Lines of code slide past in green and white across my screen, the shadows of my small apartment thick with tension. The only light is from my monitors three of them casting flickers across the empty noodle cup on my desk and the crumpled hoodie on the floor.
The files I stumbled on an hour ago were buried inside a shell of dummy corporations and corrupt offshore accounts. I thought it was just another corporate scam-embezzlement, maybe, or some bored billionaire hiding assets from a pissed-off ex.
But this... this is blood money.
Real names. Real deaths. Real power.
And it all traces back to one name: Valenti.
I lean back slowly, breath shallow.
Damien Valenti. CEO of Valenti Enterprises. Europe's ghost king. No confirmed crimes, no convictions, not even a scandal worth a headline. But if these files are real, he doesn't just own tech companies-he owns governments. Ports. Arms trades. Human lives.
My hands tremble. I don't tremble.
This isn't just data.
This is a death sentence.
"You're in over your head, Z," I whisper, heart racing.
And I know it. But I can't stop.
Because somewhere in those files-encrypted behind military-grade defense-is the name of the man who ruined my family. The man who drove my father to the grave and turned my mother into a paranoid ghost. It has to be him. My fingers clench.
I won't run.
I dig deeper.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. The room seems to hum with pressure. Every new click feels like peeling back skin on a wound. I'm not just trespassing. I'm desecrating sacred ground.
A warning flashes on screen:
INTRUSION DETECTED
TRACKING SIGNAL INITIATED
"No no no-"
I yank the cable from the modem, kill the power, and lurch out of my chair, heart thudding so loud it hurts. The monitors flicker to black. Too late.
Shit.
I grab my go-bag from under the bed. Passport. Burner phones. Crypto wallet. Drive with all the data.
My fingers brush the pendant around my neck-Dad's old dog tag. "For truth" etched into the back. I tuck it under my shirt and bolt.
Out the back door. Down the fire escape.
I'm three steps from the alley when headlights blind me.
A black SUV screeches to a halt.
Three men jump out, dressed in black, masks covering their faces.
I run. A door slams. Footsteps thunder after me.
I turn left, then right. Wrong move. Dead end.
I spin, pull the small taser from my pocket.
Too slow.
One man catches me by the waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
"Let go of me!" I scream, writhing. "You don't know who I am-"
A needle pricks my neck.
"Don't-"
Darkness swallows me before the word leaves my lips.
I wake up to silence.
No, not silence-absence. The sound of space too vast and too controlled. Cold air kisses my skin. My mouth is dry.
I try to sit up.
Can't.
My wrists are bound. Ankles, too.
I blink slowly, vision swimming into focus. I'm in a room with stone walls and antique chandeliers. A gilded mirror across from me reflects a pale, wild-haired woman with a bloodied lip and fire in her eyes.
Me.
A door clicks open.
Boots echo across marble.
Then I see him.
Damien Valenti.
He's taller than I expected. Lean but dangerous. Every movement precise. He wears a midnight-black suit with no tie, shirt collar open, sleeves rolled. His face is unreasonably beautiful-and terrifying. Eyes like winter, a scar at his jaw, lips curved in something like amusement.
"You're awake," he says, voice smooth like poisoned silk.
"Wish I wasn't," I mutter.
He chuckles. "You're braver than I thought. Most people cry."
"Give me five minutes. I might consider it."
He walks closer. There's a silence between us, like the air itself is holding its breath. I keep my gaze steady, though my heart slams against my ribs.
"Zara Vale," he says, testing my name on his tongue. "Your reputation precedes you. Hacker alias: Specter. Known for toppling illegal credit rings, unearthing war crimes, destroying corrupt billionaires. But this time..."
He holds up a USB drive.
"You went poking around in the wrong grave."
I say nothing.
"What did you plan to do with the files?" he asks calmly.
"Expose you."
He nods slowly. "That's what I thought."
I expect a threat. A knife. A bullet. Instead, he sits in the chair across from me and says the last thing I expect.
"Marry me." I laugh. It bursts out involuntarily.
"You've got the wrong captive. I don't do delusions."
Damien leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Let me be clear. You're too smart to kill. But too dangerous to leave unchecked. Your little stunt caused a rift in my organization. Traitors are revealing themselves like roaches. I need a ghost. A weapon. A wife."
"I'd rather die."
"You might." His gaze is unflinching.
"If you agree, I give you a contract. One year. You marry me, play the part, live in my world. You help me expose and dismantle the traitors. You stay useful, you stay alive. At the end, I give you a new identity, and you disappear."
"And if I say no?" He stands, expression unreadable.
"I give you to Luca." A chill runs down my spine.
I don't know who Luca is, but the way he says the name tells me everything I need to know.
"I'd kill myself before I let someone own me."
Damien walks to the mirror. Stares at our reflection.
"You're not owned. You're bartered."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," he says softly. "It's supposed to make you feel useful."
He turns to leave. "You have one hour to decide. Say yes, and I give you your first target. Say no..."
His eyes meet mine.
"...and the next room becomes your hell."
The door closes behind him. I sit there, bound and trembling-but not from fear. From rage.
From the sick, burning realization that he's right. If I die, the files die with me. So does every chance I have of justice.
My father's ruined face flashes in my mind. My mother's glassy eyes.
I don't want to marry a monster.
But maybe if I do...
...I can destroy him from the inside.