CYRENE TEMPEST

  The past few weeks have been a mess of noise—mental, digital, emotional. Back-to-back meetings, code reviews, investor bullshit, surveillance sweeps, and whatever the hell I've been feeling ever since Lucian Castellan walked into that restaurant like sin in a tailored suit. I've been so wound up I'm surprised I haven't snapped at someone—wait, no, I did. Poor Ethan from PR. I owe him a drink. Or ten.

  But finally, this morning, I closed the deal. Virtually. Painlessly. Another win for CipherWorks, another fat check on the way, and another reason to disappear for the day and pretend like I'm not quietly unraveling under the surface.

  I shut my laptop, lean back in my chair, and let the silence seep in.

  Except it isn't silence.

  It's that feeling again. Like someone's eyes are glued to the back of my neck, following me, waiting. I've been feeling it for days—no, weeks. Subtle. Persistent. A weight that doesn't exist. I've swept my systems twice, reset the surveillance, looped the Cloud Room feeds through three layers of encryption. And still, I feel it. When I'm walking down the hall. When I'm stepping out of my car. When I'm in the fucking shower.

  But every time I look? Nothing.

  Just shadows.

  So maybe it's paranoia. Or maybe it's survival instinct. In my world, there's no such thing as "just paranoid." You feel something, you stay sharp. Period. I'm not about to get caught slipping because I second-guessed myself.

  And then there's him.

  Lucian Castellan. The devil in cufflinks. It's been days since the meeting. Weeks since the auction. And nothing. Not a single NDA. Not even a follow-up. Which makes no fucking sense. Men like him don't waste time. They move like kings—strategic, calculated, inevitable. So either he's playing a long game, or he's testing me. Either way, I hate it. The waiting. The unknown. The tension.

  And then there's the other thing.

  The part I hate even more.

  I can't stop thinking about him.

  It's pathetic. I'm a grown woman. I've had lovers. I've had flings. But none of them—none—have messed with my head like this. Like he's left fingerprints inside my skull. His voice—smooth, commanding. Those fucking eyes—black and sharp like obsidian, like he could slice you open just by looking at you. They robbed me of sleep. Robbed me of sense.

  My libido, which has been in a gentle coma for the past few months, has apparently resurrected itself and chosen violence.

  Last night, I actually considered touching myself while picturing his face. His mouth. His hands. Those big, veiny hands wrapping around my slender neck, holding me in place like I belong there. The look in his eyes as I choke on his name. The way he'd bend me over without asking, without hesitating—like he owns me. Like I'm his. And fuck me, a part of me wants that. Wants him.

  It's sick. Dangerous. Completely out of character.

  I pressed my thighs together in bed and cursed. This man's not even touched me and he's got me spiraling. What the fuck.

  So, yeah. It's been a stressful couple of weeks. Between work, feeling like I'm being watched, and the intrusive, explicit, wholly unprofessional thoughts of one very dangerous man, I've had enough.

  Time to reset.

  I light a joint the size of my pinky and take a long pull, letting the smoke seep into every crack stress has carved into me. My body unwinds a little. My mind loosens its death grip. Yeah, this is what I needed.

  A spontaneous self-care day.

  The kind where no one knows where I am, and I don't answer my phone.

  I slip into something light and luxurious—white cotton, gold-rimmed sunglasses, and a sleek scarf to hide my identity just enough. Then I hit the streets. First stop: the private spa downtown. I get the works—manicure, pedicure, paraffin wrap, the kind of foot massage that makes me forget my own name. The staff know better than to make small talk. I tip in cash. I keep my headphones in.

  Then it's facials and exfoliation. Deep cleanse, hydrating serum, collagen mask. My skin feels like silk and vengeance by the time they're done.

  Hair care is next. I don't let just anyone touch my hair, but the woman I trust has magic in her fingers. She deep conditions, massages, trims split ends with surgical precision. I sit under the dryer flipping through a copy of Architectural Digest like a bored heiress while the weed buzz hums beneath my skin, warm and heady.

