New York glittered best when it was lying.

From the top floor of the Rossi Luxury Group headquarters, the city looked almost holy—glass towers dipped in gold, streets burning with ribbons of headlights, the Hudson reflecting the last bruised colors of sunset. It was beautiful in the way expensive things often were.

Shiny.

Sharp.

And hiding rot beneath the surface.

Aria Rossi stood barefoot in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office, one hand wrapped around an espresso cup, the other flipping lazily through a report she had absolutely no intention of reading tonight.

She was still dressed for the boardroom—black silk blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, diamond studs, and a watch so understated it cost more than some people’s cars. Her heels had been kicked off half an hour ago and were lying on their sides near the sofa like they’d offended her personally.

Behind her, Mia was losing patience.

“Aria.”

No answer.

“Aria.”

Still nothing.

“Aria Maria Rossi, if you jump out of a building again, I’m resigning.”

Aria took a slow sip of coffee and didn’t turn around. “That only happened once.”

Mia made a strangled noise. “You climbed out of your own office window to escape a board meeting.”

“It was a terrible board meeting.”

“It was a merger presentation.”

“It was a terrible merger presentation.”

Aria finally looked over her shoulder, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re still upset about that?”

“You used the emergency maintenance ledge on the forty-seventh floor.”

“And yet,” Aria said, gesturing at herself, “I survived.”

“That is not the point!”

“It’s always the point.”

Mia closed her eyes as if searching for spiritual guidance. She was twenty-seven, terrifyingly competent, and the only person in the company who could glare at Aria Rossi without fearing immediate termination. She’d been Aria’s assistant for four years and had developed the permanent expression of a woman who deserved hazard pay.

Aria crossed the office and dropped into her chair with all the elegance of a queen who had no respect for furniture. Her office was exactly what every magazine expected from the CEO of Rossi Luxury Group—sleek white marble, black steel accents, abstract art, and a skyline view worth millions.

It was also currently full of shopping bags, three abandoned coffee cups, contract folders, one motorcycle helmet, and a crystal paperweight Aria had stolen from her grandfather’s office when she was seventeen.

Mia looked around and sighed. “You know, sometimes I wonder why the media calls you the Ice Queen of Business.”

Aria leaned back in her chair. “Because I’m elegant, ruthless, and gorgeous?”

“Because no one sees this disaster in private.”

Aria gasped. “Excuse you. This is curated chaos.”

“This is not curated enough to qualify as chaos.”

Aria grinned.

Mia, tragically, did not.

Instead, she marched forward and dropped a black folder onto the desk. “Your grandfather wants you at the villa tonight.”

Aria’s smile vanished.

“No.”

Mia blinked. “No?”

“No,” Aria repeated, already reaching for her coffee. “I have plans.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I do.”

“Lying to your assistant is disrespectful.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “Wow. I’m hurt.”

“Good.”

Mia opened the folder and pulled out a single sheet. “Your grandfather didn’t ask this time. He said—and I quote—‘Bring my reckless granddaughter home before she gets herself shot again.’”

Aria nearly choked on her espresso.

Mia narrowed her eyes. “Would you like to explain why he said again?”

“No.”

“Aria.”

“No, Mia.”

Mia folded her arms. “You know what? Fine. Keep your suspiciously life-threatening secrets. But you’re still going.”

Aria stood and reached for her leather jacket draped over the back of the sofa. “Tell him I’m busy overthrowing capitalism.”

“You own four luxury fashion houses.”

“Exactly. No one suspects me.”

Mia stared at her. “One day I’m going to write a book about working for you.”

“Make sure I’m glamorous in it.”

“Oh, you’ll be glamorous,” Mia muttered. “You’ll also be the reason I need therapy.”

Aria laughed all the way to the elevator.

---

The Rossi villa stood at the edge of Manhattan like old money had personally bullied the land into making room for it.

The gates alone were obscene—black wrought iron framed by stone pillars, flanked by cameras, guards, and enough discreetly armed security to monitor a small country. The mansion beyond was all old European elegance, white stone and ivy and manicured gardens lit by soft golden lamps.

Aria rolled her motorcycle to a stop in front of the entrance and removed her helmet. The evening wind slipped through her dark hair as one of the guards hurried forward to take it.

“Welcome home, Miss Rossi.”

“Is my grandfather in one of his moods?” she asked.

The guard hesitated.

Aria sighed. “That bad?”

“He’s in the drawing room, Miss.”

“Of course he is.”

She stepped inside, heels clicking across polished marble floors. The familiar scent of cedar, old books, and expensive wine wrapped around her instantly. Nothing about the villa had changed much over the years. The walls still wore antique paintings and portraits of dead Rossis who all looked like they’d either committed a crime before breakfast or were about to.

Home sweet home.

Aria walked toward the drawing room already preparing herself for whatever ambush her grandfather had arranged this time.

A marriage lecture.

A political dinner.

A business alliance disguised as a social gathering.

Another attempt to introduce her to some rich heir with a weak jawline and an overinflated opinion of himself.

The possibilities were endless.

She pushed open the drawing room doors without knocking.

“Grandpa, if this is another attempt to marry me off to a man with bad hair, I’m leaving.”

Silence.

Aria stopped.

Her grandfather was exactly where she expected him to be—sitting in his favorite leather armchair with a cane resting against one leg and a wool blanket over his knees in what would have been a convincing elderly image if Aria didn’t know for a fact that he could still terrify armed men without raising his voice.

But he wasn’t alone.

A man stood near the fireplace, one hand in the pocket of a charcoal-gray suit, broad shoulders outlined by warm lamplight. He was tall—offensively tall, really—and so still he didn’t look like a guest at all.

He looked like a weapon pretending to be a man.

Aria’s gaze traveled upward.

And then stopped.

…Oh.

Well.

That was inconvenient.

Because the stranger standing in her grandfather’s drawing room was the sort of handsome that felt less like a blessing and more like a legal liability.

Dark hair brushed neatly away from his face.

Sharp jaw.

A calm, unreadable expression.

A body built like expensive trouble.

The kind of face that belonged on the cover of a business magazine above a headline like HOW TO DESTROY YOUR ENEMIES IN A PERFECTLY TAILORED SUIT.

For one humiliating second, Aria forgot how to blink.

Then she recovered.

Naturally, the first thing she said was, “You’re too handsome to be a bodyguard.”

Her grandfather shut his eyes like a man asking God for patience.

The stranger, however, didn’t react.

Not even a flicker.

His gaze moved over her—helmet hair, leather jacket, dark lipstick, and the expression that usually preceded bad decisions—and stopped somewhere between unimpressed and mildly disapproving.

Then he said, in a low, even voice that was entirely too attractive for Aria’s peace of mind—

“You’re too reckless to stay alive.”

The room went silent.

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

Her grandfather made a sound that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Aria slowly turned toward him. “Did you hire him to insult me?”

“No,” Grandpa Rossi said. “That part was free.”

“Wonderful.”

She looked back at the stranger. “And who exactly are you?”

“Adrian De Luca.”

The name landed between them with the weight of recognition.

Of course she knew who Adrian De Luca was.

Everyone did.

CEO of De Luca Security International. Former military prodigy turned billionaire security king. The man governments called when they didn’t trust their own systems. A ghost in expensive tailoring. A strategist. A legend in boardrooms and war zones alike.

Aria’s face remained calm, but several thoughts collided at once in her mind.

First: Why was Adrian De Luca in her grandfather’s house?

Second: Why did he somehow look better in person than in the magazines?

