Monaco didn't just breathe money; it exhaled it in a suffocating cloud of expensive perfume, sea salt, and desperation. For Liora, the transition from the freezing, gritty alleys of Berlin to the gilded opulence of the Casino de Monte-Carlo was a violent gear-shift.
She stood in front of the ornate vanity in her suite at the Hôtel de Paris, staring at the woman in the mirror. She didn't recognize her.
This woman wore a floor-length gown of midnight-blue silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her dark hair was swept up in a sophisticated, slightly undone chignon, leaving her throat—pale and vulnerable—exposed. Her eyes, once sharp and calculating behind a computer screen, were now hooded and shimmering with a carefully cultivated mystery.
She looked like "Elena" again. The high-end siren who had captivated Sebastian Voss eighteen months ago.
Lia reached into her velvet clutch, checking her tools. A lipstick that doubled as a high-frequency jammer. A hairpin made of high-tensile carbon fiber. And the silver coin from the "Ghost Table."
"It's just a game, Leo," she whispered to the empty room. "One last hand."
The Salle Blanche was the most exclusive room in the casino, but the "Ghost Table" was even deeper. It was tucked behind a heavy mahogany door with no label, accessible only by those whose net worth could stabilize a small country's economy.
The air inside was cool, filtered, and smelled of cedar and Cuban tobacco. Six players sat around the green baize. An arms dealer from Marseille. A Saudi prince. A hedge fund shark who'd made his billions shorting the housing market.
And then, there was the empty seat.
Lia sat down at the fifth position. She felt the eyes of the men on her—predatory, curious, dismissive. To them, she was a trophy, a beautiful distraction. They had no idea she could drain their bank accounts before the first flop.
"The buy-in is five million, Mademoiselle," the dealer said, his voice a smooth monotone.
Lia didn't blink. She slid five black chips—heavy and cold—onto the felt. "I'm aware."
The game began. For the first hour, Lia played the part of the "lucky amateur." She won small pots, lost a few larger ones, and kept her eyes on the door. Her heart was a metronome, steady and rhythmic, despite the adrenaline screaming in her veins.
Then, the door opened.
The temperature in the room didn't drop, but the energy shifted—a sudden, violent compression of space. Sebastian Voss walked in.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He wore a black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a tailored charcoal blazer. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there six months ago, a jagged sharpness to his jawline that spoke of sleepless nights and a mind eating itself alive.
He didn't look at the other players. He didn't look at the dealer.
His gaze went straight to Lia.
It was like being struck by a physical force. Lia's breath hitched, her lungs suddenly refusing to expand. In all her planning, she'd forgotten what it felt like to be the sole focus of Sebastian's intensity. It was a gravity well.
Sebastian pulled out the chair directly across from her and sat down. He didn't say a word. He just stared.
"Mr. Voss," the Saudi prince remarked, trying to break the tension. "We heard you'd retired from the circuit after your... accident."
Sebastian's eyes didn't leave Lia's face. "I found I had a sudden need for clarity. And Monaco always provides."
The dealer began to shuffle. The sound of the cards—the fwick-fwick-fwick—was the only noise in the room.
"Five-card draw," the dealer announced. "No limit."
The cards were dealt. Lia didn't look at hers. She looked at Sebastian. He was leaning back, his large hands resting loosely on the table. He was wearing a Patek Philippe—a watch she'd seen him buy in Zurich. She remembered the way he'd laughed when he'd told her he bought it because it was 'too expensive to ever lose time.'
The irony was a bitter pill under her tongue.
"You look familiar, Mademoiselle," Sebastian said. His voice was lower than she remembered, a gravelly baritone that vibrated in her chest.
"I have one of those faces," Lia replied, her voice steady. "A thousand different stories, depending on who's looking."
"I don't think so," Sebastian murmured. He leaned forward, the movement predatory. "I think you're a ghost. I think you've been living in the back of my head for six months, making it impossible for me to sleep."
The table went silent. The other players looked between them, realizing they weren't just watching a card game; they were watching a collision.
"Check," the prince said, nervously.
"Raise," the arms dealer added.
"All in," Sebastian said.
He hadn't even looked at his cards. He pushed a mountain of black chips into the center of the table. Ten million dollars.
The other players folded instantly. They weren't stupid. They knew Sebastian Voss wasn't playing for the money. He was playing for something else.
Lia looked down at her cards. A pair of tens. Nothing. A losing hand.
She looked back at Sebastian. His eyes were burning into hers. There was a desperation there, a raw, naked need that made her stomach flip. He was hunting for a memory, and he thought she was the key.
He was right.
"I call," Lia said.
She pushed her remaining chips into the center.
The dealer looked at her, then at Sebastian. "Showdown."
