The interrogation of David yielded a digital ghost.
A pattern. A signature. But not a name.
The payments led to a cryptocurrency wallet. It was emptied and abandoned. The encrypted messages routed through dead servers. It was a professional's work. A clean, dead end.
Victor and Elara shifted their strategy.
The enemy wanted to divide them. To attack them as individuals. So they became a single, indivisible unit.
They arrived at work together. They attended meetings together. Their partnership was a visible, unbreachable wall. Victor's cold authority was now complemented by Elara's sharp intelligence.
They were a perfectly balanced equation. The entire company felt the shift.
---
The test came from the boardroom.
With Henderson gone, a power vacuum formed. A faction of conservative members saw the recent scandals as proof. Proof that Victor's leadership was "unpredictable." "Emotionally compromised" by his mate.
They pushed for a new Chief Operating Officer. A "steadying hand" to counter Victor's "volatile" nature.
It was a thinly veiled coup. An attempt to seize control and sideline Elara.
The motion was put forth at the quarterly review. Charles Davison, a board member with a face like a disappointed bloodhound, laid out the argument.
"Victor, your successes are undeniable. But recent events show a… susceptibility. An external COO, removed from the… personal dynamics… could provide necessary oversight."
All eyes turned to Victor. They expected the icy, dismissive retort. The declaration of war.
It never came.
Elara spoke instead. Her voice was calm and clear. It cut the tension like glass.
"An interesting proposal, Charles. Let's examine the premise."
She tapped her tablet. The screen at the front of the room lit up with a financial graph.
"Sterling Enterprises' stock price has risen eighteen percent since the Whitethorn-Sterling Initiative was announced. Our profit margins are up. Our market share is expanding."
She gave Davison a polite, sharp smile.
"By what metric is the current leadership 'unstable'? The only instability seems to be in the board's confidence. Not in the company's performance."
She didn't look at Victor for approval. She didn't need to.
Victor finally spoke. His voice was a low, cool rumble that supported her like bedrock.
"The proposal is rejected. The current leadership structure is not open for discussion. Our focus is the future. Not inventing problems."
He didn't raise his voice. The united front had spoken.
The challenge was crushed by two. Davison deflated. The message was received.
Attack one, you attack both. And both were formidable.
---
The boardroom was a strategic win.
But the real battleground was the riverfront site. Rumors of a "cursed" project were a persistent weed. It choked morale.
Data wouldn't kill it. They needed a symbol. A grand, public gesture.
Elara proposed it over dinner.
"We need to get our hands dirty. Literally. We go to the site tomorrow. We put on hard hats and work. We lift. We carry. We get mud on our shoes."
Victor raised an elegant eyebrow. "You propose we become common laborers?"
"I propose we show every person on that site we are part of this. Their sweat is our sweat. We lead from the front. Not command from the rear."
He studied her. He saw a commander who understood her troops. A slow, reluctant smile touched his lips.
It was unorthodox. Undignified.
And brilliant.
"Alright," he agreed. "We'll get dirty."
---
The construction site rippled with stunned disbelief.
The sleek Sterling sedan pulled up at the active work zone. Not the office.
Victor stepped out in new, stiff jeans and a grey t-shirt. Elara followed in similar attire. They donned hard hats and orange safety vests.
Ben, the project manager, looked ready to panic. "Sir, Ma'am, the safety protocols—"
"We've been briefed," Victor cut him off. "Put us to work."
They were assigned to unload and sort materials. A physical, monotonous task.
For an hour, the workers gave them a wide berth. Movements were stiff and self-conscious.
Then the awe wore off. Curiosity replaced it.
Elara worked with determined efficiency. Victor applied his formidable focus. His movements grew fluid.
During a water break, a grizzled worker named Joe approached Victor.
"Never thought I'd see the day," Joe grunted. "CEO gettin' calluses."
Victor met his gaze. "This project is the future of this company. This city. My future. My mate's future."
He glanced at Elara, who was laughing with a younger worker.
"There is no task beneath us in securing that future."
The word spread through the site. They're here. They're working. They give a damn.
---
By the end of the shift, Victor's jeans were streaked with dirt.
Dust coated Elara's arms. Their muscles ached. But a different energy hummed between them and the crew.
The invisible wall of hierarchy was gone. Dismantled brick by heavy brick.
The curse was broken by sweat and shared purpose.
A worker captured it on his phone. A candid shot.
Victor, his white hair dusted with grime, handing a heavy beam to Elara. Her face was set in determination, a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
No posing. No press team. It was raw and real.
The worker posted it online. The caption was simple: "No curse here. Just a hell of a lot of hard work from the top down."
It went viral.
The public narrative shifted overnight. The "cursed site" became the "people's project." Led by bosses who weren't afraid to get their hands dirty.
---
Back in the penthouse, the grime felt like a badge of honor.
Elara sat on the edge of the soaking tub, muscles aching. Victor stood before her, having shed his dirty clothes.
In the soft light, he looked like a weary warrior. Not an untouchable CEO.
