Some days just take more than they give.

  Between wrapping up a never-ending compliance report for one client and running a security simulation for another who couldn’t grasp the concept of basic password hygiene, my patience was barely holding on. Add a handful of employees constantly pinging me about things that could’ve been emails—and things that were emails but they didn’t read—and I was this close to losing my shit.

  By 8 p.m., I’d logged off, tossed my laptop onto the Cloud Room couch, and floated into the kitchen in nothing but a tank top and satin shorts. Rihanna’s “Work” blasted through the speakers, and I let it bleed through me like a balm. I poured myself a generous glass of red, let the beat take over, and did a little hip roll just because I could.

  No one was watching, but that had never stopped me before.

  I was halfway into a one-woman concert—wine glass in hand, spatula as my mic—when I tossed sliced turkey strips into the hot pan. They sizzled in approval, and I grinned, flipping them with a little more sass than necessary. Chopped bell peppers, zucchini, and onions followed next, joining the party as the rich scent of garlic and soy sauce filled the air. The pasta, already boiled to a perfect al dente, waited in the strainer like a loyal companion.

  I stirred everything together—vibrant, hot, homey—and took another sip of my wine.

  Cooking grounded me. It was something about controlling the fire, adding the right ingredients, watching the magic come together. Maybe it was my way of reclaiming control after a day where everyone wanted something from me. Pasta stir-fry with turkey and vegetables wasn’t fancy, but it was real. Comforting. Mine.

  By the time I sat down at the kitchen island to eat, the beat had mellowed into “Desperado,” and I bobbed my head lazily as I forked a generous bite into my mouth. Flavor hit instantly—sweet heat from the red pepper flakes, that umami glaze coating the turkey just right. I let out a satisfied hum, stretched my legs, and flicked through my open tablet.

  Emails. Some press inquiries. One from a startup in Berlin asking for a proposal. I flagged it for Kara. Another from a CipherWorks employee asking about a raise. I flagged that one for review.

  Halfway through an internal security audit draft, my phone vibrated against the counter.

  Kara [Incoming Call]

  I picked it up with sauce still on my lip. “Yes?”

  Kara’s tone was clipped and efficient. “Apologies for the late call. A meeting has been scheduled for tomorrow, and your presence is required.”

  “Required,” I echoed, twirling my fork. “Why?”

  “The client requested either the acting CEO or the CEO. It’s related to cybersecurity infrastructure. They were insistent on top-level involvement.”

  Of course they were.

  “Did they say which company?”

  “They didn’t offer the name. Only that the discussion was sensitive and time-specific.”

  I chewed slowly. “When?”

  “Four p.m. The venue is an upscale private restaurant—Valente, near the waterfront.”

  I arched a brow. Fancy. “Fine. Block the time. Forward the basic briefing to my desk. I’ll scan it in the morning.”

  “Understood.”

  The line went dead after that—no small talk, no lingering comments. Exactly the way it should be.

  I set the phone down beside my half-eaten plate. Another sip of wine, and the heaviness of the day started to dull at the edges.

  I didn’t ask for details. Didn’t care. These meetings were all the same—people with money and messes, hoping to buy peace of mind. I’d give them that. Or at least, enough of the illusion to keep them paying.

  So, no, I wasn’t worried.

  But maybe I should’ve been.

  ___________

  Sleep had barely wrapped its arms around me before the morning was tapping against the windowpane, smug and bright. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the Cloud Room, but after the call with Kara, and a few more sips of wine than necessary, the cushions had seduced me into a full-bodied sprawl. I woke up tangled in my throw blanket, mouth dry, mascara smudged at the corner of one eye, and my bonnet threatening to slide off. Glamorous.

  Stretching like a lazy cat, I shuffled toward the kitchen. The place still smelled faintly of last night’s stir-fry—garlic and smoked turkey clinging to the air like perfume. I tossed the blanket on a stool, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and made my way to the back corner, where a discrete door led to my little secret.

  It wasn’t much. Just a converted storage space nestled behind the kitchen, insulated and rigged with modest lights and a makeshift humidity system. My own mini bando.

  The plants greeted me like old friends, leaves perked up and glistening under the artificial light. I crouched beside the new strain—my experiment. She was a slow bloomer, stubborn but showing signs of life. I wasn’t a cultivator by any stretch, but I liked knowing where my relief came from. Growing my own wasn’t about necessity. It was about knowledge. Ownership. Curiosity. I knew how to code my way into a billionaire’s firewall and lock the door behind me—but this, this felt different. More intimate.

