CYRENE TEMPEST

  It had been days, and the Milan server seemed to have finally come to terms with the truth: there was no way to trace me. Not through code. Not through backdoors. Not through brute force.

  That realization tasted like victory—subtle, slow-burning, and immensely satisfying.

  Afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the slanted black blinds in my Cloud Room, casting soft stripes over the sleek interior. It was warm, but not too warm—just enough to make me feel like time could pause here, if I wanted it to. I sat cross-legged on the velvet black couch, a silver tray perched on the low table in front of me. My grinder hummed softly as I broke apart a fresh bud, rolling it with an ease that came only from habit and peace.

  They'd tried to mirror my work—whoever was tasked with chasing me—but it was a laughable attempt. The upgraded firewall I left behind hadn't cracked. Instead, it had forced them to start over entirely. All that effort, and for what? A ghost still slipping through their fingers.

  I lit the joint and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around my lips like a whisper. The exhale came with a low hum of satisfaction. This was my ritual—my way of letting go after doing the impossible. After outsmarting the wolves. After being untouchable.

  A lazy instrumental track played in the background—slow keys, lo-fi bass, the kind of song that didn't demand anything from you. Just vibes.

  I reached for my laptop beside me—retrieved earlier from my office—and tapped it open, watching the encrypted logs scroll like poetry only I could read. No trace. No footprint. Not a single flaw in the digital silence I left behind.

  "Nice firewall. Try harder."

  I smirked, remembering the little message I'd left behind in the server—a small taunt, voice coded into silence. They'd find it, eventually. If they hadn't already. I could practically imagine their frown, the confusion, the grudging respect under the frustration.

  This wasn't arrogance.

  It was precision.

  The kind of control you only get when you've mastered the rules well enough to break them.

  Just as I leaned back into the couch, the sharp buzz of my phone cut through the haze. I stared at it for a second, weighing the joy of ignoring it... then sighed and picked up.

  "Yeah?"

  "Miss Tempest," came the crisp voice of Kara, my executive assistant, always too formal for my taste. "Just a reminder—you're expected at the VirtuTech Awards tonight. Cipher's been nominated for Best Innovation in AI Security."

  I blinked.

  Then groaned.

  "I thought that was next week."

  "It's definitely tonight," she replied, a smile dancing on the edge of her tone. "8 PM. Red carpet and everything. You asked not to be reminded until the day of, remember?"

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, still high enough to feel like I was floating. "Of course I did."

  There was a pause. "Should I reschedule?"

  "No," I muttered. "We earned that nomination. I'll be there."

  "Great. I've already forwarded the details to your calendar, including the list of high-profile attendees. One of the hosts from the Digital Intelligence Board will be there."

  "Perfect," I said flatly, already dreading it. "Thanks, Kara."

  "Don't forget to smile for the cameras," she added before hanging up.

  I tossed the phone onto the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushion. So much for a quiet night. Cipher's success wasn't something I could hide behind a screen anymore. Not when our name kept climbing the ladder. Not when people were watching.

  And they were.

  Even if they didn't know who was really behind the company.

  Even if they thought I was just the assistant.

  I groaned, dragging the oversized hoodie's sleeve across my eyes like it would magically erase the awards night from my calendar. I wasn't in the mood for fancy dresses, fake smiles, or small talk with people who measured worth in claps and champagne. And yet, there it was—looming.

  My eyes flicked to the clock. Still an hour to kill before I had to start pretending I wanted to be admired.

  "Food first," I mumbled, pushing myself off the couch. My hoodie slipped down one shoulder, exposing warm bronze skin to the chill of my penthouse. My steps led me to the kitchen, my pace lazy, deliberate.

  I grabbed what I needed from the fridge—eggs, bread, vanilla, cinnamon, and just the right amount of mischief. French toast was comfort food, a ritual that never disappointed. I moved smoothly around the kitchen, the speaker thumping gently in the background—Rihanna's voice curling around the space like smoke.

  And speaking of smoke... I had the blunt from the Cloud Room tucked behind my ear. I sparked it up with one hand while the other whisked the eggs. Multitasking like a queen.

  Thick slices of bread soaked in vanilla-spiced batter as I swayed a little to the beat, barefoot and high and happy. The scent was already intoxicating—cinnamon sugar and weed, a combination that could convince anyone life was good. I tossed the bread onto the pan, each sizzle making me hungrier.