Third: Why did his voice sound like it had no business speaking directly to her while wearing a suit that fit him like a sin?

And most importantly—

Fourth: absolutely not.

“No,” she said.

Her grandfather frowned. “I didn’t ask a question.”

“I know,” Aria replied, pointing at Adrian. “But the answer is still no.”

“This is your new head of security.”

Aria laughed.

Actually laughed.

It burst out of her bright and sharp, and for the first time Adrian’s expression shifted—barely, but enough for her to catch the faintest flicker of annoyance.

Good.

She liked him less already.

“You hired a head of security,” she said, “without asking me?”

“You’ve had six assassination attempts in the last three months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“The one in Milan barely counts.”

“The car exploded.”

“It exploded beside me,” Aria corrected. “Accuracy matters.”

Grandpa Rossi looked one second away from ordering a priest.

Adrian somehow looked even less impressed than before.

Aria turned toward him, smile sharp enough to draw blood. “And you accepted?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because someone wants you dead.”

“And?”

“And unlike you,” Adrian said coolly, “I consider that a problem.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “I’m touched. Truly.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s my job.”

The nerve.

The absolute nerve of this man.

Aria crossed the room, stopping close enough to make most men nervous.

Adrian didn’t move.

Interesting.

Up close, he was somehow worse.

Or better.

Worse for her peace of mind. Better for his face.

He smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive and clean. His tie was perfectly straight. His expression remained calm in a way that felt almost insulting, as if nothing in the world surprised him—not billion-dollar negotiations, not bullets, and certainly not Aria Rossi standing in front of him trying very hard not to notice how annoyingly attractive he was.

“Let me make this simple, Mr. De Luca,” she said sweetly. “I do not need a bodyguard.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the thin scar near her wrist.

Then lifted back to her face.

“Clearly.”

The smile slipped from Aria’s lips.

For a fraction of a second, something cold flashed through her eyes.

Not because he was wrong.

Because he had noticed.

Very few people ever noticed.

And almost no one was stupid enough to comment on it.

Grandpa Rossi cleared his throat sharply, as if he had caught the shift in the room and decided he disliked it. “Adrian will be staying with you until this matter is resolved.”

Aria tore her gaze away from Adrian. “Staying with me?”

“Yes.”

“In my penthouse?”

“Yes.”

“In my personal space?”

“You say that like you respect personal space.”

She ignored him. “Absolutely not.”

Grandpa Rossi folded his hands over his cane. “You have two choices. Adrian protects you, or I assign twelve armed guards to follow you into every board meeting, charity event, brunch, showroom, and bathroom.”

Aria stared.

Her grandfather stared back.

It was a battle of wills that had begun when she was thirteen and had only grown more dramatic with age.

Finally, she turned slowly toward Adrian.

He met her gaze without blinking.

Aria smiled—a beautiful, dangerous smile that had destroyed men, negotiations, and at least one journalist’s confidence in under thirty seconds.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “You’ve just accepted the worst job in New York.”

And for the first time since she’d entered the room, Adrian De Luca smiled.

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t charming.

It was the kind of smile a wolf might wear right before deciding whether to bite.

“I know,” he said.

Something in Aria’s stomach flipped.

She hated that immediately.

---

Dinner was a disaster.

Adrian stayed.

Aria objected.

Grandpa Rossi ignored her.

The table was set for three in one of the smaller dining rooms, though “smaller” in the Rossi villa still meant enough space to host a minor royal family. Crystal chandeliers hung above polished wood. Silver gleamed under candlelight. The staff moved quietly around them, delivering courses with the kind of discreet professionalism that suggested they had all seen too much and chosen silence for survival.

Aria spent the first ten minutes pretending Adrian didn’t exist.

Adrian spent the first ten minutes watching the room with the cold alertness of a man who catalogued exits before menus.

Grandpa Rossi spent the first ten minutes enjoying himself far too much.

“Adrian,” he said, cutting into his sea bass with infuriating calm, “tell me. How long have you been in security?”

“Long enough to know your granddaughter is a nightmare.”

Aria looked up from her wine. “I’m sorry?”

Grandpa Rossi nearly smiled into his plate.

Adrian didn’t even glance at her. “She left her office without informing anyone. Arrived here alone on a motorcycle. Has a pattern of escaping secure locations. Dismisses active threats. And I’ve been assigned to her for less than an hour.”

Aria leaned back in her chair. “I don’t remember asking for a performance review.”

“You’re getting one anyway.”

“How generous.”

Grandpa Rossi took a sip of wine. “You’ll have to forgive her. Aria has never responded well to authority.”

“I’ve noticed,” Adrian said.

Aria narrowed her eyes. “You’re both enjoying this too much.”

“Not true,” her grandfather replied. “I’m enjoying it exactly enough.”

She turned toward Adrian. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t take orders well.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I also don’t like strangers in my home.”

“Then stop getting targeted by assassins.”

Aria blinked.

Grandpa Rossi choked on his wine.

For one stunned second, the room went quiet.

Then Aria laughed—a bright, disbelieving laugh that startled even some of the staff.

“You know what?” she said, reaching for her glass. “I hate you already.”

“Good,” Adrian said, not sounding bothered in the slightest. “That means you’re paying attention.”

She stared at him.

He calmly took another bite of dinner.

Infuriating.

Completely infuriating.

And somehow, against all reason, Aria could already feel the edges of her curiosity sharpening.

Who spoke to her like that?

Who sat in her grandfather’s house, insulted her to her face, and somehow made it sound like strategy?

Most people in Aria’s world fell into one of two categories. They either wanted something from her or they were afraid of her. Sometimes both.

Adrian De Luca, on the other hand, looked at her like she was a problem to solve.

She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or entertained.

Probably both.

By dessert, she’d made up her mind.

She was going to get rid of him.

---

By the time Aria left the villa, it was fully dark.

And Adrian De Luca was walking behind her.

She stopped halfway down the front steps and turned. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I’m assigned to you.”

“You’re not assigned to me until tomorrow.”

“I prefer to start immediately.”

“Of course you do.”

She snatched her helmet from the guard’s hands and shoved it onto her head. “I’m going home alone.”

“No.”

Aria froze. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Adrian repeated, like a man who had never once in his life feared the consequences of saying no to the wrong person. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

The night wind stirred through the gardens. Somewhere behind them, a fountain splashed in elegant indifference. One of the guards very wisely took several steps away.

Aria stepped closer. “I don’t take orders well.”

“I noticed.”

“I fire people for less.”

“I don’t work for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Technically, you do.”

“Technically,” Adrian said, “I work to keep you alive. Whether you cooperate is your choice.”

That did it.

Aria took off her helmet and shoved it into his chest.

It was not a light helmet.

Any normal man would have stumbled.

Adrian caught it one-handed without even glancing down.

Aria hated him a little more.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You want to protect me? Keep up.”

Then she swung one leg over her motorcycle, started the engine, and shot him one last look over her shoulder.

“Try not to die, Mr. De Luca.”

And then she sped through the gates like a bullet.

For exactly three glorious seconds, Aria felt victorious.

For exactly three glorious seconds, she imagined Adrian De Luca standing in the driveway in silence while she disappeared into Manhattan traffic, forced to admit defeat on his very first night.

Then headlights appeared in her side mirror.

A black Aston Martin.

Fast.

Very fast.

Aria’s jaw dropped inside her helmet.

“You have got to be kidding me—”

The car stayed with her through every turn.

Every lane change.

Every light.

When she accelerated, it accelerated.

When she cut through traffic, it followed with smooth, terrifying precision.

