Heat in Marrakech

Chapter 1: Locked Doors

Yvonne knew three things:

1. The email said _empty riad_.

2. Her passport said _Jane Miller_.

3. The man drinking tea in her courtyard could get her killed if he recognized the Lancaster eyes.

He didn’t stand when she froze in the archway. Just lifted his glass. “The caretaker quit. I’m Sabastian. You’re using my favorite cup... Jane.”

He paused on the name. Testing it.

Yvonne’s hand tightened on her towel knot. Five years of running taught her what that pause meant. It meant he knew. Or suspected. Both got you dead.

“Why are you in my rental?” Her voice came steadier than she felt. That was the point of Jane Miller. Jane was calm. Jane was boring. Jane didn’t have a ten-million-dollar bounty on her head.

“Because my flight iced over and this is my house.” His eyes made a slow trip from her wet hair to her bare feet. “And because your door lock is garbage. Derek was always sloppy with details.”

Her blood iced.

“I don’t know a Derek.”

“No?” Sabastian set the glass down. Too casual. Too controlled. “Funny. He booked this exact riad three weeks before the Lancasters died. Said he needed privacy to propose.”

The courtyard went silent. Even the doves stopped cooing.

Yvonne should run. Every lesson screamed it: new city, new name, new hair. If someone says _Derek_ and _Lancaster_ in the same breath, you vanish.

Instead she sat. Because Sabastian Vance — and it _was_ Vance, she’d memorized every face from the power lists — just handed her two things she’d hunted for five years:

1. Proof her ex was in Marrakech before her parents’ “car accident.”

2. Proof the Vance dynasty was hunting the same snake she was.

“Tea’s still hot,” he said, nodding at the silver pot. “Cardamom. Helps with jet lag and with liars.”

She didn’t touch it. “If this is your house, why rent it out?”

“Because the Cross family thinks they own this city.” He leaned back, linen shirt pulling across his chest. “I like reminding them they don’t. And I like knowing who wants to hide from them in my walls.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I think Jane Miller is a tax consultant from Boston who doesn’t look at silver tea sets like she’s counting pawn value.” His gaze flicked to her hands. “Your calluses aren’t from keyboards, Jane. They’re from loading clips.”

She curled her fingers into her palm. He was already inside her cover.

“You always interrogate your guests?”

“Only the ones who break into my kitchen, use my shower, and pretend they don’t know the man who signed their parents’ death warrant.”

There it was. Not _Derek_. Not _Lancaster_. _Death warrant._

Yvonne stood. The towel slipped. She caught it, but not before his jaw locked. Good. Distracted men made mistakes.

“I’m calling the booking site.”

“You do that.” He didn’t move. “Ask for a refund. Tell them Sabastian Vance scared you. Use my full name. See how fast the Cross family starts sweating.”

She stopped. _Vance._ Not Cross. The other name. The only family with enough tech monopolies, weapons patents, and private islands to make the Crosses look like amateurs.

Slowly, she faced him. “Why would the Cross family care?”

“Because this riad sits on land my grandfather took from them in ’78. Because the shell corp that bought Lancaster Holdings for pennies after the ‘accident’ is Cross. And because I’m the only Vance who wasn’t invited to their victory party.” He finally stood, and the courtyard got smaller. “I don’t get invited to Cross funerals. I short their stock.”

Funeral. There hadn’t been bodies. Just a burned-out car at the bottom of a Swiss ravine. Closed casket. _Tragic._

“How do you know I wasn’t at the funeral?” Her voice was ice.

“Because Yvonne Lancaster died in that crash.” He took one step, then stopped. “And you, Jane, are breathing.”

The name. Her _real_ name. In his mouth.

She should have felt fear. She felt relief. Five years and someone finally said it without a gun in his hand.

“You’ve got the wrong girl.” But she was already recalculating. If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead. Vance men didn’t warn. They acquired.

“I don’t think I do.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and set it on the table. Didn’t slide it to her. Let her come get it. “Derek lands in three days. Same airport my flight iced over in. He’s meeting Victor Cross. Guess what they’re celebrating?”

She didn’t move. “I don’t guess.”

“Five-year anniversary. Of the day Lancaster Holdings stock became Cross Holdings stock.” He tapped the paper. “That’s the guest list. Your name’s not on it. But your trust fund is. And so is the AI division my family lost to them in the nineties.”

Yvonne crossed the courtyard. Snatched the paper. Hotel manifest. The Selman. Presidential suite. _Mr. D. Cross + Guest. Host: V. Cross._

Cross. Derek’s actual last name.

She looked up. Sabastian was watching her, not the paper. Watching what _Cross_ did to her face.

“You’re either very stupid or very brave, breaking into my house.” He said it like a compliment. “Which one is it, Yvonne?”

Jane was dead. You don’t come back from your real name.

“Brave,” she said. “Stupid died five years ago in Switzerland.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not pity. Understanding. “Victor Cross has men at the airport. If Derek sees you first, you won’t get a chance to be brave again. If my father sees you with me, he’ll think I’m starting a war.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Victor took your parents. He took my brother’s fiancée. Took our patents.” His voice went flat. Deadly. “The Vance name doesn’t trend down, Yvonne. It delists. Permanently.”

Bile rose. She’d told Derek those account numbers the night he proposed. _For our future, baby._ He gave them to Victor.

“So you want me as a weapon.”

“I want Victor Cross insolvent.” He finally closed the distance, stopping just short of touching. Cardamom and something darker. “You want Derek six feet under. Same enemy. Different liquidation.”

“Don’t pretend this is justice.”

“It’s not.” His voice dropped. “It’s monopoly. Mine just happens to be legal.”

The call to prayer echoed off the medina walls. Night was coming. Marrakech belonged to men like Victor Cross at night.

“You have a plan,” she said. Not a question.

“I have his ledger, a riad with no cameras, and three days before Derek lands.” He held her gaze. “What I don’t have is Yvonne Lancaster. Because she’s dead. Unless...”

“Unless Jane Miller decides to haunt some people.” She finished for him.

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. A leveraged buyout. “Tea’s cold now. But I can make coffee. Moroccans do it violent and strong. Like corporate raids.”

She believed him. That was the problem. She believed a Vance.

“My towel’s wet,” she said instead of yes. “And your door lock really is garbage.”

“I’ll fix the lock.” He didn’t offer her a robe. “Keep the towel. Derek always liked you in white. Victor always hated seeing Vance equity in Cross holdings.”

It was a test. If she flinched, she was weak. If she didn’t, she was Yvonne.

She didn’t flinch. “I’m not equity.”

“No.” Sabastian’s eyes went dark. “You’re the controlling interest. And we’re taking both empires back.”

Yvonne dropped the manifest. “Three days. Then what?”

“Then we see if a Vance and a Lancaster can burn Victor’s empire down.” He stepped back, giving her air. “But first, you need clothes. And I need to know if you can shoot better than you lie.”

She picked up the tea. Cold. Drank it anyway. Cardamom and liars.

“I don’t lie, Sabastian.”

“Everyone lies, Yvonne.” He said her name like a term sheet he owned. “The trick is making it devalue them to zero.”

Outside, Marrakech woke for the night. Inside, a war started.

For the first time in five years, Yvonne Lancaster wasn’t fighting it alone.