The Bentley pulled into the discreet side entrance of Vesper. No signs. No valet stand. Just a black steel door and a biometric scanner. Clean. Exclusive. Membership-only. The kind of place where men spoke in whispers, not headlines.

  I stepped out into the dim corridor, the driver already pulling away behind me. Inside, the scent of dark wood, expensive cologne, and something faintly illicit hung in the air. The lounge was velvet-draped shadows, low amber lights, and glass panels that blurred the lines between luxury and sin. Jazz dripped from the overhead speakers, barely loud enough to mask the rustle of cash and lace.

  A hostess in a silk slit dress approached with a practiced smile. “Mr. Castellan. Welcome back. We’ve reserved the Cypress Room, as requested.”

  I didn’t return the smile. Just a nod. “Whiskey. Neat. Lagavulin.”

  “Right away.”

  I followed her through the lounge, past men with power and secrets lounging in half-light booths. A blonde dancer in silver heels curled herself around a pole with elegance honed by hours of muscle memory. I let my gaze linger. Not for need. For control. For a momentary break from precision.

  Because my mind wasn’t here. Not entirely.

  Betrayal wasn’t loud. It crept in like fog under a locked door. And it had found its way into my house.

  CipherWorks.

  Cyrene.

  The private conversation at that café had stayed with me, colder than the ice in my glass. Surveillance running without authorization. Code built to evade detection. The violation wasn’t just technical—it was personal. Someone had installed those feeds. Someone close. Someone who had counted on me never looking too deep.

  The Cypress Room was soundproofed, minimalist, luxurious. A semi-circle booth in leather, the table already set with a crystal decanter and two glasses. I poured myself the first. Let it settle.

  Then came Minister Darien Vale.

  Trim suit. Subtle pin. He was the kind of man who smiled like a favor and shook hands like a debt collector. We exchanged nods, and he joined me without pause, like he belonged in shadows more than the spotlight.

  “You look like a man chasing ghosts,” he said.

  I sipped. “Don’t need to chase what’s already breathing down my neck.”

  “Ah. Problems on the Steelworks front?”

  I didn’t answer. Darien didn’t need truth. He needed progress. The hotel project in Manhattan was on the table tonight—rezoning permits, construction leniencies, political cover. And for all his charm, the man was here for leverage.

  “I can push the paperwork forward,” he offered, watching me. “Get the new plans cleared within the quarter. But of course… expediting comes with cost.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  We discussed figures. Logistics. His expectations. Mine. But beneath it all, my mind looped the variables. The people in the room when Cyrene found the breach. Rafael. Dante. Arlo. Xander. Elena.

  And the ones who had access but weren’t there.

  My circle was tight by design. But no circle is impenetrable. Especially not when the enemy thinks they’re family.

  Darien was speaking again. I caught the end of it. “…and I’m told the opposition might stir if they catch wind of the offshore funding.”

  “They won’t,” I said flatly.

  “You’re confident.”

  “I don’t move unless I control every angle.”

  A beat. Then Darien smirked, lifting his glass. “To control, then.”

  We clinked glasses, but the burn in my throat didn’t ease the tension that had settled into my chest since that morning. Since she told me.

  Someone’s watching. Someone close.

  I leaned back in the booth, eyes drifting to the tinted glass wall overlooking the private stage. A red-haired dancer was performing now—fluid, skilled. Background noise. But I watched her anyway, letting the motion blur as the pieces in my head moved.

  Cyrene had asked me for names. People I had reservations about.

  I didn’t give her any.

  Not because I didn’t have them.

  But because naming them meant acknowledging the possibility that someone I trusted had been waiting to carve out a piece of my empire from within.

  And I wasn’t ready to bleed. Not yet.

  Darien excused himself for a call. I stayed seated, nursing my second pour, eyes on the stage but focus buried in thought.

  One hour.

  That’s all it took her to find what none of my team had seen. Not Arlo. Not Dante. Not even Xander, who spent his nights with caffeine and firewalls. But she found it. Quietly. Cleanly.

  That kind of precision wasn’t just professional—it was personal.

  Like she’d taken it as a challenge. Not just to prove her worth, but to expose the gaps in mine.

  And now, she was in my server.

  Not just any server—mine. The black box of Castellan Steelworks. The vault where decades of contracts, internal records, blueprints, and political leverage lived. The place I guarded more fiercely than the boardroom.

  She was inside it.

  Line by line, she was cutting through the digital noise, rewriting code like a surgeon slicing around infection.