By the time she reached her penthouse building, Aria was no longer angry.

She was offended.

Deeply, personally offended.

She pulled into the underground garage, killed the engine, and ripped off her helmet just as the Aston Martin slid into the spot beside her with infuriating elegance.

Adrian stepped out a second later, adjusted his cuffs, and looked entirely unaffected by the fact that he had just chased her across Manhattan like this was a perfectly reasonable way to begin employment.

Aria stared at him. “Are you insane?”

“No.”

“You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“At high speed.”

“Yes.”

“Through Midtown traffic!”

Adrian closed the car door. “You were the one speeding.”

“That is not the point!”

“It’s one of several points.”

Aria made a sound that was not fit for polite society.

Adrian held out her helmet.

She snatched it from him.

Then, because the universe clearly enjoyed testing her patience, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s that?”

“A revised security schedule.”

Aria blinked. “A what?”

“Your current one is inadequate.”

She stared at the paper. Then at him. Then back at the paper as if it might burst into flames and save her from this conversation.

“You made me a security schedule.”

“I made you a survivability schedule.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means you’re no longer allowed to disappear without telling anyone, leave through unsecured exits, bribe your own guards, or ride alone after midnight.”

Aria looked up slowly.

Then smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

“Mr. De Luca,” she said very softly, “I want you to listen to me carefully.”

Adrian slipped one hand into his pocket and waited.

She stepped closer.

Then another.

Until she was standing directly in front of him, chin tilted up, eyes sharp, every inch of her radiating challenge.

“I am going upstairs,” she said. “Alone. You are going home. Preferably far away from me. And tomorrow morning, I’m going to call my grandfather and explain exactly where he can put this survivability schedule.”

Adrian listened without interrupting.

Then he glanced toward the elevator.

Looked back at her.

And said the most infuriating words Aria Rossi had heard in twenty-nine years of life.

“I’ll take the stairs.”

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

The parking garage fell into absolute silence.

And somewhere deep in the cold, dramatic center of her soul, Aria knew one thing with perfect certainty.

This man was going to ruin her life.

---

Her penthouse occupied the entire top floor of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive residential towers.

It was elegant, private, heavily secured, and—despite what every magazine believed—not a minimalist masterpiece.

It was war.

There were books stacked on the coffee table in uneven piles, a half-open sketchbook on the kitchen island, two helmets by the door, and a throw blanket on the couch that Mia had once described as “evidence that you’re secretly a raccoon nesting in luxury.”

Aria unlocked the door and stepped inside without looking back.

She was fully aware Adrian was still there.

She was also fully committed to pretending he wasn’t.

“Take your shoes off if you’re coming in,” she called over her shoulder, tossing her keys onto the console table. “I don’t trust men who wear outdoor shoes across expensive rugs.”

A beat of silence followed.

Then Adrian’s calm voice came from behind her.

“I’m not staying.”

Aria turned around so fast she nearly laughed.

He was still in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame, his tie still perfect, his expression still impossible.

“Really?” she said. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all evening.”

“I’m posting two men downstairs and one outside the private elevator. I’ll be back at six.”

She blinked. “Six in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To review your schedule, inspect the building security, and go over route changes for tomorrow.”

Aria stared at him as if he had personally offended every ancestor in her bloodline.

“There will be no route changes.”

“There will.”

“There won’t.”

“There will.”

She folded her arms. “You know, I was trying to be civil.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But I could have started throwing things, so really you should appreciate my restraint.”

Adrian’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

It wasn’t quite a smile.

It was worse.

It was the hint that he might be amused.

Aria pointed at him immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing with your face.”

“My face.”

“Yes. That.”

Adrian looked entirely too calm for a man standing in the apartment of a woman who was one insult away from launching a decorative vase at his head.

“I’ll see you at six, Miss Rossi.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What would you prefer?”

Aria opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then narrowed her eyes.

“That was a trap.”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

Adrian inclined his head once, as if acknowledging a successful tactical maneuver. “Lock the door behind me.”

Then he stepped back into the hallway and left.

Aria stood in the middle of her penthouse in stunned silence.

She listened to his retreating footsteps.

Then to the soft click of the outer door.

Then to the absolute, offensive quiet he left behind.

A full ten seconds passed before she threw herself dramatically onto the couch and glared at the ceiling.

“This is a nightmare,” she informed the room.

The room, lacking sympathy, remained silent.

Aria sat up, reached for her phone, and dialed Mia.

Mia answered on the second ring. “Did you survive dinner?”

“No.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. My grandfather hired a bodyguard.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“A hot one?”

Aria sat bolt upright. “Whose side are you on?”

“That is not a no.”

“He’s impossible.”

“Still not a no.”

Aria flopped back against the cushions. “He’s arrogant, rude, bossy, and apparently under the impression that I’m a badly behaved package he’s been paid to deliver safely.”

Mia gasped softly. “So yes, hot.”

Aria dragged a hand over her face. “Mia.”

“I’m just saying, if your suffering happens to be aesthetically pleasing, I’m entitled to details.”

“He made me a survivability schedule.”

Silence.

Then Mia burst into laughter.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry,” Mia wheezed. “A survivability schedule?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the most psychotic bodyguard thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Is he actually staying?”

Aria closed her eyes. “Apparently he starts at six in the morning.”

Mia was quiet for one beat.

Then—

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For me definitely.”

Aria ended the call before Mia could get any more entertained at her expense.

She tossed the phone onto the couch, stood, and walked toward the kitchen in search of something stronger than espresso. The penthouse was dark except for the city lights pouring through the windows. From this height, New York looked distant and almost harmless.

It wasn’t.

Aria knew exactly how dangerous this city could be.

She knew how quickly a quiet street could become a crime scene.

How easily smiles in boardrooms hid knives.

How often powerful men mistook silk and diamonds for weakness.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the kitchen counter.

Six attempts in three months.

Milan.

A charity gala in Manhattan.

A brake line cut in Paris.

A sniper on a rooftop in Chicago.

A package bomb intercepted by luck more than skill.

And one man in a hotel hallway who had pulled a knife too slowly and died too fast.

Aria’s expression cooled.

Someone was getting desperate.

That was the only reason she’d tolerated tonight at all.

Not because she wanted a bodyguard.

Not because her grandfather was worried.

And certainly not because Adrian De Luca looked at her like he could see more than he should.

No.

She tolerated it because six attempts was not a coincidence.

Someone wanted her dead.

And someone was getting closer.

Her phone buzzed on the couch.

Aria crossed the room and picked it up, expecting Mia.

It wasn’t Mia.

The number was unknown.

No name. No history. Just a message.

Sleep carefully tonight, Miss Rossi.

The seventh attempt won’t miss.

The blood in Aria’s veins went cold.

For one still second, she stared at the screen.

Then her gaze lifted slowly toward the dark windows of her penthouse.

New York glittered back at her.

Beautiful.

Silent.

Watching.

Aria set the glass in her hand down without a sound and moved.

In one smooth motion, she crossed to the wall beside the bookshelf, pressed her thumb to a hidden panel, and waited for the soft click.

A narrow compartment slid open.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a handgun.

Aria picked it up with practiced ease.

Her heartbeat never changed.

Her face never changed.

Only her eyes did.

They sharpened.

Darkened.

Became something colder than any business magazine had ever captured.

She stepped away from the living room windows and into the shadows just as the lights in the building across the street flickered.

Once.

Twice.

A signal.

Aria’s grip tightened on the gun.

And for the first time that night, her smile returned.

It was not the smile of a billionaire heiress.

