THE REVENGE I DIDN'T CHOOSE

The Break In

Chapter 1: The Break In

I don't break into buildings. At least, I didn't before my father died in a prison cell for a crime he never committed and I vowed that the Blackwell Company would answer for what they did.

Tonight, I'm sneaking through the entrance of Blackwell Company in the middle of the night. The borrowed keycard in my hand trembles slightly between my fingers. My gloves are making my hands sweat, and every sound feels too loud—even my own breathing.

I pause for a second just inside the door.

Five years ago, if someone had told me I'd be breaking into a billionaire's company in the middle of the night, I would've laughed in their face. I’m living in a fake identity as Zara Wells, not as Zara Vance.

For five years, I've had to watch strangers talk about my father like they knew him—Online articles, news reports, court documents.

“Thief.”

That's the word they always use for him. They never mentioned the man who taught me how to ride a bike, who burned pancakes every Sunday because he insisted on making breakfast himself, or who cried when I got accepted into college. To the world, “he was the man who stole two billion dollars.” To me, he is my Dad.

The fake identity cost more money than I could afford but then I've to live with it to reveal the actual cause of my father's death to the public. Every step felt dangerous but grief does strange things to people. It turns ordinary girls into liars, trespassers, Into women willing to risk everything for answers. I glance down at the keycard hanging around my neck.

“Zara Wells.”

The name still feels foreign.

Like I'm wearing someone else's skin.

Maybe I am.

Maybe the real Zara Vance disappeared the day her father died.

Tonight I'm here to find out if any of it was worth it…The lies, the money, the years I've spent chasing a truth nobody else seems to care about.

I finally got into one of the rooms in Blackwell Company. Fluorescent lights shone everywhere in the room, my flashlight made the dust look like snow. I found the box I want fast; “VANCE INTERNAL AUDIT.” My fingers were trembling when I pulled the lid off.

That was when I heard it.

“Footsteps.”

My heart sank into my stomach like I was going to pass out in a few minutes. I couldn't fathom who the person was, my heart kept racing as the footsteps kept approaching at my end.

“Step away from the box.”

The voice came from behind—Calm and bold Like he was not surprised to find me here.

I didn't move nor did my body move.

“Ms. Vance,” he said. “Or do you prefer Wells tonight?”

My heart pounded against my ribs. “How did he know my name?.” How come he also found out my false identity? I asked myself like I was expecting an answer.

I turned slowly, because fast movement gets people shot in movies and I’m not ready to die in a basement. A tall figure stepped from behind the aisle. Broad shoulders and a relaxed posture—hands casually in his pockets—gave off a calm, quiet confidence. He didn't need to raise his voice to command the space.

Then he moves into the light, and my stomach drops.

“Adrian Blackwell.”

I’ve hated his face for five years. I’ve seen it everywhere—Forbes covers, court documents, news reports. I saw it the day my father died. In person, he’s worse—Taller, sharper, and more intimidating. A scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, something I’ve never seen in photos. It doesn’t make him look broken. It makes him look like the kind of man who walks into a fight and wins.

“Security will be here in ninety seconds,” he said. “You have to leave.”

My throat went dry. “You’re going to call them.”? I asked with my shaky voice.

“I could.” He raises an eyebrow. For Trespassing, fake ID, stolen keycard. That’s three serious crimes already, and we haven’t even talked about what you're trying to do here.”

I clutch the box. “My father didn’t—”

“I know,” he says.

The words hit me so hard I almost sat down.

“You know what?” I manage to voice out

“That he didn’t do it alone.” Adrian takes a step closer. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedar and something darker.

“And you're not here for the money.” He said calmly. “You're here because you think I killed him.”

I didn’t utter a word. My hands trembled as sweat poured down my body.

Adrian glances at the box, then back at me. His eyes are gray—not blue, not brown, but a cold steel gray like the color of a gun barrel.

“Security is at the top of the stairs,” he says quietly. “One word from me, and you'll spend the next five years behind bars just like your father did. Stay silent, and you walk out of here tonight.”

“Why would you…”

“Because I want to know what you’ll do next,” he cuts in. “You broke in here with a fake name and real anger. That’s interesting. Blackwell Company doesn’t hire people with anger. We hire people with patience.”

He came closer with a fierce look.

“Last chance, Ms. Vance,” he said. “Run, or stay and explain why you’re in my basement.”

My brain’s screaming “run” Every instinct I have says run. But if I run, I lose the files. If I lose the files, I lose the only chance I have to prove my dad wasn’t the only monster in this building.

So I do the dumbest thing I’ve done all night. I didn’t run.

“I want the audit logs,” I said. My voice cracks. “The ones that didn’t make it to the trial.”

Adrian studies me for a second that feels like a year. Then he reaches past me, flips the box lid open, and pulls out a thin folder I hadn’t seen. Red stamp on the front: RESTRICTED.

“You won’t find it in there,” he says. “The real logs are digital. And they’re gone.”

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to see if you’d come looking for them,” he says. “And you did.”

He holds the folder out to me. “Take it,” he said. “It’s a copy of the public record. You couldn’t get from your search but this will make you feel like you found something.”

I took it from him. My fingers brushed his own and his skin was cold. “Security’s here,” he said again, glancing at me. I could hear them now too. Boots on the stairs. Flashlights sweeping the hall.

Adrian steps back into the shadows. “Leave through the west stairwell. The camera's been dead since Tuesday.” His gaze lingers on me for a second longer.

“And don't come back, Ms. Vance. Not unless you're ready to tell me why you hate me.” Then he’s gone. Just… gone, like he was never there. The footsteps fade toward the elevator.

The security guards round the corner thirty seconds later. Their lights hit me full in the face.

“Ma’am, this area’s restricted,” one says. He’s young and tired.

“I got lost,” I say. It sounds pathetic even to me. I hold up the folder. “Looking for the bathroom and finding this instead.” He takes it, flips through the pages, then hands it back.

“Public records,” he murmured.

“Don’t wander down here again,” he said. “Next time I won’t be as nice.”

I nodded and forced my feet to move. One step. Then another. I walk past them, trying to look calm, but my legs feel weak, like they could give out at any second. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out everything else.

I didn't open it until I'm three blocks away, sitting on a curb beneath a streetlight. My hands are still shaking as I stare at the folder for a moment before finally opening it. It’s exactly what Adrian said: public records, Court filings, the FBI reports…Nothing that proves my dad was framed.

But there's something tucked inside the back cover. A small piece of paper, torn from a notebook. Definitely not mine. My stomach drops as I unfold it.

“You're not the only one looking, Zara.”

I stare at the words, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs. The letters become blurred as a chill rushes down my spine. Someone knows. Someone was there.

Adrian Blackwell caught me trespassing in his building, at his company, in the middle of the night. He could’ve had me arrested. Instead he let me go. Leave me a note. And used my real name.

And he knew I was coming.

I fold the paper into my pocket. My hands won’t stop shaking. Not from fear. From something worse.

“Hope.”

Because if Adrian Blackwell knows I’m looking, and he didn’t stop me, then maybe my dad wasn’t the only liar in this story. Maybe the billionaire I hate has been waiting for me to walk through his door.

I stood up and muttered to myself—Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do next. But tonight, for the first time in five years, I don’t feel like I’m chasing a ghost. I feel like the ghost just saw me back.