CYRENE TEMPEST

  If it weren't for the sun bleeding through the blackout curtains, she wouldn't have remembered what day it was—let alone that she had a company to run.

  Cyrene blinked up at the ceiling of her penthouse loft, the hum of cooling fans from her server wall still vibrating softly through the floor. Her brain was still halfway lodged in the code she'd torn apart last night, fingers flying across her mechanical keyboard while a tray of spiked brownies sat cooling beside her like loyal companions. Judging by the remaining crumbs and the slight fog behind her eyes, she'd had more than two.

  It's always the same—sleepless nights decoding shadows, only to wake up and realize I run a billion-dollar company people think is led by a ghost.

  She stretched like a cat among silk sheets and dark linen throws, rolling toward the edge of her bed before dragging herself upright. A half-eaten bowl of gourmet mushroom risotto balanced on the corner of her desk, long forgotten.

  Screens still flickered across the far wall, lines of code running on a closed-circuit loop, silent and secure. No firewalls had been breached in the last twelve hours. Which was a shame. She liked a challenge.

  CipherWorks didn't need her to be physically present. It barely needed her at all, which was the point. Her executive team handled day-to-day operations flawlessly. The AI she'd personally developed managed internal security and monitored live threats with a precision human minds still struggled to match. All she needed to do was check in a few times a week, patch a few security flaws, and make sure no one within the empire forgot who really ran it—even if they never saw her face.

  She preferred it that way. CEOs who chased cameras were easy targets. She'd rather sharpen her claws in the shadows, let the world speculate about the ghost behind CipherWorks while she restructured the backbone of modern security.

  Still, the illusion had to be maintained.

  Cyrene padded barefoot across polished concrete to her oversized monitor, frowning as she scanned the day's schedule. A soft ping echoed from her private line—an encrypted message from Kara, her public-facing executive assistant.

  Kara:

  You're attending today's investor lunch in Sicily. RSVP locked. You'll be going as me. Don't be late. They're expecting CipherWorks' assistant.

  Cyrene sighed. Of course they were.

  She stared at her reflection in the dark screen. Hair a wild tumble of black waves. Cherry gloss smudged on a nearby glass. She looked more like a hacker on house arrest than the assistant to a globally revered tech executive.

  Time to change that.

  _________

  There's a certain art to the way I prepare myself for the role I never signed up for. It's not about the dress, or the makeup, or the shoes—it's about how each detail falls into place without me needing to think about it. A kind of practiced elegance, the kind that turns heads without demanding attention. The kind that says, I'm here, but I'm not for you.

  I start with the dress. A simple black sheath, but its cut is everything. Lemaire—unobtrusively perfect. It hugs my form in all the right places, not too tight but never loose. The fabric has weight to it, rich but subtle, the silk blend catching the light just enough to give it depth. The cutout at the collar adds a quiet edge, but nothing too bold. It's a quiet assertion. It's power without flair.

  My feet slide into the Manolo Blahnik pumps—black, of course. No flashy buckles, no towering heels. The lines are clean, elegant. These shoes don't scream; they whisper. It's the kind of elegance that's earned, not flaunted. I don't need to show you I'm rich—I'll let my actions do that.

  The mirror reflects the woman I'm becoming in slow pieces, my own transformation unfolding. I swipe a thin coat of mascara over my lashes, just enough to make my eyes sharper, more intense. The skin is dewy, a hint of bronzer under my cheekbones to add some structure. My lips get the cherry gloss—nothing overpowering, just a glimmer of color that suggests warmth without needing to demand it.

  I pull my hair back into a high ponytail. It's sleek, controlled, and functional. No flyaways. Just long, wavy black hair, the kind that can be worn like a crown or hidden behind a mask. I run my fingers through the length one last time, adjusting until the ponytail feels like an extension of my will—tight, perfect, effortless.

  The final touch: my signature fragrance. Vanilla. Light, sweet, but with an edge that lingers. It's not overpowering. It's not designed to be noticed by everyone in the room. But those who know will recognize it—and they'll remember it.

  I glance around the room, and my eyes fall on my bag. Céline. Black leather, understated—just like me. But inside, it holds everything I need. The encrypted tablet rests at the bottom, thin and efficient, sleek as if it were never meant to be noticed. I don't need anything else. Not a clipboard. Not a stack of papers. Just this: a tablet that holds the power of CipherWorks, the firm everyone knows but no one can touch.

  I slip it into the bag, feeling the familiar weight of it. It's all I need, and it's all anyone will get. The rest is just noise.

  I take one last look at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't the one they expect. She's not the assistant they've been briefed on. She's not the face of CipherWorks, either—no, that's the point. She's the invisible hand that moves the pieces without ever being seen.

  I slip into my tailored coat and step toward the elevator, my footsteps quiet but sure. My movements are easy, controlled, the kind of walk that says, I'm in charge, even if no one else knows it yet. In the garage, my Audi waits—sleek, black, silent. No, it's not flashy. It's not meant to be. It's functional. Just like me.

  The ride to Oliviera is quick, just enough time for my mind to settle into the role I'm about to play. I'm not Kara, the assistant. But they don't need to know that.

