ALLURA POV
I blinked awake, the morning sun streaming through what must be Xavier's massive, floor-to-ceiling windows. The bed was enormous, plush, and utterly empty.
My mind instantly hitched, snapping me back to the trauma of the night before, swiftly followed by the memory of my raw vulnerability, the lullaby, and the fierce, consuming kiss we had shared. A wave of heat rushed to my face, painting my cheeks crimson. I giggled—a small, breathless sound—and kicked my feet beneath the covers in pure, giddy happiness.
"You're awake."
The sound of his voice froze me instantly, like a deer caught in the headlights.
I forced a smile, one that felt wide and utterly unguarded, the kind that clearly said, You've got me.
But I was immediately stunned. Xavier stood there, holding a silver tray that was balanced with impossible care. On it was a breakfast sandwich, a dollop of strawberry jam, perfectly scrambled eggs, and a tall glass of mango juice.
This was vintage Xavier, but also vintage us. He knew what I loved—the specific comfort food I craved even as Allura. He had always allowed me to indulge in these secret tastes when we were alone, while in public I strictly maintained Samantha's refined preferences. But this was the first time he had ever brought me breakfast in bed.
I giggled again, trying to move from the middle of the mattress to sit more properly. "I should get up," I mumbled, starting to swing my legs over the side.
"Stay." His command was soft, but firm. He walked over and gently placed the tray across my lap. "Eat right there. Remember, your leg." He gestured to the fresh bandage.
I picked up the sandwich. The crust was toasted just right, and the filling tasted much lovelier, more delicious than anything I'd ever tasted before. The scrambled eggs were light and fluffy—top-notch. The combination of flavors, the warmth of the food, and his presence added an extra layer of sweetness to my mood. The whole ordeal of yesterday was suddenly nothing more than a bad dream.
"Did you like it?" he asked, watching me closely as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"Like it? I loved it the moment I saw the plate," I confessed, taking a large bite of the egg.
"Eat slowly," he cautioned. "You'll choke."
"Who cooked this?" I asked, dropping my spoon, suddenly eyeing the perfect eggs with suspicion. "Don't tell me you did."
He leaned back, a small, proud smirk on his face. "I did. It's my mother's recipe. She taught me cooking and cutlery skills from a young age. About seven, I think."
I gasped, a genuine, high-pitched scream of delight. "Seven?! It tastes divine! At seven, I was playing princesses and dress-up while live-streaming with a fan base of a hundred million followers!"
He marveled, his dark eyes wide. "So, we were both spending our formative years doing something quite marvelous and mind-blowing, weren't we?"
"Marvelous?" The happiness faltered slightly. "Do you really think so? Magnus mocked the day he saw one of my old streaming videos. He told me I was nothing more than a social clown, performing for the world."
Xavier frowned, his jaw tightening, and gently patted my forehead. "He's an idiot. You were sensational. You were absolutely not a clown."
I quickly interjected, challenging him. "You haven't even watched my videos, though! How can you be so sure I was sensational?"
He looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Because anything you do, Allura, is perfect. I just know you're the best at it."
The comment made me feel ridiculously touched and giddy inside. I kept my gaze down, focusing on the plate, a smile refusing to leave my lips as I quietly continued eating.
IN THE OFFICE, STAR TREK, BELLINGHAM.
The stack of folders on my mahogany desk was obscene. Missing one day shouldn't have incurred this kind of paper-based tsunami. I had wrongly assumed that only behemoths like robotics manufacturers, chartered accounts, or legal titans dealt with this much paperwork. I certainly hadn't expected a gourmet coffee company, one specializing in personally preparing its own brand, to be part of the crew.
The business was booming—exploding, really. In just three weeks, we'd shattered our initial sales projections, and in a month, I'd acquired several smaller specialty firms, completely engulfing them. Even more dramatically, three giant regional competitors had approached me, proposing a partnership that would merge our firms under one umbrella. The proposed deal was incredibly flattering: they would combine their assets and market share into our company, and I would be named the Executive Chairperson, retaining 51% controlling interest in the unified entity.
But despite the dizzying success, my true objective remained fixated on a single target, a company I sought to conquer and bring to its knees: Frost Industries. Soon, I'd have it resting in the palm of my hands.
As I began cross-checking each paper and signing off on those that required my final approval, I came across a familiar file: the latest proposal from Rowling Fashion. They wanted me to approve a deal that would make us valuable strategic partners, with a revenue split of 60/40—mine being the highest share.
This was the eleventh time they had sent it. I was about to reject it yet again when a sudden, decisive thought seized me.
"This is getting ridiculous," I muttered, picking up the desk phone.
