The Billionaire's Undoing

The Devil Wears Confidence

Chapter Three — The Devil Wears Confidence

(Ava’s POV)

I wasn’t proud of it, but I’d spent the night half-googling Dante Voss and half-googling “how to tell if you’re being manipulated by a billionaire.”

The results were unhelpful.

By morning, I’d decided one thing: I was going to meet him again, but this time, on my terms.

I told myself it was for the story. For justice. Definitely not because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d said my name like it was a secret.

The café near Voss Tower was the same one from our first collision, but today the air felt different—charged, expectant. When I arrived, Dante was already there, sitting at a corner table with two cups waiting.

He looked infuriatingly calm, the kind of man who could negotiate world peace while answering emails. A navy suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up just enough to look unintentional.

“You’re early,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“You’re late,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “By thirty-four seconds.”

“Are you timing me now?”

“Only when I’m interested.”

My jaw tightened, mostly to hide the laugh that almost escaped. “Let’s get this over with. You said you had information.”

He slid a folder across the table. Inside were printouts—emails, logs, a few redacted memos.

“Your article mentioned a whistle-blower,” he said. “The person who sent you those files claimed to work for my company’s security division. I don’t have a record of anyone by that alias, but the digital footprint leads to a subcontractor.”

I scanned the papers. “So someone outside your direct staff had access.”

“Or someone inside used them as cover.”

My eyes flicked to him. “You think it’s both.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

For the next hour, we pored over timelines, comparing file versions. Dante was frighteningly methodical—patient, focused, and quietly intense. Every time he leaned over my shoulder to point out a line of code, I felt his presence like a current. He never touched me, but the proximity alone was disarming.

“This entry here,” he said, close enough that I caught the warmth of his breath. “That’s the moment the data was rewritten.”

“Looks like a time-stamp mismatch.”

He smiled faintly. “You see it. Most people don’t.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

“True,” he said softly, and for a second, I forgot what question I’d asked.

I cleared my throat. “So whoever did this wanted it to look like you altered records to inflate investor confidence.”

“Exactly.”

“Which means whoever framed you also benefited when your stock dropped after my article.”

He looked at me then—really looked. “And they counted on you being too good at your job to resist publishing it.”

The words hit hard because they were true. I’d wanted to expose corruption, not become someone’s puppet.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked quietly. “You could have kept investigating without me.”

He leaned back. “Because you’re already in it, Ava. Whoever set this up knows your name. You’ve received two anonymous messages in twenty-four hours. You think that’s coincidence?”

My pulse stumbled. “You hacked my email?”

“Your spam filter,” he corrected. “It was riddled with malware. You’re welcome.”

I glared. “You can’t just—”

“I just did.” His tone softened. “And if I hadn’t, that message last night would’ve traced your location.”

That shut me up.

We sat in silence for a beat, the city noise filling the gap between us.

Finally I said, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Enjoying what?”

“Being the mysterious billionaire saving the reckless journalist from herself.”

He smiled—slow, knowing. “You think I’m the villain in your story.”

“Aren’t you?”

His gaze met mine, steady and unreadable. “Maybe I was. Maybe I still am.”

Something in my chest tightened. He said it without irony, like someone who’d made peace with his own darkness.

By the time we left the café, the day had turned gray and cool. Dante’s driver appeared out of nowhere, opening a sleek black car door.

“Come with me,” he said.

“That line doesn’t usually end well for women.”

He almost smiled. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”

The problem was, I almost believed him.

Against better judgment, I slid into the car. We rode in silence through midtown, the skyline blurring past. My phone buzzed again—another anonymous message.

Stop digging. You’ve been warned.

I showed it to him.

His jaw clenched, the first c***k in his composure I’d seen. “They’re escalating.”

“Whoever they are.”

“We’ll find out.”

We. I hadn’t agreed to that yet, but somehow it sounded inevitable.

The car stopped in front of a gated complex on the Hudson. Inside, glass corridors and humming machines glowed like something out of a sci-fi movie.

“This is my private lab,” he said. “Where the breach originated.”

I followed him down a hall that smelled faintly of ozone and steel. Employees glanced up as we passed; some looked nervous, others curious.

In the control room, screens displayed scrolling data. Dante pointed to one. “That IP address—see the pattern? Whoever accessed it used my credentials.”

“So someone impersonated you.”

“Someone close enough to know how.”

I studied the code, frustration bubbling up. “This could take weeks to unravel.”

He looked at me. “Then we’ll start now.”

“We?”

“I told you, you’re already in it.”

I crossed my arms. “And what if I say no?”

His smile was small, dangerous. “You won’t.”

Hours blurred into code, coffee, and the quiet hum of servers. Somewhere between analyzing logs and arguing over timestamps, I realized the strangest thing: I was enjoying myself.

We worked like opposites in balance—my intuition, his precision. When I grew impatient, he was steady. When he got lost in data, I asked the human questions he’d missed.

Once, our hands brushed reaching for the same file. Neither of us moved. The air felt too still.

He cleared his throat first. “You should go home. It’s late.”

I checked my watch. Midnight.

“Right,” I said, packing my bag. “Before people start assuming things.”

He glanced up. “Let them assume.”

The words hung there, heavy and unguarded.

Outside, the night was cool, the city glittering across the river. He walked me to the car, hands in his pockets, quiet for once.

“You’re different than I expected,” he said finally.

“How so?”

“I thought you’d be reckless. But you’re careful. You pretend not to be.”

I huffed a laugh. “And I thought you’d be impossible. Turns out I was right.”

He smiled, brief but real. “Get some sleep, Ava.”

As the driver pulled away, I glanced back. He was still standing there, watching the car disappear into the city lights.

Back in my apartment, exhaustion hit, but sleep didn’t. My mind replayed the day—his intensity, the threat, the unsettling feeling that we were chasing something much bigger than either of us.

Then, at 2:13 a.m., another message appeared in my inbox.

From: anonymous@shadowmail.net

Subject: You’re looking in the wrong place.

Attachment: A single image.

It showed a woman I didn’t recognize—mid-thirties, sharp suit, standing beside Dante at a charity gala. The caption read:

She started it all.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number: Ask him about Julia Harker.

I stared at the name until the letters blurred.

Whoever Julia Harker was, she just became my next headline—and possibly the reason Dante Voss would finally break that perfect composure