  When we pull up to the restaurant, I step out with effortless grace. The warm air of Sicily wraps around me, the light soft against the evening sky. Inside, the atmosphere is hushed, the kind of refined luxury that's not about showing off, but about enjoying things the right way. The lighting casts shadows that seem to soften everything—perfect for a conversation that requires quiet intimacy.

  I spot the investor right away. He's at the corner table, his posture rigid, his smile far too wide. His navy suit is cut sharply, but there's an edge to his eyes that betrays his uncertainty. The kind of man who thinks he has the upper hand, but doesn't know how to truly read the room.

  He stands when I approach, but I don't immediately offer my hand. I simply give him a nod, a smile that's polite, but not too warm. I don't need his approval. I don't need anything from him.

  "Miss Kara, I presume?" His voice is low, but there's an expectation there, as if he's already decided who I am and what I'll say.

  I meet his gaze, my own unflinching. "That's right."

  The table is set with care, the white cloth pristine, glistening under the dim lights. The clink of glasses, the soft murmur of distant conversations—it's all background noise, irrelevant. What matters now is the exchange happening between us, where words are just a vehicle and intentions are the true language.

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  I settle into the chair across from him, graceful but deliberate. He's already leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, an air of expectation hanging over him. He looks at me as if he's already decided I'm a means to an end. His smile hasn't wavered, but the lines around his eyes betray a hint of impatience.

  "You must be busy," he says, his voice low, trying to sound conversational but with an undercurrent of something darker. "I'm sure your boss doesn't like you coming out for meetings like this."

  I let the words hang in the air for a moment, just long enough for him to feel the subtle shift. "I'm here because I was asked to come." I don't elaborate, don't explain. He doesn't deserve an explanation.

  He chuckles, leaning back in his chair, as if my response amuses him. His fingers tap lightly on his glass, the sound a rhythm of control. "I know how these things go. You're just doing your job. But sometimes, jobs come with... other benefits. What if I told you that I could make you a very rich woman, Miss Kara? A much richer woman than you already are."

  I glance at him from under my lashes, meeting his gaze for just a fraction longer than what's comfortable. He's underestimating me. I can see it in the way he watches me, sizing me up as if I'm a commodity. I don't need to speak to make him understand that I'm not here to play by his rules.

  "I don't need your money." My voice is soft but cutting, and I watch his expression shift. It's not the reaction he expected, but it's the one he's about to get.

  His smile falters for a moment, then recovers.

  "You've got a good thing going with CipherWorks. But a little extra push never hurt anyone. I think we could do something... mutually beneficial."

  He pauses, then smiles with just enough sleaze to make it feel personal. "Let's be honest, Miss Kara—women thrive best when they know how to bend. Especially for the right man."

  He pauses, giving me a moment to absorb the offer, but I don't bite. Instead, I take a slow sip from my glass, the wine smooth and rich against my tongue. I can feel his eyes on me, tracking every small movement. He's waiting for a sign, some indication that I'm interested in what he's offering. But I'm already ten steps ahead.

  "And what would this... partnership entail?" I ask, my voice languid but laced with a subtle edge.

  His hand twitches. "It's simple. You give me what I want, and I'll make sure your company continues to thrive. You're in a delicate position, after all. Running a company like CipherWorks without drawing attention—it's risky. But I can help with that. I know people."

  I know people. The words sound so innocent coming from his mouth, but I hear the insinuation behind them. He's not offering business support. He's offering leverage. He thinks he can use me. He thinks he can control me.

  "I think you misunderstand." My voice stays calm, steady. There's no anger, no rush to prove anything. Just facts. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

  He leans forward again, his eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I can feel the subtle tension rising between us. He doesn't know what I'm capable of, and I don't think he realizes just how much danger he's in.

  "I'm not someone you can buy." I let the words hang between us. "I'm not someone you can manipulate. You're offering something I don't need, and in exchange, you're asking for something I'm not willing to give."

  The weight of my words settles on him, and for a split second, I can see the calculation in his eyes. He's trying to gauge if I'm bluffing, if this is some kind of power play. But it's not. This is me, showing him exactly who I am: a woman who doesn't need anyone's approval.

  He exhales slowly, his lips twitching into a smile that's more for show than anything genuine. "You're a tough one, Kara. I like that. But don't think you can walk away from this. You'll regret it."

  I return his smile, but it's colder than his. "You're wrong. I won't regret anything."

  The tension hangs in the air, thick and unspoken. He's trying to regain control of the conversation, but he's already lost. I've already shown him that I'm not someone to be manipulated, not someone who will bend to his will. And somewhere behind his polished exterior, he knows it.

  "I'm sure you'll figure it out," he says, leaning back in his chair, finally giving up the pretense of cordiality. "But don't take too long. You never know when opportunities like this will disappear."

  I nod, slow and deliberate. "I'll keep that in mind."

  The conversation has run its course. He doesn't have anything I want. He doesn't have anything I need. I've already made my point clear, and I've made sure he knows that I'm not someone who can be bought or controlled.

