Chapter 2
1382 Words
The rain had washed Manhattan raw by morning. Glass towers gleamed like polished knives, and the city moved with its usual indifference—horns, heels, and headlines. But inside Clara’s small apartment, time felt trapped in the pause between breaths.
She stared at the laptop screen, the cursor blinking against an empty folder.
The flash drive lay beside her coffee mug—innocent, ordinary, useless. Every file she’d risked her job, her name, maybe even her life to steal… erased.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown Number.
She hesitated, then answered. “Yes?”
A woman’s voice, crisp, accented. “Ms. Reed. This is Eleanor Briggs, your supervising editor. We received your midnight update. Did you confirm the Drake data leak?”
Clara closed her eyes. Think. “Not yet. There were… complications.”
“Complications?”
“Security. Someone was still in the building.”
“Someone, or him?”
Clara didn’t answer. The silence was enough.
Briggs sighed softly. “You have forty-eight hours. The magazine wants an exposé before the shareholders’ meeting. You promised evidence, not excuses.”
The call ended.
Clara exhaled shakily and shut the laptop. Evidence. All she had now were questions—and the memory of Liam Drake’s voice, low and controlled, whispering sleep well, Ms. Reed.
She hadn’t slept at all.
---
By nine, she was back in the mirrored lobby of Drake Industries. Every inch of the place shimmered with restraint: black marble, silver elevators, silent guards. The receptionist smiled without warmth. “Mr. Drake requested your presence.”
Requested. Not required. That single word carried both danger and invitation.
Clara’s pulse picked up as she rode the elevator. She’d changed her hair, added bolder lipstick, armor made of color. But no disguise could soften the fact that she was walking into the lion’s den.
The elevator doors opened.
Liam’s office looked different in daylight—less ominous, more magnificent. Manhattan stretched beneath the glass like a map he owned. He stood by the window, back to her, hands in his pockets.
“You came back,” he said without turning.
“I work here,” she replied. “Unless you fired me.”
“I considered it.” He faced her then, blue eyes unreadable. “But curiosity won.”
“Curiosity?”
He circled the desk slowly, as though assessing a specimen. “Most people who cross me run. You broke in, got caught, and returned before sunrise. Either you’re reckless, or you’re brave. I’m not sure which intrigues me more.”
She forced a smile. “I’m flattered to be a puzzle.”
“You’re something,” he murmured. “Sit.”
She obeyed. The chair was too soft, the distance between them too small.
“Tell me, Ms. Reed,” he continued, “what do you think I’m hiding?”
She matched his gaze. “That depends. How many skeletons fit in a glass tower?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed, a quiet, disbelieving sound that thawed the room by degrees.
“You’re not easily intimidated.”
“Neither are you.”
Their eyes held for a beat too long. The air changed—charged, wary, undeniably alive.
He looked away first. “You’ll accompany me to the shareholder luncheon today.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re in communications, aren’t you? I need a strategist who can smile under pressure. Consider it an opportunity to rebuild my trust.”
Her instincts screamed trap. “Is this about trust, or control?”
“Both.”
He handed her a tablet. A press release filled the screen: Drake Industries announces philanthropic partnership to rebuild coastal research centers destroyed in the Lucien Drake Memorial Disaster Fund.
Lucien Drake. The name struck like ice water.
She’d read about the plane crash, the body never found, the empire that nearly collapsed. Rumors claimed Liam had staged it to seize power. Looking at him now—the precision, the restraint—she wondered if ghosts ever truly stayed buried.
“I’ll review the statement,” she said quietly.
“Do that.” His tone softened, almost an afterthought. “And Ms. Reed? Next time you want the truth—ask me.”
She left before her pulse betrayed her.
---
At noon, the ballroom of the Drake Tower overflowed with power. Journalists, investors, senators—each orbiting Liam like satellites around a controlled sun. Clara trailed him, tablet in hand, heart armored by professionalism.
He spoke flawlessly—numbers, compassion, legacy. A man sculpted for cameras. But as he raised a glass to his brother’s name, a flicker crossed his face: pain, real and unguarded.
Then, in the crowd, Clara saw him.
A man near the exit—dark hair, pale scar along his temple, gaze locked on Liam. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.
Her breath caught.
When she looked again, the man was gone.
---
Hours later, the city had turned to gold and shadow. Clara sat alone in the public archive room, scanning digital records of the crash. Passenger manifests, investigation notes, insurance files. One entry pulsed red: Lucien Drake – body unconfirmed.
A memo followed, timestamped two days after the crash. Private retrieval requested. File sealed by order of L. Drake.
Liam.
Her mind spun. Had he hidden his brother’s remains—or hidden the fact that there were none?
A soft voice cut through the silence. “You shouldn’t be looking at that.”
She spun around. A janitor stood in the doorway, mop in hand, face shadowed by a cap.
“I—sorry, I was told this archive was public—”
“It isn’t after midnight.”
She glanced at her phone. 12:03 a.m. She hadn’t even noticed the hours vanish.
“I’ll leave in a moment.”
He smiled slightly. “Curiosity is dangerous here.”
Something about his tone chilled her. “Do I know you?”
The man tilted his head. For a moment, the light caught his eyes—icy blue, hauntingly familiar. Then he stepped back into darkness.
When the door shut, her screen flickered. The file she’d opened began to erase itself line by line until only static remained.
Her reflection stared back at her from the blank monitor—wide-eyed, breathless.
---
The next morning, a black car waited outside her building. She told herself not to get in. She got in anyway.
Liam sat inside, immaculate as ever, phone in hand. He didn’t greet her; he simply gestured for the driver to move.
“You have a talent for being where you shouldn’t,” he said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I warned you about storms.”
“And you warned me about honesty,” she shot back. “Maybe start practicing it.”
He regarded her for a long time. “Someone breached our internal database last night. They deleted sensitive data from the crash archives. The trail leads directly to your login.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know.” His interruption was soft, almost weary. “That’s what worries me.”
He turned the phone toward her. On the screen, security footage froze on a single frame: a man leaving the archive room. The same jawline, the same scar.
“Lucien,” she whispered.
Liam’s expression didn’t change, but his knuckles whitened around the phone. “My brother is dead.”
“Then who was that?”
The car stopped at a red light. For the first time since she’d met him, Liam looked uncertain. “I intend to find out.”
He opened the door, rain misting in. “You wanted truth, Ms. Reed? Congratulations. You’re in it now.”
She climbed out, heart hammering. The car disappeared into traffic, leaving her in the glare of the city.
Her phone buzzed again—Unknown Number. She answered.
A low voice, distorted by static. “You’re in danger, Clara.”
“Who is this?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “Don’t trust the man who wears my name.”
The line went dead.
Clara stood frozen on the sidewalk as the city roared around her. Somewhere above, the mirrored façade of Drake Tower caught the light—and for an instant, her reflection split in two.
- Writer