Not the smile of a CEO.

And certainly not the smile of a woman who needed anyone to save her.

It was the smile of someone who had just been threatened by a fool.

Someone who had no idea what kind of war he’d just stepped into.

“Interesting,” Aria murmured to the darkness.

Then she reached for her phone, already dialing a number she never used in daylight.

By the time the line connected, her voice was calm.

Deadly calm.

❄ “Wake everyone up.”

A pause on the other end.

Then a man’s voice, instantly alert.

“Yes, boss.”

Aria’s gaze stayed fixed on the city beyond the glass.

On the building across the street.

On the darkness hiding there.

❄ “Find out who sent me that message,” she said. “And if they’re stupid enough to still be watching my building…”

Her lips curved.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

❄ “Bring them to me.”

The line went silent for half a second.

Then—

“Yes, Phantom Queen.”

Aria ended the call.

Across the room, her phone screen still glowed with the threat.

The seventh attempt won’t miss.

Aria looked at it once.

Then deleted the message.

Tomorrow morning, Adrian De Luca would arrive at six with his tailored suits, his survivability schedule, and his infuriatingly calm bodyguard routine.

He would probably inspect her penthouse.

Question the security system.

Lecture her about reckless behavior.

And watch her like she was the most exhausting assignment of his career.

What he would not know—

what absolutely no one in Adrian De Luca’s polished, controlled world would know—

was that tonight, while he slept under the illusion that Aria Rossi needed protecting…

the Phantom Queen was going hunting.

And somewhere in the city, someone was about to learn a very expensive lesson.

Aria Rossi was never the prey.

The man tied to the chair was bleeding onto Aria’s imported Persian rug.

Not enough to ruin it permanently, she hoped.

But definitely enough to irritate her.

Aria stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, one hand wrapped around a cup of black coffee, the other resting lazily against the table beside her. She had changed out of her evening clothes twenty minutes ago and was now wearing black fitted trousers, a dark silk shirt, and gloves that made it very clear she was not here for a polite conversation.

The warehouse office around her was silent except for the drip of blood onto concrete and the occasional hum of the old industrial lights above.

Across from her, the man in the chair trembled.

He was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, and foolish enough to have spent the last forty minutes pretending he didn’t know why he’d been dragged here.

A mistake.

Aria hated wasted time.

Leo stood at her right, expression blank as stone. Tall, disciplined, and dressed in black, he looked like the kind of man people crossed the street to avoid. He had worked for Aria for years, knew exactly when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut, and had long ago stopped reacting to the fact that his boss could sip espresso while deciding whether to destroy someone.

On Aria’s left, Mia would have fainted from stress if she ever saw this side of her.

Which was exactly why Mia never would.

Aria took another sip of coffee and looked at the man tied to the chair.

He looked back with wide, terrified eyes.

“Let’s try this again,” she said pleasantly. “Who sent the message?”

“I—I already told you, I don’t know—”

Aria sighed.

“Leo.”

Leo stepped forward, pulled a knife from the table, and casually drove it into the wood right beside the man’s hand.

The man screamed.

Aria blinked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “That was dramatic.”

“You’re insane!” he gasped.

“Yes,” Aria agreed. “But more importantly, I’m busy. So unless you want to spend the rest of the night discovering how little patience I have, I suggest you stop lying.”

The man’s chest heaved. Sweat slid down his temple.

Aria set her coffee down and crouched in front of him, elbows resting on her knees like they were old friends catching up.

“Here’s the thing,” she said softly. “I’m trying very hard to be nice tonight. I’ve had a long day. My grandfather hired me a bodyguard against my will, I’m running on caffeine and irritation, and someone threatened me in my own home.”

She tilted her head.

“So if you make me stay here longer than necessary, I’m going to become deeply unpleasant.”

The man swallowed.

Aria smiled.

It was the kind of smile that had made grown men confess things they’d sworn they’d die protecting.

Finally, his resolve cracked.

“I don’t know the name,” he stammered. “I swear. I only got instructions.”

“From whom?”

“A middleman. I’ve never met the real client.”

“What instructions?”

“To watch your building. Report who came and went. Send the message at midnight. Make sure you saw it.”

Aria’s expression cooled. “Why?”

“I don’t know!”

She held his gaze for a long, quiet moment, measuring the fear in it.

He wasn’t lying.

Not about that part.

Aria stood and slipped her gloves off finger by finger. “Did you see anyone else watching the building?”

He hesitated.

Leo moved.

The man yelped, “Yes! Yes—two men in a black sedan across the street. I swear, that’s all I know!”

Aria went still.

Then she turned slowly toward Leo.

“Find the sedan.”

Leo nodded once. “Already sent a team.”

Of course he had.

Aria liked competence. It saved so much time.

She reached for her coffee again. It was still warm. Good.

“Check his phone, his financial records, and every call he made in the last seventy-two hours,” she said. “If he’s lying, I want to know before sunrise.”

“And him?” Leo asked, glancing at the man in the chair.

Aria looked over.

The man visibly stopped breathing.

She considered him for a moment.

Then lifted her coffee and took a sip.

“Keep him alive,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to clean up blood before dawn.”

The man nearly cried with relief.

Aria, who had never once in her life mistaken mercy for weakness, turned and walked toward the office door.

“Boss,” Leo called.

She looked back.

He hesitated only a second. “It’s almost five.”

Aria glanced at the watch on her wrist.

Five.

Wonderful.

That meant she had just enough time to get home, shower, and prepare herself for the arrival of Adrian De Luca and his stupid survivability schedule.

A deep, ancient exhaustion touched her soul.

“I hate mornings,” she muttered.

Leo, wisely, said nothing.

---

At 5:42 a.m., Aria Rossi was standing in her penthouse kitchen glaring at a toaster.

She had showered in record time, changed into an oversized black T-shirt and silk sleep shorts, tied her damp hair into a messy knot, and attempted to make breakfast entirely out of spite.

The toaster, unfortunately, had chosen rebellion.

One slice of sourdough was burned beyond recognition.

The second had somehow remained pale and insulting.

Aria stared at both.

Then at the machine.

Then back at the bread as if it had personally betrayed her.

“This is why I don’t trust appliances,” she informed the empty kitchen.

The kitchen, much like the rest of the world, did not care.

She threw both slices away, opened the refrigerator, and found exactly half a bottle of water, almond milk, two lemons, and a container of takeout tiramisu she had absolutely no memory of ordering.

A healthy and inspiring breakfast selection.

Perfect.

She grabbed the tiramisu, took a spoon, and was halfway through her second bite when the doorbell rang.

Aria froze.

Then slowly looked at the clock on the oven.

5:58.

The audacity.

The absolute, unholy audacity.

He was two minutes early.

Who arrived early for something no one wanted them at?

Psychopaths, that’s who.

Aria set the tiramisu down with the expression of a woman preparing for battle and stalked toward the door.

When she yanked it open, Adrian De Luca was standing there in a dark navy suit, white shirt, and tie, looking as calm and criminally well put together as he had the night before.

Aria looked at him.

Then at his watch.

Then back at him.

“It’s 5:58.”

“Yes.”

“I told you not to come.”

“Yes.”

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Do you have a hobby, Mr. De Luca?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Keeping difficult clients alive.”

Aria stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, to her horror, his gaze drifted past her shoulder into the penthouse.

More specifically—

toward the open tiramisu container on the kitchen island.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Adrian looked back at her face.

“Tiramisu for breakfast?”

Aria’s grip tightened on the door.

“It’s emotionally supportive tiramisu.”

