Bound by His Shadow: The Billionaire's Secret Weapon

Chapter 8: The Same Kind

Seraphina woke early.

The East Wing curtains were beige-gray, and the morning light they filtered was gray-toned too. She lay with her eyes open for a while, studying the crystal chandelier she'd never turned on. She'd tried last night — the switch was by the bed, but the bulb was dead. Rosa said she'd replace it today. Seraphina wasn't sure she'd still be here.

She flexed the fingers of her left hand. The joints were still stiff, but better than yesterday. She lifted her hand into the pale light and examined it — the faint redness along her knuckles had receded, though the tremor running from wrist to fingertip persisted, barely perceptible. She let her hand drop back onto the blanket and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Three days. She'd given Lucian Vance three days. Today was the first.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand. An unread message from Sylvia, timestamped two in the morning: *Got some of what you asked for. Not everything, but enough for you to make a call. Usual spot. Two p.m.*

Seraphina stared at the screen. Yesterday she'd asked Sylvia to dig into Lucian Vance's personal history. She deleted the message, got out of bed, and set her bare feet on the hardwood floor. The underfloor heating ran warm. The floor wasn't cold. At the door she paused for a second, remembering how she'd stopped midway down this corridor last night to ask Rosa which room he slept in. Rosa had answered. Rosa had looked at her first.

West Wing, the last door. Connected to the study.

She pushed the door open. Went to wash up.

The Gray Door's entrance was behind a dry cleaner's, same as last time. When Seraphina pushed through the iron door, the sweet chemical scent of vape juice hit her first. Sylvia was perched on a bar stool behind the counter, three screens spread in front of her, her hair twisted up with a ballpoint pen. A manila envelope sat on the bar.

"You owe me a proper meal." Sylvia didn't look up. "To dig up your man, I activated two contacts who've been embedded in Vance Group archives for three years. One of them nearly got caught by the security system — this meal requires a tablecloth and a wine list."

Seraphina sat down across the bar. She didn't touch the envelope.

Sylvia glanced up at her, pulled the vape from her mouth, and slid the envelope across the bar. "Bottom line first: you picked the right target. This man's survival to date is pure luck plus paranoia. But he wasn't born cold — I mean, he is, but he became that way for a reason."

Inside the envelope was a stack of printouts. The first page was a scan of an old news clipping, the headline reading: VANCE FAMILY ISSUES SUDDEN OBITUARY — ELENA VANCE, AGE 34. Dated autumn, eighteen years ago.

"His mother," Sylvia said. "Official cause of death: heart failure. Real cause: poison. Family infighting. The killer was never found. Lucian was ten."

Seraphina turned the page. A summary of Vance Group internal files — Sylvia's contact had snapped them on a phone, low resolution but legible. Lucian Vance, Gift awakened at sixteen, Domain-level. A handwritten note in the margin: *Second-youngest Domain-level awakening in Vance family history.* Named heir at eighteen. That same year, his half-brother Marcus publicly contested the succession — the start of a decade-long inheritance war. At the bottom of the file, the "Assassination Attempts" field had been painted over. White correction fluid, and then someone had dragged a black marker across it horizontally.

"I noticed that." Sylvia pointed at the redaction with her vape. "I asked my contact what the original number was. He said the file had it written in — then he stopped, like he was searching for the right phrasing — and said he couldn't tell me. Not because of clearance. Because the number was 'too long,' and eventually the archives department decided it looked bad written down."

Seraphina looked at the double-layered redaction. She said nothing.

She turned to the last page. Lucian's public track record — Vance Group CFO, CEO, Chairman of the Board — every step completed in the gaps between assassination attempts. In the margin, someone had drawn a circle in marker around a close-up of his left hand: the silver wolf ring. Beside the photo, Sylvia had scrawled a line: *Mother's keepsake. Never takes it off.*

Seraphina stared at that line. For a long time.

Sylvia watched her expression shift, then dropped the half-teasing tone. "What, you feel sorry for him?"

Seraphina folded down the corner of the ring page and closed the envelope. "No." She put the envelope in her bag and stood.

Sylvia didn't try to stop her. She only said, as Seraphina pushed the door open: "You didn't drink your coffee."

Seraphina didn't look back. "Next time."

The periodicals archive of the Nova Verona Central Library was on the basement level. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead; the air carried the acid smell of old paper and microfilm. She spent the afternoon at a microfilm reader, working through every follow-up report connected to the Vance family obituary from eighteen years ago. The obituary itself was four lines. The next day's society page had run a longer piece — Elena Vance's funeral. It included a black-and-white photograph: a sea of dark-clad mourners, and at the very front, a boy standing alone. His black suit was a size too large, the cuffs swallowing his hands. He was clutching a silver toy wolf. In the photograph, he wasn't crying.

She zoomed in on the frame and stared at the boy's face. She knew this face. Those gray eyes from across the conference table yesterday. Eighteen years later, the boy was still in there. The suit had replaced the ill-fitting jacket, the gravity field had replaced the clenched toy wolf. He'd stopped crying. No one cried in boardrooms.

She shut off the reader. In her notebook she wrote a single line: *Someone ground him into a blade.*

When she left the library, the sky had begun to darken. Nova Verona's dusk was pink-orange; the harbor lights were igniting one by one. She called a car back to the estate. In the back seat, she opened her phone and navigated to a contact with no saved name — just a single letter: S. She'd saved the number yesterday and sent nothing since. Neither had Lucian. Their chat history was completely empty.

Outside the window, the Vance Estate's iron gates swung open. Rosa had brightened the gate lamps. The floor lamp in the corridor had been adjusted last night too. She slid her phone back into her pocket and watched the gates close behind the car.

Back in her room, Seraphina didn't turn on the light.

She set Sylvia's envelope at the foot of the bed, then opened her iron box. Her mother's platinum ring lay quiet against the black lining, its luster dull. She hadn't polished it since the m******e. She picked it up and held it in her palm. Eighteen years ago, a ten-year-old boy had clutched a toy wolf at a funeral. She placed the ring back in the iron box and left the lid open. Sat for a moment. Then picked up her phone, opened her chat with Lucian, and typed a line: *Three days shortened to two. Meet tomorrow.*

Sent.

The message status flipped to Delivered. Before she could lower the phone to her lap, it flipped again — Read.

Her breath caught for a quarter beat.

Then a reply shot back. One word.

*Time.*

Seraphina stared at it.

Read instantly. Replied instantly. No *why the change*, no *what did you find out*. Just *time*. Whatever else needed deciding, he'd already decided it.

She almost smiled. The corner of her mouth twitched and retreated. She typed the time: *Ten a.m.*

Read instantly again. This time, no instant reply. Seven seconds. Then his answer appeared:

*Understood.*

She looked at the word. She knew what that word meant, coming from him.

She set the phone down and sat in the dark. The iron box was still open. Her mother's ring was warming slowly in her palm.

Beyond the window, the Vance Estate security lights traced a full line along the perimeter wall. At the end of the East Wing corridor, the security door indicator flashed red once, then settled back to green — system self-check. Past three security doors, someone in the study had closed a file and picked up a pen. On the desk before him lay a fresh schedule. Tomorrow. Ten a.m.