  I adjusted the setup, checked the pH, added a whisper of water to the soil, then sat cross-legged on the floor, just staring for a while. Sometimes I did that. No music. No distractions. Just me, my thoughts, and the slow, steady rhythm of growth.

  A text from my assistant breaks the quiet.

  Kara:

  Reminder — 4PM @ Osteria Sarto. Private booth reserved. Client’s team confirmed.

  I blink. Right. The client meeting. Not urgent, but a big enough deal to require me to play nice.

  I sigh, run a hand down my face.

  An hour slipped by before my stomach reminded me I was very much human. I padded back into the kitchen, threw together a quick chicken sandwich—grilled, crisp, with a hit of Dijon and arugula. No frills, but damn if it didn’t hit the spot. I ate standing up, leaning on the island counter, mentally ticking off what needed to be done before four.

  The meeting.

  Kara had called it important—something about a client requesting a direct sit-down with the acting CEO. I hadn’t asked for a name. Didn’t care, really. It happened all the time. Big egos wanting to stare into the eyes of the person protecting their data. Or maybe they just liked the idea of being able to say they met the ghost behind CipherWorks. Whatever.

  I took the last bite, downed a glass of fresh juice, and headed to my room.

  Shower. Quick but necessary. The water stung against my skin in the best way, washing away the haze of sleep and last night’s mild intoxication. I stepped out, moisturized, slipped into my robe, and stood in front of my wardrobe.

  I settled on a black skirt—slightly high, but still within professional territory. The fabric hugged my hips just right. My top: a fitted, long-sleeved black turtleneck that sculpted my upper body perfectly. Simple, clean, efficient. A white gold necklace rested against my skin, the pendant spelling “Tempest”—my father’s name—etched in delicate cursive.

  Black Tom Ford heels. Hair pulled into a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. Little to no makeup, just a red gloss on my lips to remind them I’m not always subtle.

  I picked my black Versace bag, slid in my encrypted laptop, tablet, and phone, added some lip gloss, my wallet with a few folded bills, and my black card. Everything else I left behind.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  By 3:10 p.m., I was sliding behind the wheel of my black Mercedes, the leather cool against my palms. The sun hung high, casting sharp shadows across the city streets as I drove. Traffic was merciful. The city, for once, didn’t seem to be working against me.

  The restaurant Kara had booked was familiar—high-end, exclusive, discreet. A place for power to eat in peace. No reporters. No cameras. Just muted walls, low lighting, and conversations worth more than most bank accounts.

  I pulled up at 3:53.

  And I had no idea what kind of meeting I was about to walk into.

  Cyrene entered the restaurant, her heels clicking against the smooth, marble floor as she approached the hostess. The air around her felt thick with the tension she hadn’t yet fully acknowledged. It was as though the universe had decided to throw her into the lion’s den, but she wouldn’t flinch.

  She was led through the plush interior, past low conversations, the ambient clink of glasses, and the soft rustle of linen napkins. Her thoughts raced—this was supposed to be a standard meeting. Not a setup. Not a surprise. Yet, here she was, moments away from facing someone who had no business being here.

  Lucian Castellan.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she walked in, and she felt the pulse of confusion rise in her chest. Was he here because of her work on the server? Did he know? Or was this some other game entirely? His presence was a shock she couldn’t mask, even though she’d perfected the art of keeping her emotions hidden.

  Lucian’s eyes found her the moment she stepped through the door. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch. It was like he already knew she was coming. No surprise, no warmth. Just calculation. She was no longer just a name on a screen; now she was real, tangible—something he could touch.

  Why is he looking at me like that? The thought flickered in her mind. The instant her gaze met his, the temperature in the room seemed to spike. She tried to hold it together, but she could feel his eyes piercing through her like a laser, analyzing, studying.

  Does he know? Her stomach fluttered as she sat down. Or is this about something else?

  Lucian didn’t bother with pleasantries. He didn’t smile or rise from his seat. He merely took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving her. Fuck. She wanted to look away, but that would give him the power he so easily commanded. He was the kind of man who could ruin you without raising a finger, just by looking at you.

  The moment she stepped into his line of sight, his eyes locked on her like a predator sizing up prey. She felt the intensity of it like a touch—deliberate and invasive.

  He didn’t need an introduction. His gaze said everything.

  He leaned forward slightly, his voice low, smooth. “You’re late,” he observed, his smirk evident even in the subtleness of his tone.

  Cyrene raised an eyebrow, her gaze unwavering. “Or maybe you’re just early,” she countered, the words crisp, holding a professional edge but laced with a hint of controlled sass. Stay calm. Stay in control.