  "Come to mama," I grinned, flipping each piece to golden-brown perfection. I added a drizzle of syrup like it was a love language and topped it with fresh strawberries because I wasn't uncivilized. The vanilla shake came next—ice cream, milk, a dash of honey, and more vanilla than anyone reasonable would ever use.

  I plated everything and sauntered back to the living room, meal in one hand, blunt in the other, still humming to Rihanna like we were in a duet. I flopped back down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other, hoodie riding up just enough to remind me I looked good doing absolutely nothing.

  Each bite was heaven. Sweet, warm, a little crispy on the edges—everything I needed. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the music, the food, and the high melt into one soft blur.

  Thirty minutes passed like a blink. I stayed sprawled across the cushions, licking syrup off my finger and tapping the ash into a nearby tray.

  "I'll start getting ready soon," I told myself. Maybe.

  Being fashionably late never hurt anybody.

  I was deep in post-breakfast bliss, sprawled out on the couch like I had all the time in the world. The taste of vanilla still lingered on my tongue, sweet and thick, while the French toast sat like a warm hug in my belly. Rihanna's voice played low in the background—Needed Me, naturally. I took one last pull from my blunt, the haze curling in the air like lazy ribbons, softening the corners of my thoughts.

  Then I checked the time.

  "Ugh, really?" I groaned, rolling my eyes as I stretched. Just about an hour left before I had to start getting ready. I could easily fake a headache or send a half-hearted apology, but something about tonight tugged at me. Maybe it was the challenge of showing up when no one expects you to. Or maybe I just felt like playing dress-up with a side of superiority.

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  Either way, if I was going, I'd make it count.

  First: bath. I filled the tub until steam curled up from the water in soft waves and tossed in a rose-and-vanilla soak. The scent wrapped around me, thick and indulgent, as I slipped in and let my body sink below the surface. My muscles thanked me. I shaved—legs, arms, everything. Smooth skin was a luxury and a weapon, and I liked being armed. Afterward, I patted myself dry and rubbed almond oil into every inch of my bronze skin until I gleamed like sunlit honey.

  I slipped into my robe—plush, white, and just this side of scandalous—and wrapped a towel around my hair. My bare feet padded softly to the vanity, where my skincare army waited.

  Cleanse, tone, serum, moisturize. My fingers moved like they had a purpose—because they did. Each product, each step, was a declaration: I take care of me better than anyone else could. I finished with a few drops of glow serum and smiled at my reflection. Soft. Sharp. Balanced just right.

  Next came the makeup. I didn't want dramatic. I wanted dangerously effortless. So I went with bronzed cheeks, a little contour, a soft shimmer on the lids, black liner so sharp it could slice through egos, and lashes that brushed the sky. Lips? Subtle red gloss. Just glossy enough to look inviting—just pigmented enough to mean business.

  Now for the hard part.

  Two dresses. Two moods.

  The burgundy one whispered sin. It was rich, deep, and held a sort of drama I usually reserved for private revenge or power plays. It knew how to hug every curve and leave mouths dry.

  But then there was the black.

  Backless. Elegant. Deadly. A limited piece from Atelier Versiani that draped over me like silk shadows. It fit me like it was made for my body and no one else's. Clean lines, dangerous cut, timeless. And black—black was always a yes.

  "Of course," I muttered to myself, reaching for the hanger. "You always win."

  I stepped into it, letting it slide up my legs and mold against my frame. My reflection straightened in the mirror as if the dress carried its own spine. I clasped the diamond necklace around my neck—cold against my skin at first, then warm as it settled, nestled perfectly against my slender neck like it belonged there. Elegant. Understated. Unapologetically expensive.

  My 4-inch black Chanel buckle heels waited obediently near the mirror. I slipped into them, feeling the way they changed my walk, my posture, my energy. Add a matching diamond bracelet and earrings—enough to make a statement but never loud enough to scream. That wasn't my style. I liked my impact quiet, but deep.

  Hair? I opted for a sleek ponytail. Polished. Snatched. The ends shaped into a bow—playful, feminine, deceptive. A pretty little warning for anyone foolish enough to underestimate me.

  One last look in the mirror. I didn't smile.

  I smirked.

  Then came the final step: my ride. I grabbed the keys to my black, glossy 2023 Mercedes—the sporty one, low and fast and wicked. The kind of car that looked like it didn't play nice. The kind of car that made men nervous and women curious.