  Somewhere between the steam and scalp massage, I remember Lucian's voice—low, deliberate, like he speaks only when necessary. Like silence itself makes room when he talks. My stomach flips. I clench my fists under the robe. It's ridiculous. Embarrassing, almost. How easily he's lodged himself in my body. In my fucking hormones.

  Maybe it's been too long since I've gotten laid. Maybe I just need to burn this out of my system with a meaningless fling and a good orgasm. But then again, I don't want meaningless.

  I want dangerous.

  I want him.

  And that's the real problem.

  By the time I finish shopping—new shoes, two dresses I don't need, highlighter that makes my cheekbones look criminal—I've spent a ridiculous amount of money, but I feel better. Like me again. Put together. Composed. Slightly high and freshly waxed. My skin's glowing. My nails are perfect. My hair's a waterfall.

  And underneath it all, I'm still watching. Still aware. Still calculating.

  Because the game hasn't stopped.

  And I haven't forgotten the eyes I feel on me when no one's there.

  I just look better now while playing.

  .

  .

  .

  But today, I'm not behind the keyboard. Not yet.

  I'm crouched in the bando, fingers brushing the dark soil of a new strain I picked up earlier this week. The scent is rich—earthy, sweet, with that sharp, herbal edge I've grown to love. Shopping gave me a dopamine boost, but this? This calms something deeper. Something harder to reach.

  The air is humid, warm, and thick with promise. It's past four when I finally stand, brushing dirt from my knees. My muscles stretch easily—sore in the good way, still humming from the walk, the haul, the steady rhythm of tending to something that depends on me. I breathe it in. I feel it settle. I love the way it anchors me.

  But underneath it?

  That same low thrum of restlessness. Quiet, familiar, stubborn. Like a ghost that won't stop tugging at my sleeve.

  I push the door open and step back into my kitchen.

  I want something greasy. Heavy. Something that'll remind my body it's alive.

  I open my food app and order like I mean it—loaded burger, hot wings, extra fries, and a chocolate milkshake that better arrive sweating in the cup. No hesitation, no second guessing. I don't care about macros or portion control. I care about satisfaction.

  While I wait, I strip off the clothes I'd worn out and head for the shower. Not for indulgence—this isn't about lavender oils or playlist acoustics. I want heat. Pressure. Something to peel off the day, one layer at a time.

  The water slams into my back, hotter than it should be, but I don't flinch. I let it pummel my shoulders, rinse the sweat, the soil, the lingering edge of tension I never really admit to. I scrub hard. I think harder.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I don't need deep conditioning today. My hair's already taken care of. Everything else? I handle with practiced ease.

  By the time I'm out, my skin feels clean, warm, and raw in that satisfying way. I moisturize quickly—shea butter, thick and fragrant—then pull on a big black T-shirt that hits just above my knees. Bonnet on. No jewelry. No facade.

  The doorbell rings.

  Right on cue.

  I pad over, assuming it's the food. My stomach is halfway to the door before I am.

  But when I open it—

  It's not dinner.

  It's a man.

  Tall. Crisp. Like he walked out of an executive boardroom and into my hallway. He's holding an envelope in one gloved hand, posture tight, unreadable.

  Immediately, everything in me resets. Back straight. Face blank. Eyes sharp.

  "What do you want?" I ask, voice flat but firm.

  He doesn't fumble. Doesn't even blink. "Package for Ghost. From Mr. Lucian Castellan."

  The name drops like ice water down my spine.

  Lucian Castellan.

  I say nothing. But inside, I feel it snap into place.

  So it's him.

  The eyes I've been feeling. The phantom presence I kept brushing off.

  It wasn't my imagination. He's been watching me.

  If I'd known, I would've put on a show for you.

  The thought slips in like smoke, uninvited.

  I glare at myself mentally. Where the hell did that come from?

  I take the envelope. No thank you. No reaction. Just a nod and the door shut in his face.

  Locks turned. Deadbolt. Chain. Silence.