  I rise from the table, smooth and fluid, my movements practiced and effortless. The meeting is over, and I've won without even raising my voice.

  The investor watches me go, but I don't look back. His words are hollow, and his threats are empty. I've already walked away from him. I've already taken control of the game. And he'll never know what hit him.

  By the time I'm home, the sky has shifted into that rare shade between navy and charcoal. The penthouse is still, cloaked in dim light and quiet comfort. I peel off the sleek black coat and drop my encrypted tablet onto the console table. A soft chime sounds from the secure server hidden behind one of the floor panels, syncing data from my session like it always does. Routine. Efficient. Untraceable.

  I step into the living area—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city lights like an oil painting. This place, with its silence and space, is mine. Four bedrooms, and yet I always retreat to the same one: the room facing the sea, the only one where the light hits just right when I wake.

  I toe off my heels and let the slow hum of jazz from my hidden speakers fill the room. For a moment, I'm tempted to make tea. Instead, I sit at the console, fingers brushing across the screen until the encrypted tunnel opens. It takes me less than five minutes to slip past three firewalls and tap into the investor's private server.

  He really should've left me alone.

  The man's name—Vincent Morelli. Tech-backed investor with a God complex, known in tight circles for dirty dealings wrapped in polished suits. The kind of man who never thinks consequences apply to him. Until they do.

  I don't break systems. I repurpose them.

  One quiet line of code here. A shift in metadata there. Emails pinging through his inbox like firecrackers—unauthorized transactions, flagged communications, links to illicit exchanges with private contractors tied to regulatory agencies.

  Two hours. That's all it takes.

  By the time I'm curled on the chaise with my cherry tea, news outlets begin trickling in headlines:

  "Scandal Erupts Around Prominent Tech Investor Vincent Morelli—Insider Trading Allegations and Encrypted Evidence Leak Online."

  They'll say it was an anonymous tip. They'll dig, and dig, and dig—but they won't find a shadow. Not a trace. No signature. No origin.

  Because some ghosts weren't meant to be seen.

  I watch it all unfold with the same calm I brought to that table earlier. His threats. His smirk. The assumption that I could be handled.

  Handled.

  No, Vincent. You were warned—in silence. And now you'll learn that power doesn't need to roar. Sometimes, it simply... deletes.

  I reach for the remote and turn the volume down on the TV, just as his face flashes across the screen, jaw tight, surrounded by reporters shouting questions he has no answers to.

  "Women are meant to bend," he had said.

  I smile faintly.

  Then maybe don't stand in front of one with steel in her spine.

  _________

  I didn't know I'd fallen asleep.

  One second I was perched on the chaise, watching Morelli's kingdom collapse under the weight of truth—press swarming him like vultures, anonymous files doing the talking—and the next, I was waking to the gentle hum of my network syncing around me.

  The screen of my tablet was still glowing faintly, casting pale light across my skin. The espresso had gone cold, untouched. My neck ached from the way I'd slumped. Not unusual. Sleep catches me off guard more often than not—just like peace.

  I stretched, slow and deliberate, and padded barefoot across the marble floor to the console. CipherWorks was quiet. My AI systems were purring like content beasts. No alerts. No errors.

  Except... one anomaly.

  A single, subtle ping.

  Not a threat. Not even an intrusion. Just a brush against the perimeter of my outermost firewall—like a gloved hand tapping glass. Curious. Calculated. Too clean to be ordinary, too cautious to be aggressive.

  I narrowed my eyes and began the trace.

  A few strokes and the signal unfolded in a spiral. Familiar. Not because of who sent it—but because of where it was coming from. I tilted my head, my fingers moving faster, firewalls parting for me like silk.

  This was the server I enhanced.

  The one I boosted two weeks ago—quietly, surgically, with no trace left behind except stronger code and airtight defenses.

  That's why it stood out.

  I hadn't meant to target it. It was one of dozens we tested that night, when the restlessness and brownies had kicked in. A random draw, a harmless breach with an unintentional upgrade. I never expected it to blink back at me.

  But now it was. And it wasn't just any server.

  I stared at the metadata. Cross-checked the routing structure. Scraped the fingerprint hidden beneath the masking layers.

  Oh.

  My stomach tightened—then quickly settled.

  Lucian Castellan.

  That name wasn't on the server. Of course not. But his shadow was.

  Encrypted chains of ownership. Buried shell companies. The kind of digital architecture that only someone with empires to hide and kingdoms to protect would build. But it was him. Undeniably him.

  I'd strengthened his system.

  And now he was knocking.

  Not because he'd caught me. No—he didn't know who I was.

  But he'd felt something. A whisper. A presence.

  And now he wanted to know who dared to ghost into his domain.

  A small smirk lifted the corner of my mouth as I watched the ping hover. No message. No demand. Just a signal pressing against my wall, quietly observing.

  I didn't answer.

  I didn't need to.

  He's reaching out.

  But I already mapped the route.

  I closed the console and slid my tablet back into the secured panel beneath the floor. My network locked down behind me, tighter than ever.

  He doesn't know who I am.

  But I know exactly what kind of man would knock with gloves on.