His expression didn’t change.

But she saw it.

That tiny almost-smile again.

Aria pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Judge me in silence. If you’re going to be rude, at least do it out loud like a normal person.”

“I wasn’t judging.”

“You looked at the tiramisu.”

“I did.”

“You looked at it like it disappointed you.”

“I’ve never met your tiramisu.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Adrian’s gaze dropped briefly to her bare legs, oversized T-shirt, and messy hair.

Then lifted back to her face.

And for the first time since meeting him, something shifted in his expression.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough for Aria to catch it.

A pause.

A second too long.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Aria’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m assessing.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It should.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away from the door. “If you’re going to ruin my morning, at least come inside and do it efficiently.”

Adrian stepped into the penthouse.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But Aria felt it.

A stillness.

A recalibration.

Adrian’s eyes moved once across the apartment and she knew immediately that he wasn’t admiring the architecture. He was mapping it. Entrances, blind spots, camera angles, access points, weaknesses.

His attention landed on the windows.

Then the hallway.

Then the kitchen.

Then, annoyingly, back on the tiramisu.

“Coffee?” Aria asked, mostly because if she didn’t keep talking she might start throwing decorative objects.

“Yes.”

“You drink it black?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

She headed toward the kitchen while Adrian followed at a measured pace, quiet enough to be unsettling. Aria hated how much space he seemed to occupy without making any effort. Even in silence, he had presence—cold, controlled, impossible to ignore.

She handed him a mug.

He took it.

Their fingers brushed.

And for one ridiculous second, Aria felt the contact like a spark.

She pulled her hand back first.

Naturally, Adrian noticed.

Naturally, he said nothing.

Aria hated that too.

She took her own coffee, leaned against the counter, and watched him over the rim of the mug. “So. What exactly happens now? You hand me a twenty-page manual on how to breathe safely?”

“Close.”

Adrian set his coffee down and placed a black folder on the island.

Aria stared at it with immediate suspicion.

“What’s that?”

“Your updated security plan.”

“Burn it.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“I know.”

She opened the folder anyway, because she had inherited many things from the Rossi family but patience wasn’t one of them.

Inside was a printed schedule so aggressively organized it felt like a personal attack.

6:00 a.m. — Building sweep complete

6:15 a.m. — Route review

7:00 a.m. — Driver and vehicle rotation briefing

8:30 a.m. — Office arrival

12:00 p.m. — Lunch location secured in advance

6:00 p.m. — Evening escort

No solo travel. No unscheduled exits. No unverified guests. No last-minute venue changes without security clearance.

Aria looked up in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You scheduled my lunch.”

“Yes.”

“My lunch.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Frequently.”

Aria dropped the folder onto the counter. “This is not a security plan. This is a hostage situation.”

Adrian folded his arms. “This is what happens when someone has six assassination attempts and continues behaving like a woman with a death wish.”

“I do not have a death wish.”

“You ride alone at midnight.”

“I like motorcycles.”

“You climb out of office windows.”

“Sometimes meetings deserve consequences.”

“You change plans without warning.”

“Because I’m spontaneous.”

“You bribe your guards.”

“They’re underpaid.”

Adrian was silent for a moment.

Then he said, very calmly, “You are exhausting.”

Aria put a hand to her chest. “And yet you came back.”

“Professional obligation.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

His eyes met hers.

For one heartbeat, the air in the kitchen changed.

Then the intercom buzzed.

Aria jumped.

Adrian moved before the sound had fully registered.

One second he was across the kitchen.

The next he was between her and the front entrance, body angled protectively, one hand already inside his jacket.

Aria stared.

The intercom buzzed again.

Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the hallway. “Who’s expected?”

“No one,” Aria said automatically.

His gaze cut to her.

She lifted a brow. “I said expected. Not tolerated.”

He ignored that. “Stay here.”

Aria laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“Aria.”

It was the first time he’d used her first name.

Not Miss Rossi.

Not some clipped professional title.

Just Aria.

Low, firm, and edged with command.

It hit her in a place she refused to examine.

Unfortunately, this was not the time to unpack emotional damage.

She followed him anyway.

Adrian reached the intercom panel and pressed the security feed.

The screen lit up.

Mia’s face appeared.

She was holding a paper bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other, looking deeply offended by the existence of mornings.

“Oh, good,” she said through the speaker. “You’re alive. Open the door before I drop this and sue everyone.”

Aria snorted.

Adrian did not look amused.

“It’s Mia,” Aria said.

“I can see that.”

“She works for me.”

“That doesn’t exempt her from screening.”

Aria gave him a long look. “Do you tackle delivery drivers too, or is this level of intensity reserved for women in designer pajamas?”

Adrian ignored her and buzzed Mia in.

Mia arrived less than two minutes later, stepped into the penthouse, took one look at Adrian standing in the hallway like a luxury-trained assassin, and absolutely lit up.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Aria knew that tone.

She hated that tone.

“Mia,” Aria warned.

But Mia was already smiling like she had been handed front-row tickets to the greatest entertainment of her life.

“So this is the bodyguard.”

Adrian inclined his head politely. “Adrian De Luca.”

Mia shifted the coffee tray into one hand and stuck the other out. “Mia Chen. Assistant, emotional support system, and the only reason Aria has not accidentally burned down three companies and a penthouse.”

Aria grabbed the paper bag from her. “Traitor.”

Mia ignored her. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Adrian’s gaze slid, very briefly, toward Aria.

“Have you?”

Aria narrowed her eyes. “No one is allowed to bond in my kitchen.”

“Too late,” Mia said brightly. “We’re already united against your lifestyle choices.”

“Excuse me?”

Mia pointed at the open tiramisu container on the island. “Breakfast?”

“It’s a rough morning.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“Yes,” Aria said flatly. “That’s the rough part.”

Mia snorted and moved into the kitchen like she owned the place. “I brought croissants, fruit, and the meeting files for your ten o’clock. Also, your grandfather called.”

Aria paused mid-bite of croissant. “Why?”

“He wanted to know if Adrian had arrived.”

Adrian answered before Aria could. “I have.”

Mia’s eyes gleamed. “Do you want me to tell him she’s behaving?”

“No,” Adrian said.

Aria gasped. “Mia, if you betray me to my own grandfather, I’ll replace you with someone less annoying.”

“You can try,” Mia said, completely unbothered. “But no one else would willingly put up with you.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

Adrian, to Aria’s everlasting irritation, looked like he agreed.

She pointed at him with a croissant. “You are not allowed to silently side with her.”

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve known you for twelve hours,” Adrian said. “And in that time you’ve attempted to flee me on a motorcycle, eaten tiramisu for breakfast, and declared war on a toaster.”

Mia turned to Aria slowly. “Declared war on a toaster?”

Aria froze. “How did you know about the toaster?”

Adrian took a sip of coffee. “The kitchen smelled like burnt bread and hostility.”

Mia laughed so hard she had to put the coffee tray down.

Aria considered murder.

Not actual murder.

Just mild violence.

Maybe with a throw pillow.

Before she could decide, Adrian’s phone buzzed.

The shift in him was immediate.

The humor—if he’d been feeling any at all—vanished.

He glanced at the screen and answered without hesitation.

“De Luca.”

Aria watched his expression sharpen.

Mia, to her credit, also noticed and went quiet.

“Yes,” Adrian said. “How long ago?”

A pause.

“No. Do not touch anything until I get there.”

He ended the call and looked at Aria.

“What?”

“Someone got into your office last night.”

The penthouse went silent.

Aria’s grip tightened around her coffee mug. “What?”