  And every adjustment, every fix, was tightening the noose.

  Not around her.

  Around the traitor.

  Because someone had gotten in. Not from the outside. No brute-force breach, no outsider signature. This was silent. Subtle. Designed to blend in—to look like it belonged.

  But Cyrene saw it. And now, so did I.

  I poured a finger of single malt into the heavy-bottomed glass. Let the ice settle. Let my mind sharpen.

  Whoever this snake was, they were good. They knew how to avoid tripping system alerts, how to nest within encrypted directories. It meant they had access. Proximity. Trust.

  That narrowed the field.

  And that made it worse.

  The names circling in my head weren’t strangers. They weren’t enemies I’d shut out years ago.

  They were people I had dinners with. People who sat on my board. Some wore my last name.

  I took a long, slow sip.

  Cyrene hadn’t flinched when she showed me the surveillance directory—feeds no one else knew existed. She didn’t soften it. She didn’t care about the politics, the optics, the fallout.

  She just wanted the truth.

  Not because she gave a damn about me.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Because she hated walking blind.

  I respected that.

  But I couldn’t afford to move recklessly. Not now. One wrong step, and whoever was behind this would scatter—erase their tracks, pull resources, maybe even go public. There were worse things than sabotage in this business. There was exposure.

  So I needed to act.

  Silently.

  Decisively.

  Before the snake sensed it was being hunted.

  Cyrene caught his attention in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t here for this, but she asked the question anyway, her voice casual, almost inviting.

  “Would you like to try something new?” She set the laptop aside, rising from her chair with a small, knowing smile. “I’ve just harvested a new strain. Fresh. Ready to burn. I need someone to vet it, make sure it’s up to standard.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Was she serious? His gaze shifted to the jar she was holding, filled with an aromatic, earthy smell that already had his senses tingling. There was something about it—something he couldn’t quite pinpoint that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way her voice dropped an octave when she spoke, or the fact that she was offering him a piece of her world—something personal. It made his curiosity flare.

  “I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure,” he murmured, voice dripping with a bit of challenge. He hadn’t been expecting this at all.

  Cyrene laughed softly, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re one to talk. Besides, I’ve already had my fun with you.”

  He followed her as she led the way down a hallway. He stepped inside the room she directed him to, and instantly, his pulse quickened. It hit him then—the memory. The room was familiar in a way he hadn’t expected. The same room she had danced for him in. The thought sent a sharp, electric current down his spine.

  His mind flashed back to her movements, the slow grind of her hips, the way she’d swayed and twisted, her ass clapping lightly with each subtle tweak of her body. The images flooded him, sharp and vivid, and his body reacted despite his best efforts to control it. He couldn’t push the memory aside. Not here. Not now.

  Cyrene was already opening the jar, the scent of fresh bud filling the air and shaking him from his thoughts. She brought out a large, purple-green flower—lush and thick with resin, the smell earthy, sweet. It was nothing like he had ever smelled before, clean and rich in its own way.

  Without thinking, he stepped closer. “I’ll roll it,” he offered, watching her carefully as she handed him the jar.

  Cyrene didn’t argue. She was still focused on her laptop as he worked. She didn’t rush him, letting him take his time, and when he was done, he called out to her.

  “It’s ready,” he said, feeling oddly… pleased with himself. He’d done it just the way he liked it.

  She looked up, and for the briefest moment, their eyes locked—an unspoken tension lingering between them before she gave a nod of approval.

  Lucian took the first drag.

  The taste hit him immediately. Sweet. Earthy. Rich, but it had a harsh edge to it that made him cough as it burned down his throat. The high kicked in almost immediately. His mind slowed, and the world around him seemed to blur—just a little. The clarity of the thoughts that had been swirling inside him quieted for a moment, replaced by a sense of weightlessness. He hadn’t had a strain this good in a long time.

  It felt like the first time he smoked. Like his senses were being completely opened again. He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before passing the blunt to her. His eyes watched her carefully as she took the blunt from him.

  It wasn’t just the strain that caught his attention. It was her.

  The way she inhaled, slow and deep, the way her chest rose as the smoke filled her lungs. Her expression softened, relaxed, as she exhaled a perfect plume of smoke. There was something almost erotic in the way she smoked. He couldn’t quite explain it, but watching her in that moment was magnetic. She didn’t even have to try—there was an effortless beauty to it. Effortless, like everything else she did.

  She glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “What do you think?”