  I slid into the driver's seat, my dress whispering secrets against the leather, and turned the engine over.

  She purred to life.

  Good.

  I felt daring today.

  And I had every intention of making this night mine.

  ___________

  Cyrene Tempest entered like a queen who needed no crown, no trumpet, no grand announcement. Just her presence. Her black dress, sculpted to her curves like it had been sewn onto her body by gods with impeccable taste, shimmered under the light. Every step was deliberate, the sway of her hips a silent metronome that slowed time itself. The subtle, deliberate sway of her hips, paired with the unmistakable jiggle of her petite yet thick ass, drew stares like moths to flame. Nothing exaggerated—just enough to leave an imprint. A message wrapped in silk: she knew exactly what she carried and how it moved.

  The room didn't quiet when she walked in—because it hadn't dared to make noise in the first place.

  Eyes followed her like loyal dogs, helpless and hungry. Men blinked twice. Women forgot themselves.

  The table with her name gleamed under a subtle spotlight. Of course it did.

  She reached it with effortless grace, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown. Heads turned. Whispers fluttered. A man at a nearby table had to be yanked back to earth by a sharp slap from his wife. Cyrene's petite, thick frame was a paradox—delicate and dangerous. Her diamond necklace rested on her slender neck like it had always belonged there, twinkling with every movement as though proud to be worn by her.

  The waiter who approached looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe. But he poured the champagne with a steady hand, somehow aware that messing this up would be a sin. He presented it to her like an offering—one she accepted with a glance and the ghost of a smile.

  For a few seconds, the award show wasn't about awards at all.

  It was about her.

  Then the evening resumed, albeit with the undercurrent of her lingering presence electrifying the room. Award after award was handed out to companies and innovators, smiles exchanged, handshakes performed, applause clapping politely like trained seals. But the energy shifted again when CipherWorks was announced as the winner of the night's most prestigious recognition.

  Cyrene stood.

  And the air shifted again.

  She walked to the stage like it was hers, like this entire event was merely a backdrop to her movement. No nerves, no hesitation. Her posture was poised, chin tilted slightly as though she was appraising the room rather than accepting its applause.

  When she reached the podium, she didn't waste time with pleasantries.

  "This award," she began, voice smooth and unapologetically calm, "represents hard work. Precision. Vision. CipherWorks didn't earn this because we asked for it. We earned it because we made it impossible for anyone else to deserve it."

  A pause.

  Not for effect—just because she could.

  "I didn't expect less," she added, gaze steady as it swept the audience. "We don't chase accolades. We make them chase us."

  There was applause. Loud, respectful, edged with awe. But Cyrene was already turning, already descending the stage, already finished.

  Because that speech wasn't for praise. It was a declaration without shouting. A quiet line drawn in the sand. Those who were smart understood the message clearly:

  CipherWorks had arrived. And whoever thought they were at the top... had just been warned.

  Cyrene didn't linger.

  The moment she stepped down from the stage, it was clear—she had no intention of staying. She didn't care for pleasantries or posturing. The night had served its purpose, and she had made her statement. Let them talk. Let them wonder. She had already moved on.

  As the echo of her heels faded behind the closing doors, the atmosphere slowly returned to its default setting—only, not quite the same. Something lingered. A ripple in the current.

  _________

  Two men sat among the crowd, both quiet for different reasons.

  Vincent Morelli looked like a man chewing glass behind a veneer of polite applause. The smile he forced had the stiffness of someone trying not to combust in public. He turned to the man seated beside him—an older executive from one of the biotech firms—and leaned in, voice just above a whisper but laced with venom.

  "You know who that is?" he muttered, nodding toward the empty stage where Cyrene had stood just moments ago. "CipherWorks. I had a meeting with their rep last week. Kara. All smiles and legal jargon. Told me they were open to partnership. Wanted transparency. Cooperation."

  He scoffed.

  "Two hours later—two, not even three—I had headlines crawling up my ass. Allegations. Leaks. Even shit I didn't think anyone knew. You think that's coincidence? That's not business. That's warfare."

  His companion blinked, unsure whether to respond or nod in agreement.

  "They play dirty," Vincent continued, the bitterness pouring freely now. "And they don't wait for blood to dry. I swear that woman—Kara—walked out smiling like she knew exactly what was coming."