  Lucian chuckled, the sound rich and dark, an undercurrent of amusement lining his voice. “Perhaps,” he said, leaning back into his chair as his eyes briefly flickered over her appearance, “I’m just eager to meet the woman who upgraded my servers without leaving a trace. Tell me, what made you want to play in my little sandbox?” His words felt like a test, as if he were waiting for a crack in her armor.

  Her pulse quickened. He knows. She locked eyes with him, her heart pounding in her chest. Of course, he knows.

  Cyrene’s voice was calm, controlled, though her mind buzzed with the implications. “I’m in the business of solutions,” she replied, each word measured. “You wanted the best. You got it.”

  Lucian’s gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have, drifting downward. His eyes narrowed at the necklace that rested against her skin—Tempest. His brow furrowed, the flicker of irritation sharp in his gaze. Who the fuck is Tempest? He didn’t like the thought of someone else having a claim on her. A lover, perhaps? The idea of another man’s touch on her, even if just in memory, unsettled him in ways he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

  He looked at her again, his eyes narrowing as if trying to figure her out. Why the hell is she wearing that necklace? His thoughts tangled, as his gaze slid over her body again. She was too perfect. Too untouchable. She wasn’t some woman who just stumbled into his world—she was a puzzle.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. “About the Ghost in the codes.” His voice dropped slightly, carrying the weight of the words, as if he knew the story but couldn’t quite piece it all together. But now I have you in front of me.

  Cyrene felt the weight of his words, his stare, pressing on her. She could feel the hunger in him, not for the job, but for something more personal, something unspoken. His gaze lingered on her lips for a heartbeat longer than she was comfortable with, and it was then that she realized this meeting wasn’t about the job at all.

  Lucian watched her closely, his lips curling into the smallest of smirks. “Tell me,” he said, his voice rich with both interest and amusement, “what’s your game? What are you really after?”

  Cyrene held her ground. Her thoughts swirled for a moment, then she laid her cards on the table, no hesitation. “The reason your server was worthy of my upgrade,” she started, keeping her voice even and cool, “is that it presented a challenge. It was a puzzle that needed solving. Something to break through, and quite frankly, I did it out of boredom. A challenge is all it takes to spark my interest.”

  Lucian studied her, weighing her words. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Was she lying? Or was she telling the truth? He couldn’t quite tell yet, but something about her answer only intrigued him more. So she did it out of boredom? He filed that away, his mind turning over the possibility that there was more to her than met the eye.

  Cyrene wasn’t giving him the answers he was hoping for, but she was playing his game just as well as he had played hers. This wasn’t just about business. He could see that now. She’s a puzzle I’m dying to solve.

  Lucian’s eyes darkened for a fraction of a second, the slightest twitch in his jaw, and then the mask was back. “I think we both know that’s not entirely true,” he said, his tone rich with amusement.

  Cyrene’s voice never wavered. “What do you want, Castellan?” Her thoughts raced with suspicion, but she didn’t let it show. She had no time to waste on distractions, especially not with someone like him.

  Lucian’s smile never faltered, though there was something almost predatory in it. You think you can outplay me? His thoughts drifted, but he didn’t voice them aloud. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his gaze locking with hers, and his words were deliberate, calculated. “I’m just trying to understand the woman who’s been causing me so much trouble,” he said softly, his gaze unblinking, as if daring her to reveal more.

  Cyrene didn’t reply immediately, keeping her expression carefully composed. Her pulse quickened as the weight of his words settled. Trouble? For him? What does he mean by that?

  “I improved your security,” she said evenly. “Because it was the only server that gave me a challenge. I did it for that reason alone.”

  Lucian said nothing at first. He studied her closely. Her words were clean, without embellishment, and he could tell she was telling the truth. But she didn’t have to know that.

  “And what’s the guarantee you’re being honest?” he asked, voice dipping lower. “How do I know you won’t use what you saw?”

  Cyrene didn’t answer immediately. She took a moment to study him in return. He really was art—sculpted like something out of a forgotten myth. Cold, precise, and lethal.

  “I’ll sign an NDA,” she said, finally. “If that makes you feel better.”

  But Lucian leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “I’ll draft one myself,” he said, tone clipped. “On my terms. You’ll hear from me when I’ve decided what those terms are.”

  Then, just as she thought the conversation was winding down, Lucian’s voice came again, low and sudden.

  “What were you high on at the awards?”

  The question struck like a slap. She blinked, caught off guard. Not just by the question—but by the realization that he’d noticed. That he knew.