  I stare at the envelope in my hand, the thick paper warm from his grip. Then I toss it onto the kitchen island and follow it with my eyes like it might move on its own.

  When I open it, I already know it's going to piss me off.

  And it does.

  An NDA.

  No name. No company letterhead. Just expensive paper, clean formatting, and very clear intentions.

  My stomach turns.

  I read the first paragraph. Then the second. Then again.

  My jaw tightens.

  He wants silence. Control. Ownership of anything I say or do that even touches the name Ghost. He wants legal power over me—terms, clauses, penalties. He wants the hacker, the strategist, the brand—but bound.

  A leash with my name on it.

  Disgust flares hot in my chest. I toss the papers onto the island like they've burned me.

  The nerve.

  He not only followed me—tracked me down to my door—but now has the audacity to try and legally cage me? Like I'm some commodity he can just add to his inventory?

  I don't care how dangerous he is. I don't care how much power he throws around. This? This is arrogance.

  He wants my silence. My loyalty. My submission.

  And he thinks a few signatures will buy it.

  I don't scream. I don't stomp. I don't throw things.

  That's what he probably expects.

  He expects me to barge into his office, spit fire and venom, call him every name I know.

  But I won't.

  Because I know men like Lucian.

  They don't fear noise—they feed on it.

  So I give him nothing.

  No call. No reply. No reaction.

  I pretend the NDA never arrived. Leave it on the counter like junk mail. Let it collect dust.

  But inside?

  I am seething.

  He doesn't just want to watch me—he wants to profit from me. From my work. From everything I've built in shadows with blood and nerve and code.

  And he thinks I'm just going to nod and sign?

  He thinks he's dealing with someone easy to break?

  Please.

  Let him wait. Let him wonder why I haven't responded.

  Let him feel that silence thicken into unease.

  Men like Lucian Castellan don't get ignored often.

  And when they do?

  They notice.

  He'll come to me eventually.

  They always do when they feel the leash slip from their own hand.

  And when he does, I'll be ready.

  I moved straight to the Cloud Room, needing to cool off steam. The moment the black walls closed around me, I felt the air shift—still charged, still heavy, but at least in here, it was mine.

  How dare he?

  I paced the sleek floor barefoot, arms crossed over my oversized T-shirt, bonnet slipping slightly. I didn't fix it. My mind was too busy racing.

  That man. That arrogant, smug, overreaching son of a—

  My thoughts cracked off like firecrackers in my skull.

  What was the play here? How did I untangle myself from this without giving him what he wanted—or worse, showing him that he'd actually gotten under my skin?

  Because he had. I could admit that, at least to myself.

  He found me.

  Again.

  First the meeting. Now my home.

  I thought of a dozen different ways to get out of this situation. Burner numbers. Rerouting addresses. Legal pushback. Radio silence. But none of it felt like the key. Nothing gave me that snap of certainty, that lock-click moment that meant freedom.

  And I hated that.

  I hated not having the upper hand.

  Eventually, I stopped bothering. I dropped onto the velvet chaise in the corner, stretched out with a sigh, and let the tension melt off me in increments. Thinking about him was like feeding poison to my own peace. And for the sake of my sanity, I chose silence.

  I chose myself.

  Let the anger cool. Let the moment pass. Let it wait outside like an unwanted guest I'd refuse to let in.

  The bell pinged again.

  I tensed, heartbeat skipping once. But this time, I wasn't about to be caught off guard. I walked to the door, jaw set, expression wiped clean. My poker face was flawless—eyes cool, shoulders squared.

  Thankfully, it was just the food.

  About damn time.

  I took the bags without a word, barely registering the delivery guy's muttered apology for the delay. I didn't care. I had what I wanted.

  I brought the bags into the kitchen like they were sacred, unpacking everything onto the counter: extra crispy wings, thick fries smothered in cheese and jalape?os, that blessed double-patty burger, and the milkshake, still cold and sweating just the way I'd hoped.

  I took the first bite like it was a rebellion.

  By the third, I was in heaven.

