out a soft, sharp exhale, her hands sliding up the lapels of his charcoal suit, her nails catching on the silk lining. "Talking is for people who aren't sure what they want, Victor. I think we both passed that stage about three chapters ago.""You played me," he muttered, his face inches from hers. "The Wicaksani group? You let me walk into that boardroom thinking I was going to have to burn the whole thing down

The sunlight didn’t feel like a blessing; it felt like an interrogation.Victor shifted on the silk sheets, his shoulder screaming a protest that jolted him into the waking world. The phantom weight of Ariella’s body was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow space that smelled faintly of jasmine and the metallic tang of his own dried blood."Ariella?" he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass.Silence was his only answer. The penthouse was a tomb of glass and marble. He forced himself upright, the world spinning for a sickening second. He looked toward the bathroom, expecting to see her leaning against the doorframe with a sharp remark and a cup of coffee. Nothing.His hand went instinctively to the bedside table where he’d left his encrypted phone and the Ares data drive. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The table was empty."Son of a..."He lunged for his trousers, pulling a secondary, smaller device from a hidden lining. He tapped the

The back stairs of the penthouse smelled of industrial bleach and stagnant fear. Victor moved like a man composed of glass shards, every step a jagged reminder of the bullet wound searing his shoulder. He checked his watch—a mechanical Patek that still ticked, oblivious to the fact that his entire digital empire had just been vaporized."Twenty minutes," he muttered to the empty stairwell. "Twenty minutes since the server signaled the wipe."He reached the basement level, the air growing thick with the scent of motor oil and ozone. His contact, a disgraced former systems architect named Hideo who lived in the bowels of the city’s data centers, was waiting. Hideo didn’t look up from his monitor; he didn't even acknowledge Victor’s bloody bandage."You’re late," Hideo said, his fingers dancing across a custom-built mechanical keyboard. "And you’re bleeding on my floor, Victor. Do you know how hard it is to get high-grade server dust out of blood?"Victor leaned against a stack of crates