In love with an Assassin

Chapter 1: The Billionaire in the Spotlight (Kevin’s POV) The runway lights were so bright they made me squint, even though I’d been in the spotlight a thousand times before. Cameras clicked from every angle, tracking me like I was the main event. But honestly, it wasn’t about me tonight. It was all about White Label’s new collection. My designers had poured their hearts into this for months, and the crowd was eager to see what we had in store for them this year. Standing at the edge of the stage, I clapped politely as the models strutted their stuff. To the world, I was the suave CEO, the emblem of luxury and success. That’s the image people wanted to buy into—an unreachable guy who seemed to have it all. Inside, though, I felt empty. I’d mastered the art of faking a smile a long time ago. The room buzzed with the usual mix of investors, celebs, and rivals, all decked out in designer suits that probably cost more than most rents. My gaze caught Julian Vance across the hall. He wore authority like a well-tailored jacket, his smile sharp, his eyes cold. He gave me a nod that didn’t feel like respect at all. I nodded back and quickly looked away. A waitress strolled by with champagne. I grabbed a glass and let the bubbles linger on my tongue. Conversations swirled around me. Everyone wanted a piece of White Label. Everyone wanted something from me. I was used to it by now. “Mr. White, congratulations. The line is brilliant,” one investor said, grabbing my arm before I could escape. “Thanks,” I replied smoothly, the words coming out automatically. It was the kind of response that ended a conversation without being rude. As the show wrapped up, there was applause, camera flashes, and cheers. I smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and posed where I needed to—just the usual routine, over and over again. By the time I left the venue, I felt drained from all the pretending. My driver pulled up, and I slid into the back seat, loosening my tie. “Home,” I said. The city lights blurred outside the window, and I caught a glimpse of myself—green eyes tired, jaw starting to show stubble. My dad used to say I looked too serious for my age. He never got to see the man I was now. The next morning, when I got to my office, something felt off. The air was too still, too quiet, like someone had been there before me. My assistant, Claire, walked in with a stack of files. “You’ve got back-to-back meetings until three,” she said. “Then a call with Paris.” “Fine,” I muttered, already opening the first folder. That’s when I spotted it. A white envelope lying on my desk, where I never left loose papers. No name, no seal. I opened it to find a single line scrawled in black ink: You’ll pay for what you stole. I read it twice. No signature. No explanation. “Claire,” I called out. She poked her head back in. “Yes?” “Did anyone come into my office last night?” “Just the cleaners. Why?” “Nothing,” I said quickly, sliding the note under a pile of papers. “Forget it.” She shot me a curious look but didn’t press. That was one of the reasons I kept her—she knew when to hold her tongue. The meetings dragged on, numbers and projections blending together. I couldn’t shake that note from my mind. I had plenty of enemies in the business world—competitors who were gunning for me, former partners who felt wronged. But this felt different. It seemed personal. By afternoon, Claire came back in again. “You’ve missed three calls. No names, just heavy breathing on the line.” “Spam,” I said. “Just ignore it.” “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to. She left without saying another word. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Maybe it was Julian trying to mess with me. He had pulled stunts before. Or perhaps an investor was upset about a deal I’d refused. I wasn’t going to let paranoia take hold. Threats were just part of the job. Most of them were just empty words. Still, when the day wound down, I found myself staying in the office longer than usual. The building emptied out floor by floor until silence pressed against the windows. I poured myself a glass of scotch and strolled over to the wall where my parents’ portrait hung. It was the last picture ever taken of them, all dressed up for a gala like the one I had just left. My dad looked strong and certain. My mom’s smile was warm, full of life. Two months after that photo was taken, their car veered off a wet road and caught fire. The police called it an accident. I had never bought that story. I raised my glass, staring at their faces. “If you were here, you’d know what to do,” I whispered. My voice sounded odd in the empty room. I finished the scotch in one gulp and set the glass down. The note still sat in my desk drawer, silent and waiting. I told myself it meant nothing—just another attempt to rattle me. But as I stood there, gazing at the portrait, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my buried past was stirring again. And for the first time in ages, I wondered if I was actually ready for it.