  Grease. Salt. Heat. Flavor. All of it working like balm to my system. Each chew was a step further away from that NDA, from that envelope, from that smug phantom who thought he could make me bend.

  And for a while, it worked.

  I forgot.

  I let the day dissolve into spice and satisfaction. I didn't think about Ghost. Didn't think about the surveillance. Or how he knew where to find me. Or what game he was playing.

  But it didn't last.

  I couldn't help it.

  I was intrigued.

  I paused halfway through the burger, fingers slick with sauce, and stared out the window without really seeing anything.

  How does he always find me?

  I'd been careful. No paper trail. No digital footprints Ghost hadn't scrubbed clean. I didn't talk to people I didn't vet. I lived high above the city in a building no one walked into without scanning past a dozen layers of security.

  And still, he'd found me.

  What else had he seen?

  What had he learned about me in the shadows, while I danced in the light, thinking I was alone?

  The idea was dangerous.

  Too dangerous.

  I'd let curiosity kill the cat before—but I'd never let it touch Ghost. And that's who he was after.

  Not me. Not Cyrene. He didn't even know my name.

  Still... I couldn't pretend I didn't want to know how far he'd go. Or how much he already knew.

  I needed to be more careful.

  No more gaps in the shield. No more soft spots for his fingers to slip through. No more slips, no matter how delicious the tension had felt at that table when our eyes locked and my name stayed unspoken.

  No more.

  I cleaned my fingers on a napkin, tossed the empty burger wrapper into the trash, and grabbed the remote. I didn't want to spiral tonight. I wanted noise. Distraction. Something beautiful and strange to sink into.

  I flopped onto the couch, crossed one leg over the other, and searched for Beautiful Creatures. Something about the magic, the tension, the doomed attraction—it matched the mood. Just enough grit and glow.

  The opening credits rolled as I finished the fries. The wings followed, one by one, until the bones filled the paper carton like tiny trophies. I washed it all down with the milkshake—chocolate thick and cold, syrup clinging to the straw in ribbons.

  By the time the movie reached its halfway point, I felt full in every sense of the word. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

  No more room for Lucian Castellan and his arrogance.

  No more energy for fury.

  The Cloud Room had done its job.

  I powered off the screen before the credits even rolled, dropped the empty containers in the trash, and walked slowly toward the bedroom.

  The penthouse was still.

  The city outside whispered under the weight of evening.

  I peeled off the shirt, tossed the bonnet onto the dresser, and pulled the covers back.

  My bed was soft. Familiar. Worn in by nights spent alone, wrapped in dreams only I could understand.

  I slid beneath the sheets and stared at the ceiling for a long minute.

  He thinks I'm going to break.

  He thinks I'll run straight into his trap and play his game.

  But he has no idea.

  Let him wonder.

  Let him wait.

  Because I won't come when he calls.

  He'll come when I choose.

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  CASTELLAN ENTERPRISES

  CONFIDENTIALITY & ENGAGEMENT AGREEMENT

  This Agreement is entered into by Castellan Enterprises and [Redacted] (“The Consultant”).

  1. Confidentiality

  All information—technical, operational, or personal—related to Castellan Enterprises is strictly confidential. No disclosure is permitted without written consent.

  2. Personal Fulfillment

  All services must be carried out in person by the Consultant. No substitutes allowed. Physical presence is required three times per week at the Company’s facility.

  3. Ownership of Work

  All discoveries, including code, vulnerabilities, fixes, or tools, created during the engagement become the exclusive property of Castellan Enterprises.

  4. Non-Compete

  For the duration of this contract and five years after, the Consultant shall not engage in similar services for any competitor or use insights gained here elsewhere.

  5. Exclusivity

  All cybersecurity-related work by the Consultant during the contract term belongs solely to Castellan Enterprises unless otherwise authorized in writing.

  6. Enforcement

  Violations of this Agreement will result in legal action. This Agreement is governed by the laws of Sicily, Italy.

  ?

  Signed:

  Lucian Castellan

  Chief Executive Officer

  Castellan Enterprises

  [Redacted]

  The Consultant