"Today was a good day," she said, her voice soft with fatigue.
He didn't answer with words.
He knelt in front of her. His movements were slow and deliberate. He reached for her foot.
His hands, so commanding in a boardroom, were gentle. He untied her work boot. Eased it off. His thumb stroked the arch of her foot.
A shiver ran up her spine.
He did the same with the other foot. His head was bowed. His focus was entirely on the task.
It was an act of service. Intimate and profound. It was care. Pure, unadulterated care.
He looked up. His blue eyes met hers.
"They will never doubt you again," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They saw your strength today. Not the strength I give you. The strength that is inherently yours."
He rose. He pulled her to her feet and into the steam-filled tub.
The grime washed away. Clean skin was revealed beneath.
Elara knew a fundamental truth. The united front was not a performance.
It was a reflection. A partnership of equals. Built on trust, respect, and a love as solid as the foundation they were laying.
The enemy had tried to break them with shadows and shame.
They had only made them stronger.
---
The PR victory was undeniable.
But in the war room of Victor's mind, the primary enemy was still faceless. The digital ghost was still out there.
The break came from an unexpected direction.
Marcus was auditing Henderson's transactions. He found an anomaly. Not a payment. A series of small, recurring charitable donations.
To "The Aethelred Foundation." The name meant nothing. The pattern was odd. Henderson was not a philanthropist.
Victor was about to dismiss it.
Then he saw a different name on the foundation's board of directors.
Dr. Alistair Finch.
The world froze.
Dr. Alistair Finch. The disgraced psychiatrist. The man who had treated a young, grief-shattered Victor after his parents' death.
The man Victor had trusted with his deepest trauma.
The man who had been subtly manipulating him. Reinforcing his isolation. Pushing him toward cold, solitary vengeance.
The man who had vanished a decade ago.
A cold, murderous fury ignited in Victor's veins. Older and deeper than any he had felt toward Lucian.
This was not a business rival.
This was a ghost from his own past. A predator who had tasted his blood and pain. Now returned for another bite.
---
He didn't tell Elara. Not yet.
The shame of that old vulnerability was a poison. To speak Finch's name was to rip open a wound that had never healed.
He retreated into a cold, impenetrable silence. The united front shattered by the ghost in his own machine.
Elara felt the change instantly. The bond went icy and distant. He was pulling away. Building the walls again.
The bricks were made of a pain she didn't understand.
When she tried to reach him, he was terse. "It's nothing." "A lead I'm following." His gaze was shuttered.
The enemy had found a crack. Not in their partnership. Not in Elara's past.
In the deepest, most hidden chamber of Victor's own soul.
As he stared at the name on the screen, Victor realized the truth.
The war was far more personal than he had ever imagined.
The mastermind wasn't just trying to destroy his company or his mate.
He was trying to finish the job he started years ago.
The complete and utter destruction of Victor Sterling.
---
The silence in the penthouse was a physical weight.
For two days, Victor moved like a specter. His mind was trapped in a past Elara couldn't reach.
She gave him space. Her worry was a cold stone in her stomach. But her patience had limits.
The united front meant sharing burdens. Not watching him shoulder them alone.
She found him in his study late on the second night. He stared at the city lights. A half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Victor," she said, her voice firm. "That's enough."
He didn't turn. "This is not something you can fix, Elara."
"I'm not here to fix it. I'm here to hear it." She walked around, forcing him to look at her. "The enemy has a name. I can see it. Who is it?"
His jaw worked. The internal war was visible on his face. Protect her from his darkness. Or keep his promise to never shut her out.
The bond strained with the force of his battle.
Finally, the wall crumbled. The words were ripped from a place of deep, old pain.
"His name is Dr. Alistair Finch." He looked at her, his eyes haunted. "He was my psychiatrist after my parents died. He didn't help me. He manipulated me. He fed my isolation. My rage. My drive for revenge. He wanted to create a monster. He nearly succeeded."
He looked down at the glass. "He disappeared. And now… he's back. The attacks, the precision… it's his signature. He's finishing what he started."
The revelation landed like a blow. This was the architect of Victor's trauma. Returned to destroy the peace he had finally found.
Elara didn't flinch. She didn't offer pity.
She stepped forward. She took the glass from his hand and set it aside. Then she took his face in her hands. She forced his haunted gaze to meet hers.
"Listen to me," she said, her voice low and fierce. "He created the man who sought revenge. But I am looking at the man who built a future. He does not get to claim you now. He does not get to touch what we have built."
She leaned her forehead against his. Her jasmine scent wrapped around his turmoil.
"You faced him once alone. You will not face him again. His name is no longer a ghost. It's a target. And we destroy our targets. Together."
The word "together" shattered his isolation.
The icy distance in the bond thawed. It flooded with her unwavering resolve.
He wasn't alone in the dark with his monster anymore.
He had a partner. A warrior. His mate.
He pulled her into a crushing embrace. His face was buried in her hair.
The united front was restored. Stronger now. Tested against the darkest enemy of all—the past.
The hunt for Dr. Alistair Finch had begun.