  He swallowed, trying to push the flush in his chest down. “It’s… great.” He exhaled deeply, a slow exhale as he felt the high settle into his bones. The world felt distant, soft around the edges. “I’d like to invest in it,” he said, leaning back into the chair, trying to sound as casual as possible, although there was a part of him that wasn’t sure if it was business he was talking about—or something else.

  Cyrene’s eyes flickered with something almost cocky, like she knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t looking for an investor. She wasn’t trying to build an empire around it. No, she had pride in the strain, but it wasn’t about money. “I’m not interested in making it a business thing,” she said, her voice laced with confidence, though there was no hiding the pride that bled through. “But I can sell you the recipe.”

  Lucian tilted his head, impressed. She wasn’t just offering him an investment opportunity. She was testing him, putting him to the test in her own way. And he respected that.

  “You’re not in need of money,” he said, letting the words linger in the air for a moment. It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. “But you know, no one can have too much money.”

  Cyrene chuckled softly, her fingers brushing the edge of her laptop, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Exactly,” she said, the slight smile playing at the edges of her lips. “There’s always more room for it.”

  She leaned back, exhaling another stream of smoke. Lucian watched her, his thoughts swirling, trying to place her. She was something else—sharp, focused, driven, yet there was a softness underneath it all that kept drawing him in.

  And for some reason, in that moment, he didn’t mind at all.

  The smoke curled between us like something alive—slow, lazy, and intimate. I took another drag, eyes locked on her as the ember flared. Cyrene’s lips wrapped around the blunt, exhaling with a control that turned something as ordinary as smoking into seduction. Her eyes were half-lidded now, glazed from the high, but sharp enough to meet mine without hesitation. There was a challenge in them, even as her mouth curved in that dangerous, knowing way she did so well.

  She wasn’t just beautiful—she was art in motion, and my mind was slipping.

  I could feel it—the thrum under my skin, the heat settling low in my abdomen. She was all silk and wickedness in that damned nightdress, barely hiding the soft curve of her breasts, the length of her thighs. She wasn’t trying to seduce me. She didn’t need to.

  She was existing, and it was unraveling me.

  “You should dance for me,” I said, my voice low, rougher than I meant it to be. I didn’t plan to ask. It just came out—unfiltered, instinctual.

  Her brows lifted, amused. “Now?”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning back, legs spreading slightly as I tapped ash into the tray. “Right here. No pretense this time.”

  The air stilled for a beat.

  Then she moved—slow and deliberate. No words. No smirk. Just that sharp glint in her eye as she crawled onto the couch, close—too close. Her knees straddled the cushion between my legs, hands on my thighs like she had every right to them. She leaned in, her lips near my ear, and whispered, “Then sit back… and watch.”

  A shiver cut through me.

  She pushed off me and walked away, her ass swaying with each step, the silk dress catching on the swell of her hips. My jaw tightened. She bent at the waist to scroll through her phone, knowing damn well I was watching—knowing how the hem hiked high enough to show the bottom curve of her cheeks, bare beneath.

  Then the music started—low bass, slow rhythm, erotic by every measure.

  Cyrene didn’t just dance. She prowled.

  She turned slowly, one hand running up her own thigh to her waist as the other trailed along her collarbone. Her eyes locked on me, unblinking, predatory. Her hips rolled to the beat, controlled and fluid. She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. She owned the space with nothing but her body and a look.

  She moved closer, dancing in the small space between us, her fingertips brushing the sides of her thighs, the dip of her waist. The silk shifted with every turn of her hips, flashing skin—more skin—until the dress became a tease instead of clothing.

  My mouth was dry. My hands clenched into fists.

  Then she straddled me.

  Cyrene sank down into my lap slowly, grinding just enough to feel how hard I already was beneath her. Her body molded against mine, breasts brushing my chest, arms draping around my neck. She rolled her hips once—deep and slow.

  I exhaled a curse.

  “Fuck, you feel good,” I muttered, voice ragged.

  “I know,” she whispered, and her lips grazed my jaw, just enough to burn.

  Her body moved with such precision, such obscene control—it was like her hips had learned the rhythm of my pulse and were matching it beat for beat. She ground into me, the friction maddening through the thin barrier of silk and my pants. I could smell her arousal now—faint, musky, and warm. It drove me insane.

  My hands slid to her hips, gripping, anchoring.

  “You like teasing me?” I asked, eyes dark, voice low.

  She leaned back just enough to meet my gaze, her body still undulating. “I like knowing I can.”

