Chapter 1: The Stolen Name
POV: Aveline (Dahlia)
Forty-eight hours. That was all the time I had left before the hospital pulled the plug on my mother's life support.
The text message glared in the dark backseat of the cab, casting a cold, blue light over my knuckles: Sunrise Care Facility. Total balance due: £18,500. I checked my banking app with a sinking heart. Four hundred and twelve pounds. That was the entire sum of my earthly wealth. State facilities couldn't handle her specialized equipment; if she was transferred, her fragile body wouldn't survive the week.
"We're here, miss," the cab driver said, turning off the car.
I shoved my phone into my tailored blazer pocket and stepped out into the freezing London fog. Towering above Canary Wharf was the seventy-story glass and steel monolith of Reeve Luxury Group, a giant blade built on the ruins of my family's empire. Seven years ago, my father owned the largest luxury distribution network in the UK. Then came the rigged bankruptcy trial, the early grave, and my mother's paralysis.
Now, the Reeves owned everything. And I was walking through their front doors not just as a corporate restructuring strategist, but as an avenging ghost. Aveline West had died seven years ago; Dahlia Thorne was forged in cold and ambition.
The lobby was a cavern of white marble and corporate arrogance. I kept my spine straight, marched toward the security turnstiles, and pressed my temporary consultant pass against the scanner.
Beep. Access Denied.
I tried again. Beep. Access Denied.
"Is there a problem, miss?" a heavy voice asked. A security guard stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my tailored suit.
"My name is Dahlia Thorne," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "I have a ten o'clock meeting with the board. My pass is malfunctioning."
The guard tapped his tablet. "No record of a Dahlia Thorne on the top floor log."
Panic, sharp and suffocating, clawed at my throat. My phone buzzed again with a silent countdown against my thigh. Payment deadline in 47 hours. If I couldn't get upstairs, I couldn't pitch. If I couldn't pitch, I couldn't pay. My mother would die.
"Please," I whispered, the cold corporate mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "Just call the chairman's floor—"
"Having trouble with the system, Ms. Thorne?"
A smooth, calm voice cut through my rising panic. I stiffened, slowly turning my head. Standing right beside the scanner was a tall man in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit, his light brown eyes carrying an expression of quiet, knowing amusement. Julian Sterling.
Before I could force my vocal cords to maintain the artificial pitch of Dahlia Thorne, Julian casually tapped his own master executive badge against the glass scanner. The light flashed green, and the turnstile gate clicked open.
As I stepped through, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Julian leaned down just enough so only I could hear above the lobby noise, his lips curving into a knowing, dangerous smile.
"Welcome to Canary Wharf, Ms. West."
