Encrypted hearts

ChapterFour

For two days after the break-in, I barely left the apartment.

I triple-locked every door, taped a strip of paper over the seams of the windows, so I’d know if anyone tampered with them, changed all my passwords and even unplugged the router at night. The hum of my laptop, once comforting, now made my skin crawl. Papa’s flash drive was gone. So were the only tangible answers he’d left me.

I kept replaying it: the footsteps, the silhouette, the soft voice saying my name. I’d lost Papa’s secret before I’d even understood it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the tiny red light blinking in the USB port, then going dark.

On the third morning, I finally called Ini. My voice was flat.

“They took it.”

Ini didn’t even ask what. “Elena…” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

I told her everything: the noise at the door, the man’s shadow, the smell of cologne, the scrap of paper with A.C. scrawled on it. As I spoke, the details felt slippery, like a dream. Was the note even a warning? A signature? A taunt? Or a deceitful coy?

Ini listened without interrupting. “We’ll figure it out,” she said at last. “You’re not alone.”

After we hung up, I tore the apartment apart looking for clues: carpet fibers, shoe prints, anything. Nothing. Whoever had been inside had left only silence.

That evening, scrolling through my father’s old email archives on a whim, I found a notice: Benton Foundation Annual Corporate Gala – Hosted by Adrian Cross, CEO of CrossTech Security.

My breath hitched. Adrian Cross. A.C. The letters on Papa’s files. The letters on the note.

A gala. In two nights’ time. Black tie, invitation only. My heart pounded. If Papa had been investigating Adrian Cross, this might be the only chance I’d have to get close.

I stared at the email until the text blurred. For months, I’d been Papa’s quiet daughter, tucked behind a laptop. Now, if I wanted answers, I’d have to walk straight into the lion’s den.

Two nights later, my bedroom looked like a hurricane of clothes. I’d never been the ballgown type; my usual uniform was jeans and a hoodie. But tonight required armor.

On the bed lay the dress I’d chosen: midnight blue silk that clung just enough to hint at curves but still allowed me to move. The neckline dipped modestly, but the back was open, criss-crossed by thin straps. With Papa gone, it felt strange to see myself in the mirror; shoulders bare, hair swept up in a knot, a stranger staring back.

I slid on a small, discreet earpiece connected to my phone so Ini could whisper in my ear if needed. In my clutch I tucked a slim flash recorder, a burner phone, and a tiny USB of my own, just in case. A coder’s version of weapons.

Ini arrived at my door right on time, in a sleek black jumpsuit with silver accents and ankle boots that could double as running shoes. Her braids were pinned up, her eyes fierce.

“You look like a Bond girl,” she said. “Ready to hack a billionaire?”

I tried to smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

We called a car instead of driving ourselves—less traceable. The city lights smeared past the windows like wet paint. I could feel Ini watching me.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.

“I do,” I murmured. “Papa left me a trail. I’m following it.”

She reached over and squeezed my hand once, then let go.

The closer we got to the hotel, the more the street changed: limos lined up, photographers, guests in glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos spilling across the carpet. Security in dark suits moved like chess pieces around the entrance.

Ini leaned in, whispering with a smile: “Remember, we’re here for recon, not revenge. Smile pretty, listen hard.”

I nodded, forcing my shoulders back. Under the silk dress my stomach was a knot, but outwardly I raised my chin, letting the persona settle over me like a cloak. Elena Bentley, ordinary coder, was gone. Tonight I was someone else—someone who belonged.

The hotel’s ballroom was a cathedral of glass and gold. Chandeliers spilled warm light over marble floors. A string quartet played near the fountain. Waiters glided between guests with champagne flutes like fireflies.

I felt Ini’s presence at my back, steady and cool. We moved through the crowd, scanning, listening. Somewhere in this glittering sea was Adrian Cross—A.C.—the man whose initials haunted Papa’s files and my nightmares.

I caught my reflection in a mirror across the room: dress gleaming, hair like a dark crown, eyes sharpened by purpose. For a moment I thought of Papa, how proud he’d look seeing me step into his world.

A voice behind me murmured something I couldn’t catch. I turned.

And there he was across the room, standing beneath a chandelier, speaking to a knot of men in tuxedos. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark suit tailored to perfection. When he laughed, people leaned closer, drawn into his orbit.

Adrian Cross.

I knew it without being introduced. The initials, the aura, the sense of a man who could make things happen—and make things disappear.

I took a slow breath. This was it. The trail Papa had left led here.

Beside me, Ini whispered into her earpiece, “Target acquired.”

I lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray, my fingers steady despite the tremor in my chest. Time to move closer.

As I stepped forward into the glow of the ballroom, Adrian Cross’s gaze lifted across the crowd and met mine as if he’d been waiting for me all along.