“Your office at Rossi headquarters. One of your private storage cabinets was forced open.”

Mia swore under her breath.

Aria’s mind moved instantly, cold and fast.

“What was taken?”

“We don’t know yet.”

She set the mug down. “We’re leaving.”

Adrian was already reaching for his keys. “No.”

Aria blinked. “No?”

“We’re not walking into a potentially compromised scene without preparation.”

“My office is the scene.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re doing this properly.”

“I’m the CEO.”

“And I’m the man trying to stop you from getting killed on company property.”

The words hit hard enough to silence the room.

Aria held his gaze.

There it was again—that cold certainty in him, that refusal to bend when it mattered. It should have irritated her.

It did irritate her.

But underneath the irritation was something else.

Trust.

Not much.

Not enough to be comfortable.

But enough to be dangerous.

Adrian turned to Mia. “Who has access to the executive floor this early?”

Mia switched gears instantly, all humor gone. “Night security, cleaning crew, Aria’s executive staff, and anyone with override clearance from building management.”

“Get me the list.”

Mia nodded and was already pulling out her phone.

Adrian looked back at Aria. “You’re changing.”

Aria folded her arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to a possible break-in scene in sleep shorts.”

Mia made a choking sound that was suspiciously close to laughter.

Aria stared at Adrian with the full force of offended royalty. “I was not planning to.”

“Good.”

The calm confidence in his tone nearly killed her.

She stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. “You know, Mr. De Luca, for someone technically employed to protect me, you spend a lot of time sounding like you’d enjoy arresting me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

Then lifted back to her eyes.

“If I wanted to arrest you,” he said quietly, “you’d know.”

Aria’s pulse did something deeply unhelpful.

Mia looked between them, visibly thrilled by the tension.

Aria hated everyone in her life.

“Ten minutes,” she snapped, turning on her heel before Adrian could say anything else. “And if either of you touch my tiramisu while I’m gone, I’ll become a villain.”

She disappeared into her bedroom, shut the door, and leaned against it for one long second.

Then she closed her eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And muttered to the ceiling, “This man is a disease.”

Unfortunately, a very well-dressed one.

---

Ten minutes later, Aria emerged in war paint.

Not literal war paint.

Though Adrian was beginning to suspect she might own some.

She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, pointed heels, gold earrings, and a long camel coat thrown over one arm. Her makeup was flawless. Her expression was cool. Her hair had been twisted into a sleek low knot that made her look every inch the billionaire empress New York thought it knew.

Only Adrian, who had seen her in oversized sleepwear glaring at dessert before sunrise, knew better.

He was still processing that when she walked past him and grabbed her handbag.

“Try not to stare,” Aria said without looking at him. “It’s unprofessional.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

Mia made a delighted choking sound into her coffee.

“I’m not staring,” Adrian said.

“Sure.”

“I’m assessing.”

Aria stopped, turned, and smiled with slow, wicked satisfaction. “That’s worse, remember?”

For one dangerous second, Adrian imagined crossing the room, backing her against the nearest wall, and showing her exactly how much worse he could be.

He dismissed the thought immediately.

Then disliked that it had appeared at all.

“Car’s downstairs,” he said.

Aria’s smile widened as if she had somehow heard every treacherous thing he hadn’t said. “Lead the way, Mr. Robot.”

Mia burst out laughing.

Adrian looked at Aria. “Mr. what?”

“Mr. Robot,” she repeated, perfectly serene. “You’re emotionally unavailable, aggressively organized, and you probably alphabetize your ammunition.”

“I don’t alphabetize ammunition.”

Aria stepped into the elevator and lifted a brow. “You see? That sounded offended.”

“It was inaccurate.”

“Sure it was.”

Mia slipped in beside Aria, still grinning. “I like it. Mr. Robot suits him.”

Adrian stepped in last, the elevator doors closing on the sound of Aria’s smug satisfaction.

He looked at the two women.

One looked delighted.

The other looked like a catastrophe in couture.

And somehow, against all logic, Adrian had the sinking feeling this was only the beginning.

He was right.

Because as the elevator descended, his phone buzzed with a second message from his security team.

No signs of forced entry at Rossi HQ exterior. Internal access only. One guard missing.

Adrian’s expression hardened.

Aria noticed immediately.

“What is it?”

He looked at her.

Then at Mia.

Then back at Aria.

“Your office break-in,” he said. “Just became a lot more interesting.”

The elevator doors opened.

And for the first time that morning, Aria stopped smiling.

By the time the car reached Rossi Luxury Group headquarters, Manhattan was fully awake.

Traffic clogged the streets below in shining lines of steel and impatience. Screens lit up storefronts. Delivery vans blocked lanes. People in expensive coats and cheap sneakers rushed toward meetings they were probably already late for.

Inside the black Aston Martin, however, the air was cold enough to preserve a body.

Aria sat in the back seat with one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on despite the fact that the morning sky was overcast. She looked perfectly composed, perfectly polished, and perfectly unbothered.

Only Adrian, seated beside her, noticed the tiny things.

The stillness in her shoulders.

The way her thumb tapped once against the leather of her handbag.

The unnatural quiet.

Aria Rossi was not calm.

She was focused.

Mia sat across from them, tablet in hand, flipping through security reports with the speed of someone trying very hard not to panic in front of her boss.

“The executive floor access log has already been pulled,” Mia said. “Night security is locking down the forty-seventh floor. Building management is pretending they’ve never had a security failure in their lives.”

“Of course they are,” Aria said.

Mia looked up. “Also… the missing guard’s name is Daniel Reeves. Thirty-four. Worked night rotation for eight months. No criminal record. No obvious financial problems.”

“No obvious ones,” Adrian corrected.

Mia nodded tightly. “Right.”

Adrian was reading the preliminary incident file on his phone. “What time was he last seen?”

“2:13 a.m.,” Mia said. “One of the other guards passed him near the service corridor behind the executive wing.”

“And the break-in was discovered?”

“6:20 this morning. Cleaning staff found Aria’s office door ajar and called building security.”

Adrian’s expression remained unreadable, but Aria had already learned enough about him in less than twenty-four hours to know when he was irritated.

This was one of those times.

“Say it,” she said.

Adrian glanced at her. “Your building security is sloppy.”

Mia looked offended on behalf of the entire corporation.

Aria, however, only leaned back in her seat. “That’s not exactly groundbreaking insight, Mr. Robot.”

Mia choked on a laugh.

Adrian ignored the nickname with the stoicism of a man who was either very disciplined or planning several murders internally.

“The guard disappears in the middle of the night,” he said. “Your office is breached. And somehow no one notices until the cleaning crew arrives in the morning. Yes, I’d call that sloppy.”

Aria turned toward the window, watching the city slide past. “If Daniel was taken, he may not have had a choice.”

“If he was taken,” Adrian said.

She looked at him sharply. “You think he was involved.”

“I think we don’t know enough yet to be charitable.”

That shut the car up for a second.

Because the truth was, Aria had already considered it.

Daniel Reeves wasn’t one of her inner circle. He was just a guard in a long list of employees spread across buildings, shifts, and departments. But Rossi Luxury Group paid well, screened heavily, and rarely had internal security issues.

Rarely.

Not never.

Aria knew better than to believe in never.

The Aston Martin turned beneath the private entrance of Rossi headquarters and rolled to a smooth stop in the underground executive garage. Before the engine had fully died, Adrian was already out of the car.

Aria opened her own door at the same moment.

Adrian appeared beside it instantly.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

Then his gaze dropped to the heel of her shoe.