Lia turned her cards over. "A pair of tens."
Sebastian didn't move. He didn't turn his cards. He just kept looking at her. "I don't care about the cards."
"Then why are we playing?" Lia asked.
"Because I want to see if you'll blink," he whispered. "I want to see if the woman who broke into my servers in Berlin is the same woman sitting in front of me now."
Lia's heart stopped. He knows.
She didn't let the panic show. She leaned in, her face inches from his across the green felt. The scent of him—sandalwood and a hint of the rain she'd left behind in the Alps—hit her like a tidal wave.
"Berlin is a cold city, Mr. Voss," she said. "People do strange things to stay warm."
Sebastian's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. It wasn't a violent grip, but it was absolute. His skin was hot, a stark contrast to the air-conditioned room.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The dealer cleared his throat. "Sir, please—"
"Get out," Sebastian said, not looking away from Lia.
"Excuse me?" the prince stammered.
"Get. Out. All of you," Sebastian snapped, his voice crackling with a sudden, terrifying authority. "I'll buy the damn room. I'll buy the whole casino if I have to. Leave."
There was no arguing with that tone. Within thirty seconds, the room was empty. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut, leaving Lia alone with the man she had tried to erase.
Sebastian didn't let go of her wrist. He stood up, pulling her with him. He moved around the table until he was standing directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I had an accident six months ago," he said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "I lost eighteen months of my life. My doctors tell me it was a freak occurrence. A neural overload. They tell me there's no trace of what caused it."
Lia felt her pulse thudding against his thumb. "And you think I had something to do with it?"
"I think you're the only thing that feels real," he said. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers grazing her jawline. The touch was feather-light, but it felt like a brand. "I see you every time I close my eyes. I see you standing in the snow. I see you holding a gun. And I see you… in my bed."
Lia's breath hitched. "You're dreaming, Sebastian."
"I don't dream," he hissed, his grip on her wrist tightening. "I remember. Not with my mind, but with my body. My heart beats faster when you're near. My skin aches for your touch. I don't know your name, I don't know your story, but I know that you belong to me."
"I don't belong to anyone," Lia said, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and a desire she hated herself for feeling. "Least of all a man like you."
"A man like me?" He laughed, a dark, hollow sound. "You mean a man who is missing the most important part of himself? A man who is being hunted by his own board of directors because they think he's broken?"
He let go of her wrist and stepped back, his expression hardening.
"I tracked you from Berlin. I know you're a world-class hacker. I know you've been digging into my files. Which means you're either an assassin, or you're looking for something I have."
Lia straightened her dress, her mind racing. This was it. The moment she had to pivot.
"I'm looking for the truth about my brother," she said, the words sharp and cold. "Leo Reyes. He worked for you. He's dead because of you."
Sebastian's brow furrowed. The name didn't register—another victim of the void. "I don't know a Leo Reyes."
"Of course you don't. You erased him, just like you've erased everything else that doesn't serve your bottom line."
Sebastian looked at her for a long moment. He didn't look like the monster she'd seen in the Alpine penthouse. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking for a hand to hold.
"Then help me," he said.
Lia blinked. "What?"
"I need my memories back," Sebastian said. "Not just for the company. For my sanity. And you... you were there. I know it. You were in the Alps. You were the one who was with me when the explosion happened."
He stepped closer again, his voice becoming a low, dangerous proposition.
"Help me reconstruct the last eighteen months. Be my... memory consultant. Live in my house. Use my resources. Use my servers. If you find proof that I killed your brother, I'll hand myself over to the authorities. I'll give you the empire. I don't care."
"You're lying," Lia said.
"I'm desperate," he countered. "And a desperate man is the only one you can truly trust, because he has nothing left to lose."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted key card. He held it out to her.
"One month," he said. "Come to my estate in Switzerland. Help me find the woman in my dreams. If at the end of thirty days you still want to destroy me... I'll give you the match."
Lia looked at the key card. It was the perfect trap. If she went, she'd be in his territory, surrounded by his security, under his constant, obsessive gaze.
But it was also the only way to get to the "Kill Switch." The only way to find out if the man who was looking at her with such haunting vulnerability was truly the murderer she believed him to be.
She reached out and took the card. Her fingers brushed his, and a spark of pure, unadulterated heat shot up her arm.
"Thirty days, Sebastian," she said, her voice cold as ice. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
"Warn me about what?"
"That some memories," Lia said, turning toward the door, "are better off staying dead."
She walked out of the room without looking back, but she could feel his eyes on her until the door clicked shut. She didn't see the way Sebastian slumped against the poker table, his hand trembling as he touched the spot on his jaw where he'd felt her skin.
He didn't remember her name. But he remembered the way she tasted. And he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that he would do anything to taste her again.