Mr. Wang, my impeccably efficient assistant, answered immediately. "Yes, Ms. Samantha?"
"Mr. Wang, regarding the Rowling Fashion proposal," I said, my voice firm. "Instead of sending it back, staple this to the top of the file: 'Approved. Effective immediately.' Then call their CEO and inform them we've accepted the 60/40 split. Make sure they understand this is the only deal I will ever agree to."
There was a slight pause on the other end. "Ms. Samantha, you've rejected this ten times. Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, Wang. I'm sure. I said running Rowling Fashion was not my dream. It belongs to the real Samantha. I'm doing this for her—to keep its momentum until she wakes up. Tell the CEO to prepare the paperwork."
"Understood, Ms. Samantha. It shall be done."
I hung up. Xavier, who was the Chairman and owner of Rowling Fashion after he'd bought it from Samantha, hadn't panicked when I stepped down, simply placing a new CEO in charge. My decision to run Star Trek, my coffee company, had initially caused an uproar. The media had sensationalized it, claiming I'd sold my company to my husband to run a 'boutique cafe.' Now, with the unprecedented success of Star Trek, all those statements had died down. The real Samantha would eventually run Rowling Fashion, and I would still have this—the company I had truly suffered and struggled for—to my name.
I was immersed in this satisfying thought until a gentle pressure on my shoulder brought me back to the present.
"Ms. Samantha," Mr. Wang said softly, having entered without me noticing. "Pardon the intrusion, but your press conference is in thirty minutes. They've set up a live feed outside the flagship store."
I quickly pushed the remaining files aside, standing up and slinging my favorite tailored coat over my shoulder. "Let's go, Wang. Time to show them why we're the new giant on the block."
The elevator dinged, announcing our arrival on the bottom floor. As I stepped out, the sight of my café, booming with customers, always gave me a thrill. My employees flashed simple, warm waves, acknowledging my presence. I had abolished the fussy corporate bow—a sincere wave was enough, and they were diligent in keeping to that rule.
A long queue snaked outside the glass front, and a small, chaotic crowd had gathered at the entrance. Mr. Wang, Tank (my head of security), and the bodyguards moved with practiced efficiency, parting the crowd like water for me to pass.
It happened in a blur. A figure wearing an oversized orange hoodie, a black mask, and a low-slung cap suddenly bumped into me.
"My apologies, miss!" the person mumbled, bowing quickly and deeply.
In the moment of contact, I felt a sharp, thin object slipped into the palm of my hand. Before the guards could react, the person was gone, swallowed by the crowded sidewalk.
Tank growled, taking a step. "I'll get them, ma'am!"
I held up a hand. "Stop. The road is too tight and blocked. It was just an accidental bump. Let it go."
The guards, though skeptical, fell back into formation. They escorted me to the luxurious black Rolls-Royce van parked at the entrance. The chauffeur and two guards performed a meticulous undercarriage and interior check—a mandate from Xavier himself—before I was permitted to enter. Tank, Mr. Wang, and I settled into the lavish interior.
I slumped into the plush seat, enjoying the air conditioning. Then, I felt it again: the stiff piece of folded paper in my hand. I didn't dare say or do anything. I strongly suspected Xavier had installed a sophisticated CCTV system in this vehicle.
When we arrived at the venue, a chaotic wall of paparazzi overwhelmed us. Flashbulbs exploded, and frantic questions were shouted from all sides. Thanks to the sheer, disciplined force of my security detail, I was able to pass through the frenzy unscathed and in one piece.
"Tank, Mr. Wang," I commanded as we entered the venue. "Please stand guard right outside the restroom door. I need a moment to collect myself before facing the cameras."
Like the loyal dogs they were, they snapped into position. I walked into the ladies' room, slipped into a stall, and locked the door. Curiosity, now mixed with a knot of growing dread, overwhelmed me.
I unfolded the note. It was all written in a language I hadn't seen or understood before, but something felt deeply unsettling about this note—like those times in the movie when someone was slipped a highly coded piece of information, or worse, like a death threat.
Fumbling for my phone, I quickly snapped a high-resolution photo of the note. My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled up Google Translate, using the image recognition feature. The translation appeared instantly, accompanied by the original text in Russian.
Дорогая, Приготовься, отсчет начался. У тебя осталось всего 100 дней. Ты уже потеряла один, так что иди, готовь свой гроб.
"Dearest, Get ready, the countdown has begun. You have but 100 days. You've already lost one, so go get your coffin ready.
My pupils dilated at the chilling content of the message, and my heart beat increased in a terrifying rhythm. There was a date set for my life. But whom have I offended in Russia that had sought for my head? Maybe it was just a harmless, sick prank—but come what may, I'll handle it myself.