Aria narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“You’re wearing stilettos.”

“Yes. Because I’m not dead yet.”

“In a potentially compromised building.”

She stared at him. “Are you criticizing my shoes during a security incident?”

“I’m criticizing your survival instincts.”

“I can kill a man in these shoes.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Adrian shut the car door behind her. “If I have to move you quickly, those heels are a liability.”

Aria blinked.

Then smiled.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

“That sounds almost protective.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“Still counts.”

Mia made a small strangled noise behind them that suspiciously sounded like suppressed laughter.

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

Aria was beginning to enjoy this far too much.

The private elevator was already waiting. Two armed De Luca security men stood outside it, both in dark suits with earpieces and the kind of expressions that suggested they had been born without the ability to smile.

Aria’s gaze moved over them briefly.

Interesting.

She hadn’t seen them before, but she knew Adrian’s type now—quiet, disciplined, lethal.

The elevator doors opened.

Adrian stepped in first, eyes scanning automatically.

Aria followed with Mia at her side.

The ride to the executive floor was silent except for the low hum of the elevator and the faint tapping of Mia’s fingers against her tablet.

When the doors opened again, chaos greeted them.

The forty-seventh floor—normally a shrine to luxury minimalism and ruthless professionalism—had turned into a controlled emergency scene.

Security officers stood at every corridor intersection.

Building management hovered near the reception area looking pale and expensive.

Aria’s executive assistant desk sat abandoned, phones still ringing unanswered from the spillover of the morning schedule.

And at the far end of the corridor, outside Aria’s office, stood at least six people who all looked guilty of something, even if it was only incompetence.

The moment Aria stepped out of the elevator, the floor straightened.

“Ms. Rossi.”

“Miss Rossi.”

“Good morning, Ms. Rossi.”

Aria didn’t slow down.

“Save the greetings,” she said coolly. “If someone broke into my office, I assume all of you have better things to do than perform manners.”

No one answered.

Good.

Adrian walked beside her, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough not to crowd her. His attention moved everywhere at once—faces, exits, body language, hands, camera placements, the angle of the half-open office door ahead.

Mia hurried after them. “The police haven’t been called yet. I told building management to wait.”

One of the senior security supervisors, a heavyset man in his fifties named Carl, stepped forward immediately. “Ms. Rossi, we wanted to preserve the scene until you arrived—”

“Why is my office door open?” Adrian cut in.

Carl blinked. “We—we found it like that.”

“And you left it unsecured?”

“We posted guards—”

“You left the breach exposed,” Adrian said, voice flat enough to make Carl visibly sweat. “Who entered after it was discovered?”

Carl opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at Aria for rescue.

Aria folded her arms. “I’d answer him.”

Carl swallowed. “Two cleaning staff. Me. One building manager. No one touched anything.”

Adrian’s eyes stayed on him for one beat too long. “If that turns out to be untrue, you’ll be the first person I revisit.”

Carl paled.

Aria shouldn’t have enjoyed that.

She absolutely did.

“Move,” Adrian said.

And everyone did.

He pushed open the office door with a gloved hand and stepped inside first.

Aria followed.

Then stopped.

Her office looked almost normal at first glance.

That was the unsettling part.

The floor-to-ceiling windows still framed Manhattan in silver light. Her desk was immaculate except for one displaced file tray. The cream sofa near the bookshelf remained perfectly arranged. Her awards, framed covers, and decorative sculptures were all exactly where they should be.

Only the far wall gave it away.

Behind her desk, built seamlessly into the marble and dark oak paneling, was a private storage system hidden behind touch-activated wood panels. Three of those panels now hung open.

And one of the interior safes had been forced.

Aria went still.

Adrian noticed immediately.

“What was kept in there?”

“Confidential contracts. old financial archives. backup drives,” she said.

“Anything more important than that?”

Aria didn’t answer right away.

Because yes.

There had been something more important.

Not enough to expose her real identity.

Not enough to ruin everything.

But enough to matter.

Inside that safe had been an encrypted drive containing copies of old Rossi family records—documents her father had hidden years ago, pieces of financial trails and coded transactions that might or might not connect to Project Genesis.

Nothing complete.

Nothing anyone could use on its own.

But in the wrong hands?

Potentially dangerous.

Adrian was watching her now.

Not impatient.

Not pushy.

Just watching with that cold, unnerving focus of his.

Aria exhaled once. “There may have been a drive in there.”

“May have?”

“I haven’t checked yet.”

“Then check.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “I know how investigations work.”

“Do you?”

That was it.

Aria turned fully toward him, chin lifting. “I was trying to be cooperative this morning, but I can stop.”

Adrian’s expression didn’t change. “That would be consistent.”

Mia, standing in the doorway, muttered, “Oh no.”

Aria ignored her. “Do you make a habit of talking to clients like this?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Then you must be very busy.”

“I am now.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut skin.

Mia looked like she wanted popcorn.

Adrian looked like a man who had somehow found himself babysitting a hurricane in designer heels.

And Aria—

Aria was dangerously close to smiling.

Not because she was happy.

Because she was furious enough to enjoy herself.

She stepped toward the open safe and crouched in front of it. The metal door had been pried open with force from the lock side—cleaner than a panicked smash job, rougher than a professional vault specialist. Whoever had done this had skill.

But not enough to do it invisibly.

Aria checked the upper shelf.

Contracts.

A jewelry appraisal file.

An emergency passport she’d forgotten existed.

Then the lower compartment.

Empty.

Her stomach tightened.

The encrypted drive was gone.

Adrian was beside her a second later. “Missing?”

“Yes.”

“What was on it?”

“Old family records.”

“What kind of records?”

“Financial.”

He was quiet for one second.

Then, “That’s not the full answer.”

Aria rose smoothly to her feet and shut the safe door harder than necessary. “It’s enough for now.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For you definitely.”

Their eyes locked.

This time there was no humor in it.

No teasing.

No sparks disguised as irritation.

Only pressure.

Adrian knew she was withholding something.

Aria knew he knew.

And neither of them looked even remotely willing to back down.

Mia cleared her throat before the air in the room could get any more violent. “I can have IT check whether anyone tried to access the office system overnight.”

“Do it,” Adrian said.

Mia blinked.

Then slowly looked at Aria.

Aria looked at Adrian.

Adrian looked at no one because apparently ordering people around in her office had become a hobby.

“Do it,” Aria repeated at last.

Mia vanished instantly.

Adrian crouched near the forced paneling, inspecting the splintered wood around the safe housing. “No fingerprints yet?”

Carl, still hovering nervously outside, answered from the doorway. “Our team dusted the outer desk area, but we left the safe and panels untouched.”

“Good,” Adrian said. “For once.”

Carl looked like he might pass out.

Aria stepped away from the safe and moved toward her desk, scanning the room more carefully.

A broken office always told a story.

You just had to know where to look.

The file tray on her desk had been nudged out of place.

A drawer on the left side had been opened and shut again slightly crooked.

One pen lay on the floor near the chair.

Small things.

Careless things.

But not random.

Whoever had come here hadn’t just rushed to the safe and left. They’d searched. Briefly, maybe. But they had looked around.

Aria crouched and picked up the pen.

Then her gaze shifted.

Under the desk, near the inside leg of the chair, was a tiny dark stain on the marble floor.

Not ink.

Blood.

Very little.

Just enough to matter.

Aria straightened.

“Adrian.”

He was beside her almost immediately. “What?”

She pointed.

He crouched, eyes narrowing. “Fresh enough to be last night.”