  A few rows behind them, Xander sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his posture calm, but his eyes sharp. He had seen the show, witnessed the magnetic pull of Cyrene Tempest firsthand. But now, he was watching something else. Listening. Clocking every word.

  Vincent wasn't wrong. The timing of the headlines was too precise, too surgical. That wasn't the work of some rogue employee leaking information. That was orchestrated. Intentional.

  Xander didn't look Vincent's way. He didn't need to. He'd already memorized the man's tone, his fury, his fear barely masked beneath it. And more importantly—he noted how others around them were beginning to lean in too, how CipherWorks was slowly becoming the conversation.

  They hadn't just claimed an award tonight.

  They'd shifted the power dynamic.

  CipherWorks had arrived, loud in silence. And even though she was gone, Cyrene Tempest still had the entire room under her thumb.

  .

  .

  .

  The award? Yeah, I dropped it—right along with everyone else’s expectations. Honestly, I didn’t even care where it landed. Let them marvel at it. My real prize? The control, the power, the message I made clear without uttering a single word beyond what was needed.

  By the time I made it home, the weight of the day hit me like a tidal wave. The glitz of the award show was already fading. I needed to unwind. Big time. So, I slipped out of my heels, tossed them carelessly by the door, and made my way to the bathroom. The day had been long, stressful, and—let’s be honest—tiring. My muscles ached, tension pooled in my neck, and my mind refused to shut off. What better way to relax than a hot bath?

  I drew the water as hot as I could handle, sinking into the bubbles like they were a second skin. The steam swirled around me, and for a moment, the world outside my bathroom door didn’t exist. No CipherWorks, no awards, no prying eyes. Just me, the water, and silence.

  Afterward, I threw on my favorite nightdress—the one that barely covered anything, which, honestly, was the point. I wasn’t here for modesty; I was here for comfort. But also… why not? The night was mine to do with what I pleased.

  My body still ached from the long day, the stress, the forced smiles, and handshakes. So, what better way to relieve it than to fire up a joint?

  I grabbed my laptop and phone and made my way to the Cloud Room. The place was always perfect for moments like this. The lighting, the atmosphere, it felt like a little sanctuary, a world away from everything else. I settled into my favorite chair, lit up, and took a long, slow drag. My lungs filled, and with it, the tension slowly started to ease. The first puff hit me like a warm hug.

  I pulled my laptop open and accessed the servers, scanning for any anomalies. Nothing. Of course, nothing. That damn hacker hadn’t left a trace. As usual. No one could get past my firewalls, not without a damn good reason.

  Baked now, the night starting to melt into something much more comfortable, I found myself craving pizza. Because who wouldn’t? I made the call for a mangrove pizza—basically all the toppings. Assorted. Like my mood.

  While waiting for the delivery, I let my thoughts drift. The award show felt like it was ages ago. The things I had to do, the people I had to pretend to care about. Ugh. No wonder my head was spinning. But then again, the power, the satisfaction of watching their faces when I spoke… That was enough to make it worth the fake smiles.

  A knock on the door broke me out of my thoughts. The delivery. I stood up, already feeling the high kicking in fully, and strolled to the door, forgetting for a moment what I was wearing. It wasn’t exactly something I would call “modest.” The nightdress barely covered anything, leaving little to the imagination. But I didn’t care. I was home, and I was done pretending.

  The delivery man’s eyes practically popped out of his head when I opened the door. I stood there, blinking, until I realized what was happening. His mouth hung open in shock, and for a second, I was confused. Then it hit me: I’d forgotten what I was wearing. Blushing? Yeah, I could feel it creeping up my neck, but I wasn’t going to show it.

  I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow at him. “You gonna give me my pizza, or just stand there?”

  That snapped him out of his trance, but he fumbled with the box like he had no idea what he was doing. As he handed it to me, he tried to throw in a flirty remark.

  I didn’t have time for that shit. With a quick and cold smile, I took the box from him and closed the door in his face. I wasn’t about to entertain some half-assed flirtation from a delivery guy. What a joke.

  I made my way back to the cloud room, grabbed a slice of the pizza, and settled back into the couch. The warmth of the food, the buzz of the high, and the relaxation started to wrap around me like a comforting cocoon. I devoured the pizza without a second thought. It was perfect.

  When I was done, I didn’t think about anything else. I didn’t want to. The bed was calling. I moved to the bedroom, slipped under the covers, and let the quiet darkness take over.