COMPULSION

THREE.

The office was quiet except for the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the relentless tapping of keys under Logan's fingers. His laptop screen was split into multiple spreadsheets, numbers blurring together as he scanned the data for the fifth time that morning. Nothing. Still nothing.

Revenue projections. Departmental expenses. Tax obligations. Investment returns. He was combing through it all with a surgical eye, desperate to find something—an inefficiency to cut, a hidden fund to pull from, anything that could buy him time. But all the lines were balanced. Every cent accounted for. No hidden lifeboat. No miracle margin.

Two months.

Sixty days to lock in a major client, one big enough to silence the board and restore their faith in his leadership.

But Logan didn't see it. Not yet. And time was moving faster than he liked.

He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hands down his face, jaw tense. It wasn't just the money. It was everything. Juliette. The press. Bethany. His company. The weight of it all pressed against his ribs like a vice, and for a brief moment, he felt it—panic, sharp and silent.

The door to his office creaked open without a knock.

"I'm busy," Logan said flatly, not bothering to look up.

"Well, that's one hell of a greeting for your twin."

Logan's head snapped toward the door.

There he was.

Levi.

Hair longer, jaw scruffier, dressed like someone who hadn't stepped foot in a boardroom in years. But the same face. The same steel-blue eyes.

And that same crooked smirk.

Levi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest, but his voice carried that telltale smirk. "You always wanted to be famous. Congrats—you made the front page."

Logan didn't look up from the spreadsheet still open on his screen. "Not in the mood."

"Yeah," Levi said, pushing off the door and stepping inside. "Didn't figure you would be. Although I gotta say, the picture of you storming out of the boardroom yesterday? That one's gonna be a meme before sunset."

Logan closed his laptop with a sharp snap.

Levi winced. "Touchy."

"You think this is funny?"

"No," Levi said, dropping into one of the chairs across from the desk. "I think it's bullshit. Which is exactly why I came here instead of texting a thumbs-up emoji."

Logan exhaled, a slow, hard breath through his nose. "I've gone through every number. Talked to legal. Talked to PR. I've traced every dime and there's nothing—no money trail, no paper trail, nothing to suggest fraud or laundering or insider trading or whatever they're trying to paint this as."

"And yet..." Levi spread his hands. "You're still on trial in the court of gossip."

Logan looked at him, finally. "Do you think I missed something?"

Levi c****d his head. "Have you even considered the possibility that the evidence is fake?"

Logan blinked. "You think someone fabricated it?"

"Logan," Levi said, his voice low now, serious. "If the feds thought you were dirty, you wouldn't be dealing with US Weekly articles and speculative op-eds. You'd be dealing with subpoenas. Indictments. Orange jumpsuits. But instead, you're battling rumors in the press and getting lectured by shareholders who care more about stock perception than truth."

Logan leaned back in his chair, silent.

"You're chasing shadows, man," Levi added. "Meanwhile, someone out there is laughing their ass off because they lit the fire and you're running around trying to blow out the smoke."

"Then who did it?" Logan asked, voice tight. "Who would go this far?"

Levi didn't answer at first. He just looked at his brother.

And Logan already knew the answer forming in his mind.

"Juliette," he said bitterly.

Levi nodded. "Bingo."

Later that Evening

Logan didn't bother knocking.

The heavy velvet curtains shielding the entrance were enough of a warning that whatever waited inside wasn't a typical conversation. But rage didn't leave room for hesitation—it burned too hot, too fast.

Juliette had insisted on meeting here. A private members-only venue tucked discreetly behind an unmarked brick facade downtown. The kind of place that didn't advertise but still had a waitlist a mile long. Logan had been here once, years ago. A favor to a client. Even then, the ambiance had been too indulgent, too curated. Now, it felt like a performance—Juliette's theater, and he'd walked willingly into the wings.

A low thrum of sensual music underscored the opulence: dim red lighting, gold-accented furniture, and bodies moving with too much freedom. Silk robes fell open. Masks concealed more than faces. Pleasure, power, and secrets soaked the air.

Juliette sat confidently on a velvet chaise, legs crossed, one stiletto swinging lazily as she nursed a glass of red wine. She was dressed like a woman who knew the temperature of every room—body-hugging black, skin glowing, and red lips tilted in a victorious smirk.

The moment she saw him, she stood.

"You came," she purred, voice drenched in false warmth. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to follow orders."

Logan's jaw clenched. "Don't flatter yourself."

Juliette moved toward him with slow, feline grace and leaned in as if to kiss his cheek. He turned his head, letting her lips meet only air.

"I'm not here for that," he said coldly.

"Oh," she hummed, clearly amused as she stepped back, swirling her wine. "Still pretending to be noble, even here?"

A couple passed behind them—half-clothed, hands tangled, eyes glazed. The room pulsed with decadence, shadows flickering across acts best left undescribed.

Logan narrowed his eyes. "You dragged me here to talk business in a place built for secrets. Why?"

Juliette's smile didn't falter. "Because here, no one listens. And even if they do, they don't care." She sipped her wine slowly. "It's safe. For now."

Logan's stomach twisted at the layers in her words.

He hadn't expected safety to be part of this meeting.

Juliette leaned one hip against the velvet chaise, still sipping her wine like the villain in her own opera.

"I want what's mine," she said coolly, as if discussing weather. "You didn't build Chase alone. You used my mind. My strategies. You used me, Logan."

Logan's brow furrowed. "You're deranged."

She tilted her head, amused. "Am I? Or am I just the woman you slept with for years while whispering all your plans during pillow talk? You don't even realize how much of your empire came from my mouth first."

His hands curled into fists at his sides. "You were a part of my life. Not my partner. There's a difference."

Her eyes flashed, the amused veneer cracking. "You think you can cut me out, replace me with some intern you're screwing, and leave me to rot during a divorce? I gave you everything. And now I'm losing everything. That doesn't sit right with me."

Logan took a step closer, voice low with disgust. "So this is about revenge?"

Juliette grinned again, slow and wide. "No, darling. This is about what's owed."

They stood there, tension sharp as glass between them. Around them, laughter and moans echoed from the shadows—an obscene contrast to the war unraveling in whispers.

"You'll change your mind soon enough," she said, smoothing her dress as if the conversation had bored her. "Once everything starts falling apart. Once she falls apart."

Logan rolled his eyes and turned to leave. "This was a waste of time."

But Juliette's voice followed him like a hook.

"Oh Logan," she called sweetly. "By the way... did Bethany show you the folder?"

He stopped cold.

Juliette said nothing else. Just sipped her wine, her expression unreadable.

Logan left without responding, his pulse ticking loud in his ears.

The folder?

The words chased him back to the car, where silence finally let paranoia bloom.

What the hell had she meant?