“Not mine,” Aria said dryly.

“Comforting.”

“Do you do that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Say things like that in the middle of a crime scene.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him.

He looked back, completely serious.

Aria had no idea whether to laugh or threaten him.

Maybe both.

Adrian touched the stain lightly with a gloved fingertip, then looked toward the corner of the desk. “There was a struggle.”

Aria followed his line of sight.

A faint scuff marked the base of the desk leg. Another on the floor near the bookshelf.

Someone had stumbled.

Or been shoved.

Carl stepped into the office doorway, wringing his hands. “Ms. Rossi, if I may—”

“No,” Aria said without looking at him.

Carl wilted.

Adrian stood. “Where are the security cameras for this floor?”

Carl seized on the question like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. “There are four hallway cameras, one at reception, one in the west corridor, and one overlooking the executive entrance. But Ms. Rossi’s office doesn’t have interior cameras.”

“Obviously,” Aria said.

Adrian ignored her. “Any outages?”

Carl hesitated.

That was answer enough.

Adrian’s voice turned colder. “How long?”

“From 1:47 a.m. to 3:12 a.m. on the executive hallway feed,” Carl admitted.

Aria went still.

Mia, who had just returned with her tablet and a panicked-looking IT manager, stopped dead in the doorway.

“Repeat that,” Aria said.

Carl swallowed. “The west executive hallway camera went dark for about an hour and twenty-five minutes.”

“And no one thought to mention that before now?” Adrian asked.

Carl looked like he wanted the earth to open and swallow him. “We were still compiling the report—”

Aria turned.

She didn’t raise her voice.

That was the terrifying part.

“Carl,” she said softly, “if you ever again decide that an hour and twenty-five minutes of missing surveillance near my office is something to mention later, I will personally make sure your next job involves supervising parking meters in a city with no cars. Do you understand me?”

Carl’s face lost what little color it had left. “Yes, Ms. Rossi.”

“Good. Get out of my sight.”

He got out of her sight.

Immediately.

Mia winced in sympathy. “Well. He’s never sleeping again.”

“He shouldn’t,” Aria said.

Adrian took the tablet from Mia and skimmed the preliminary camera report. “The outage starts thirty minutes before the guard was last seen.”

“So Daniel either missed it,” Aria said, “or he was part of it.”

“Or he was taken because he noticed it.”

Mia hugged the tablet to her chest. “That’s not comforting.”

“No one asked it to be,” Aria said.

The IT manager, who had wisely remained silent until now, finally cleared his throat. “Ms. Rossi… there’s something else.”

Every head in the room turned toward him.

The poor man visibly regretted existing.

“What?”

He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. “There was an attempted login to your private office system at 2:04 a.m. Whoever was here tried to access your encrypted archive partition.”

Aria’s expression sharpened. “Did they get in?”

“No.”

Relief didn’t come.

Not even a little.

“Why not?” Adrian asked.

The IT manager looked at Aria, uncertain.

She answered for him. “Because I built a secondary encryption lock into that partition after my father died.”

Adrian’s eyes moved to her.

That was new information.

And she knew he’d caught it.

The IT manager hurried on. “The intruder failed the first security layer, then disconnected manually. It looks like they gave up and went for the physical safe instead.”

“Not gave up,” Adrian said. “Adapted.”

Aria folded her arms tighter.

That was worse.

Much worse.

Because it meant the person in her office last night had not been blindly searching for money, jewelry, or generic corporate leverage.

They had known enough to try the encrypted partition first.

Which meant they had known there was something worth taking.

Someone had talked.

Or someone had been watching her far longer than she liked.

Mia must have seen something change in Aria’s face, because her voice softened. “Aria…”

“I’m fine.”

That was a lie.

Not because she was afraid.

Aria Rossi had long ago learned how to live with fear by locking it in a box and setting the box on fire.

No, what she felt now was colder.

Anger.

Careful, elegant anger.

Someone had entered her office.

Touched her father’s records.

Taken something that belonged to her family.

And worst of all—

they had done it while she slept.

Adrian handed the tablet back to Mia. “I want copies of every access log, every camera angle, and the full employee roster for anyone on this floor after midnight.”

“You’re not in charge here,” Aria said automatically.

He looked at her. “Then tell them yourself.”

She held his gaze for a beat.

Then turned to Mia. “Do exactly that.”

Mia nodded.

Adrian did not smile.

Which was good.

If he had smiled, Aria might have done something regrettable with the nearest paperweight.

Instead, he walked toward the office windows and looked down at the city below, hands in his pockets, shoulders rigid.

Thinking.

Aria hated how much she wanted to know what was going on inside his head.

She moved to stand beside him.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough to be irritating.

“Say it,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. “This wasn’t random.”

“I know.”

“They knew where to look.”

“I know.”

“They came for something specific.”

Aria’s voice cooled. “I know.”

This time Adrian did look at her.

And there it was again—that unnerving, steady focus.

“Then stop pretending this is just a corporate security problem.”

The words hit their target.

Aria’s jaw tightened.

“Be careful, Mr. De Luca.”

“With what?”

“With the line you’re about to cross.”

He was silent for one breath.

Then—

“I crossed it the moment I accepted this assignment.”

Aria stared at him.

The city glittered beyond the glass.

Phones rang faintly in the outer office.

Mia argued with someone in hushed, furious Mandarin near reception.

But inside Aria’s office, the world narrowed to Adrian De Luca and the impossible calm in his face.

“You don’t know what you’re stepping into,” she said quietly.

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because if she told him the truth—any part of it—nothing would stay simple.

Because Adrian De Luca was already too observant.

Too steady.

Too dangerous to place near secrets she’d spent ten years protecting with blood and silence.

Because one stolen drive was bad enough.

Handing over the shape of Project Genesis to the world’s most infuriating bodyguard would be worse.

Aria turned away first.

“Because I said no.”

Adrian’s mouth flattened.

Before he could answer, one of his men appeared in the doorway.

“Sir.”

Aria hated the way Adrian’s entire posture sharpened at that single word.

“What is it?”

The guard glanced at Aria, then at Mia, clearly weighing how much to say.

Adrian noticed.

“Speak.”

“We found the missing night guard’s car.”

Mia went still.

Aria slowly turned back.

“Where?”

“Two blocks from the east river service road,” the man said. “Abandoned.”

Adrian’s expression didn’t move. “And Daniel Reeves?”

The guard hesitated.

That was enough.

Aria’s stomach dropped—not from fear, but from the certainty that the day had just gotten worse.

“There’s blood in the driver’s seat,” the man said. “A lot of it.”

Silence.

Mia lowered the tablet.

The IT manager looked like he might faint.

Adrian didn’t take his eyes off his man. “Any sign of the body?”

“No, sir.”

Aria set her handbag on the desk with deliberate care.

Then she looked at Adrian.

He looked back.

No teasing.

No bickering.

No Mr. Robot nonsense.

Only understanding.

This wasn’t just a break-in anymore.

This was a message.

And someone had just written it in blood.

Aria’s voice, when it came, was perfectly calm.

Too calm.

“I’m going with you.”

Adrian’s answer came instantly.

“No.”

Aria’s smile returned.

Beautiful.

Cold.

Absolutely merciless.

“That wasn’t a request.”

---

Author Note

Okayyyyy now the story is officially moving 😭✨

Poor Daniel is either in very serious trouble… or already became part of the warning.

And whoever broke into Aria’s office clearly wasn’t just there to snoop around.

Also yes, Aria and Adrian are already fighting like a divorced couple who were forced into the same crime scene 😌