  She met his eyes, the confusion and suspicion bleeding into her expression before she reined it in. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” Lucian said, his expression unreadable. “You were high. I’m asking what it was.”

  Her throat tightened. How long had he been watching her? For him to know, he must’ve been watching closely—studying her with that same unrelenting precision she felt now.

  She didn’t answer immediately. Part of her wanted to lie. The other part wanted to ask how he knew. Instead, she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

  “Nothing illegal,” she replied with a cool edge. “Just something to take the edge off.”

  Lucian smirked, clearly amused by her restraint. He liked her boundaries—but even more, he liked pushing them. Watching her maintain control. She was a beautiful paradox—untouchable, yet right there in front of him.

  “You’ll hear from me,” he said again, more final this time.

  Cyrene gave a single nod, lips curving in the faintest smile. “I’ll be expecting that.”

  But even as she rose from the table, his eyes tracked her every move. And as she walked away, heels echoing through the space, one thought burned through Lucian’s mind.

  “This isn’t the end. Not even close.”

  The moment Cyrene disappeared through the restaurant doors, Lucian remained seated, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes still on the space she had occupied. Her scent lingered faintly in the air—a mix of vanilla, earth, and something untamably wild.

  He didn’t move. Not yet. His pulse was steady, but his mind was a storm.

  She had laid her cards on the table, but that didn’t mean he’d play blind. No one got that close to the Castellan network and walked away without scrutiny—no matter how hypnotic their eyes were or how fluidly they wore control like a second skin.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. A simple swipe. A short encrypted message. One word.

  “Follow.”

  No need for more. Shade was already outside—waiting, just as instructed. Lucian had planned for this.

  He didn’t trust his incumbents with her. Cyrene Tempest was different. Dangerous in a way that demanded discretion and precision. That’s why he chose Shade—anonymous, cold, surgically efficient. A ghost to trail the ghost.

  Lucian leaned back in his seat, gaze sharpening.

  “I want to know where she goes, where she lives, what time she breathes, what time she sleeps,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and deliberate, as if the weight of each syllable had to be measured.

  “Don’t make contact. Don’t be seen. Report to me. Only me.”

  She thought the meeting was over. But for Lucian, it had only just began.

  .

  .

  .

  By the time I get home, the grip I’ve held on myself since that damn meeting finally begins to crack. It had taken everything in me not to unravel on the spot. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

  I toss my heels by the door, barely remembering to drop my bag on the console table. I make a beeline for the shower. Fast, hot. I scrub, rinse, try not to think about him — not yet. I can’t.

  I towel off, let my hair fall in loose, wet waves down my back. No bra, just a colorful romper that hugs every curve and stops just short enough to give a teasing glimpse of my ass. I needed comfort. Ease. Skin.

  I head straight to the Cloud Room.

  Pick the strongest strain I’ve got — the one I save for nights like this. Roll it up, tight and perfect, just the way I like it. I walk barefoot to the kitchen, grab a glass, and pour myself a finger of single malt. No ice.

  Back in the Cloud Room, I sink into the couch, light the blunt, and take a long, deliberate drag. I hold it in, then exhale like I’m trying to breathe out the entire goddamn day.

  Only then do I let myself go there.

  Lucian Castellan.

  From the moment I saw him, I knew I was fucked. He was sex on legs. Devilishly breathtaking. That face. Those tattoos. The way his abyss-black eyes saw straight through me like I was laid bare. That aura — cold, commanding, primal. I hate that I noticed how he moved, how his body filled that custom suit like it had been made just for him.

  I wonder how it would feel to run my hands over those chiseled lines, to map the ridges of his chest with my tongue.

  My thighs press together.

  I take another hit. A sip of the drink.

  One question loops in my mind, clawing at the edge of my high:

  How the fuck did he find me?

  And worse — how did he know I’m Ghost?

  I thought I was invisible. Untouchable. Hidden behind layers of digital smoke. But him — he cut through it like it was nothing.

  That’s why they call him king.

  A slow smile curves my lips.

  God, I love the thrill.

  And I saw the way he looked at me. Not subtle. Not polite. Like he was starving. His gaze burned over every inch of me. He didn’t hide it. And I didn’t look away. There was fire in that moment, something wild and dangerous — and it lit something deep in me.

  I take another drag. Let it simmer.

  For a second, I think about taking a trip, disappearing somewhere warm and wild. But the thought dissolves as fast as it came.

  My stomach growls.

  I reach for my phone and order tacos and fries. Something greasy, something grounding. I need the day to be over already.

  Because if I keep thinking about Lucian fucking Castellan, I just might combust.