  My fingers flexed hard enough to leave prints. “Cocky little thing.”

  Her smirk returned. “Only when I’m right.”

  And she was—so goddamn right.

  She rode me to the beat, the music vibrating through our bones, her nails lightly scraping the nape of my neck. She dipped forward, her breasts brushing my face before her mouth found my ear again.

  “Tell me,” she breathed, “how hard are you for me?”

  I growled. “You’re soaking through my pants. You tell me.”

  She moaned at that, softly, hips pressing harder into mine.

  I slid one hand up her spine, the other gripping the back of her thigh, dragging her tighter against me. My mouth found her neck—one open-mouthed kiss, tongue and teeth grazing the skin. She shivered.

  “I could fuck you right here,” I whispered, lips against her throat. “Push this little slip up and bury myself in you until you scream my name.”

  Her breath hitched. Her hips stuttered.

  But she didn’t stop.

  She danced like sin incarnate, like every fantasy I shouldn’t have had. The nightdress rode higher with every grind until the damp heat of her center was pressed right against me, nothing but fabric between us. Her nipples were hard against the silk, her breath coming in soft, shallow gasps.

  “You feel what you do to me?” she asked, her voice a whisper but no less powerful.

  I nodded, jaw clenched. “I’ll dream of this.”

  She grinned. “Don’t sleep, then.”

  Then she leaned back again, both hands on my chest, rotating her hips slowly, torturously, her core dragging across my cock in a motion that had me choking on a groan. I could feel how wet she was now—no guessing.

  Her rhythm quickened, breath hitching, face flushed. I watched every flicker of pleasure across her face, watched her lose herself in the moment. I’d never seen anything more erotic than Cyrene dancing like that on me—eyes closed, biting her bottom lip, chasing pleasure just as much as she was giving it.

  “You going to come like this?” I taunted, my hands guiding her rhythm. “Just from grinding on me like a desperate little—”

  She covered my mouth with hers before I could finish, kissing me hard—biting. Tongue sliding against mine in a battle for control that she damn near won. She pulled away with a gasp, dragging her lips along my jaw.

  “I know you want more,” she said.

  “I want everything.”

  She smiled wickedly. “Then earn it.”

  Her body pressed harder into mine again, arms wrapping around my neck. She moved faster now, her rhythm chasing the high she’d been building. Her lips brushed my cheek, my ear, my mouth again. She whispered all the things she wanted to do—soft and filthy, enough to drive a sober man insane. And I wasn’t sober.

  I was wrecked.

  The room spun slowly around us, nothing but her on my lap, the music in the background, the scent of weed and sex in the air.

  When she finally stilled, breathless, flushed, still sitting on me—her eyes met mine and held.

  She lingered on him a moment longer, her hips rolling slow, almost lazy now—more afterglow than fire. Then, without a word, she rose. Her thighs slid off his lap, silk brushing against his skin like a whisper, and she turned around, giving him one last view of that sinful curve before she faced him again.

  “Well?” she asked, voice husky, eyes gleaming with mischief. “How was the show?”

  Lucian leaned back, eyes dragging over her. “You already know the answer.”

  She smiled, slow and dangerous. “I like hearing it out loud.”

  He exhaled through his nose, the taste of her still in his lungs. “Best thing I’ve seen all year. And I’ve closed billion-dollar deals this quarter.”

  She snorted, clearly amused. “Spoken like a man used to getting what he wants.”

  Lucian tilted his head. “Not always.”

  A beat passed, her gaze studying him. Then she crossed the room, snagging her laptop. “Before you go, that code patch I ran earlier—it flagged a possible entry point in the diagnostic logs.”

  Lucian blinked, the shift from desire to work catching him off guard—and yet, not unwelcome. “And?”

  “It’s consistent. Same window. Same pattern. Whoever’s behind this is methodical. We’ll catch them if we trace it right.”

  His mouth quirked. “You don’t sleep, do you?”

  “I don’t get paid to nap.”

  He rose, adjusted his jacket, lingering in the doorway longer than he meant to. “I’ll expect your full report tomorrow.”

  She glanced up from the screen, that same heat still in her gaze. “And I’ll expect you to stop staring like I’m dessert.”

  Lucian gave a low chuckle, deep in his chest. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “You already are,” she said with a wink. “Goodnight, Lucian.”

  He left with the scent of her still clinging to him—and the unsettling certainty that this woman would be the ruin or salvation of something he hadn’t named yet.