The office was dark except for the skyline.Midnight light fractured against the glass, painting cold gold across the floor, across the man standing before it.
Alexander Knight didn't move. He hadn't for nearly an hour.
His reflection stared back — immaculate suit, impassive face, eyes too sharp to be calm. To anyone else, he was the picture of control. But his hand — the one that had touched her — betrayed him. It wouldn't stop closing into a fist.
He could still feel her.The tremor beneath her pulse.The warmth that flared when she whispered his name.
He should've let her walk away.He should've.
But every instinct he possessed — every brutal, honed edge that had made him who he was — recoiled at the thought of losing her again.
"Sir?"
He turned slightly. His assistant, Damian Holt, stood at the door, hesitant but composed. Damian had worked for him long enough to read the air — to know when silence was a weapon and when it was a warning.
Alexander said nothing at first. He simply poured himself a drink — bourbon, neat — and set the glass down untouched.
"How many hours ago?"
"Four, sir," Damian replied. "Since she left the event."
"And?"
"We've reviewed security footage from the hotel, but there's no record of her departure. She may have used the service exit."
Of course she did. Selene always had a way of slipping through the cracks, vanishing without sound. She'd done it once before.
He turned his gaze back to the city — the empire he'd built, the machine that never slept. A city where his name opened every door.And yet she had managed to walk out of it. Again.
"Pull every angle," he said quietly. "Street cameras, nearby intersections, transit terminals. I want her found."
Damian hesitated. "Sir, may I ask—"
"No," Alexander interrupted, his tone clipped.
But Damian didn't move. "With respect, Mr. Knight, you don't usually involve personal matters in operations of this scale. If this is about—"
Alexander's head turned sharply, a warning in the glance alone. "It's not personal. It's unfinished business."
He picked up the glass, staring at the amber liquid. "And I don't leave things unfinished."
Damian inclined his head. "Understood. I'll have the tech team expand the perimeter search."
"Double their pay if they find her before dawn."
"Yes, sir."
As Damian turned to leave, Alexander spoke again — quieter this time, but the edge in his voice could've cut through glass.
"She was at the event under her real name, wasn't she?"
Damian paused. "The guest list showed a Selene Brooks, yes."
Alexander's mouth curved slightly — not quite a smile. "Then start with that. Every record, every address, every financial trace. I want a file on my desk before sunrise."
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed, silence returned — deep and precise.
He finally sat behind his desk. The space was minimalist, severe: dark wood, steel, order. But the moment he leaned back, the illusion of calm cracked.
He opened the small drawer on the right — and there it was.A photograph. Creased from being unfolded too often.
Selene in shadow, from years ago. Not posed. Not smiling. Just her, mid-laugh, hair wild, eyes alight with something unguarded.
He'd kept it hidden even from himself. Buried in a drawer like a sin.
Now, looking at it, he remembered everything he'd spent months trying to forget — the sound of her breath against his neck, the way she looked when she pretended she didn't care, the taste of a woman who always said no with her lips and yes with her eyes.
He exhaled roughly, setting the photo face-down.
He'd buried her once. He wasn't going to do it again.
He checked the time.1:43 a.m.
Outside, the city throbbed — alive, restless, indifferent. He'd built his empire in that rhythm. Deals, mergers, control. The currency of power.
But none of that had ever made him feel as alive as five seconds in her presence.
It infuriated him.
He reached for his phone, opening his private contacts list — a short roster of people who owed him favors too heavy to refuse.
When he spoke, his voice was calm again. Controlled.
"Paulson. I need a trace run."
A pause on the line. "What kind of trace?"
"Discreet. No police involvement. I want the real-time location of a woman named Selene Brooks."
"Understood. Give me an hour."
"Make it thirty minutes."
He ended the call and leaned back, eyes closing briefly.
He wasn't proud of what he was doing. But pride was a luxury for men who didn't bleed in silence.
And Selene Brooks had always been his quietest wound.
Half an hour later, Damian returned — tablet in hand, expression unreadable.
"Sir."
Alexander opened his eyes. "Tell me."
Damian hesitated.
That pause — the smallest flicker — put Alexander instantly on edge.
"What is it?"
"There's… a complication."
"Speak."
"The name 'Selene Brooks' doesn't exist in any current registry — not under employment, residence, or social records. It's like she vanished five years ago and only reappeared for that gala."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning she's using something else now."
Alexander rose from his chair slowly, every movement deliberate. "A pseudonym?"
"Possibly. Or a legal change."
He walked toward the window again, gaze sweeping over the city — endless glass and motion, lights like pulsebeats. "Find it."
"We're working through identification algorithms now. Cross-matching facial scans from the gala against travel databases."
"And?"
Damian swallowed. "One match so far. Recent. A design consultant contracted under the name Lena Ward."
The room went still.
"Lena," Alexander repeated. The name tasted foreign and familiar all at once.
Damian nodded carefully. "The paperwork shows she signed with a firm based here. Two months ago."
Here.In his city.
Alexander turned, eyes narrowing. "So she never really left."
"Not entirely, sir."
For a long moment, Alexander said nothing. The muscles in his jaw flexed once, twice — the only sign of restraint fighting fury.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You said Lena Ward?"
"Yes."
He exhaled, the sound low and dangerous. "Find everything on her. Addresses, contracts, clients. I want to know where she sleeps, what she drives, who she speaks to, what she hides. If she's breathing inside my city, I'll know it by morning."
Damian nodded once. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Alexander added softly, "And Damian?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Not a word of this leaves this office."
"Of course."
The door clicked shut.
Alexander stood alone again.
The rain outside had stopped, leaving streaks on the glass that caught the lights of the skyline — like veins across the city's heart.
He pressed his palm against the cold pane, the city staring back at him.
She was here.Close enough to touch.Close enough to destroy him again.
He should have felt satisfaction. Instead, all he felt was hunger — raw and unreasoning.
He turned back to his desk, picked up the untouched glass of bourbon, and finally drank it down in one long, burning swallow.
The taste hit hard, like truth.
Lena Ward.
The woman who ran was living under another name.
But not for long.
Damian's message pinged on Alexander's private phone — a single line:
"Confirmation complete. Lena Ward = Selene Brooks. Current address: within Knight Tower's design division project."
Alexander's hand stilled over the screen.
The irony hit him like a blade's twist.
She wasn't just in his city.She was working for him.