Bound by His Shadow: The Billionaire's Secret Weapon

The footsteps were coming up from the third floor. She ran upward. Bare feet on iron stairs, rainwater cascading down every step. The handrail had a jagged** where rust scraped across her palm as she passed. She didn't stop. The rooftop door was open, left that way on purpose. Running toward a dead end was her choice. Three men behind her. She recognized one of them, an old burn scar across his cheekbone. He'd chased her once before, two weeks ago in an abandoned warehouse on the west side. She'd gotten away then. They'd chosen a rainy night this time. Rain could swallow a lot of sound. No lights on the rooftop. The downpour hammered the concrete and bounced back up, splashing her calves. She retreated to the center. No railing to lean against. No wall at her back. Bare feet in standing water. "Miss Sterling." The lead man spoke. All three of them blocked the rooftop door, the only way down. There was a dark tattoo on his wrist, too blurred by rain to make out clearly. Flame pattern. House Ashford. "Six months. You've run long enough." He pulled his hand from his coat pocket. "We were told to deliver a message. A dead Sterling is worth more than a live one." Seraphina said nothing. Rainwater streamed down her hair. She pushed the wet strands off her face and looked him in the eye. She'd used up all her fear a long time ago. What was left in her eyes was something else. Colder. "Try it, then." The man smiled. He raised his hand, and fire bloomed from his palm. Blue fire, hot enough to flash rain into steam on contact. All three of their faces flickered in and out of the blue glow. Then the fireball came at her. She reached out her hand. Fingers spread open, aimed at the flame. The fire vanished three centimeters from her palm. The rain kept falling. The man looked down at his own hand. Empty. Rain ran between his fingers. He stared at those wet fingers like he'd never seen them before in his life. The man beside him stepped forward. A spark flared between his fingertips — blue light catching the fear that crossed his face — then died. She simply turned her eyes toward him. He never even got the chance to throw. Three men standing at the rooftop door. Nobody made fire anymore. Seraphina lowered her hand to her side. Her fingers were bleached pale by the rain. "Go back and tell whoever sent you. Next time I won't just put out your fire." The lead man took a step back. Then another. Then all three of them turned and the footsteps went down, fading away. She listened until the sound was gone. Then she sat. Not the composed sit of someone who'd won. Her legs had just finally given out. She sank into the rooftop's standing water, the rain still hitting her face. She lowered her head, chin resting on her knees. There was a scar on her wrist. Six months old. The rain had soaked it pale. She looked at the scar, watched the water run across it. The memories caught up. Dinner, half a year ago. Her father told a joke that wasn't funny and everyone laughed anyway. Not because the joke was good, but because he always laughed first when he told one, and watching him laugh made you laugh too. Her mother rolled her eyes across the table and said, "You tell this one every year." He claimed he'd updated it, then delivered the exact same joke word for word. Her oldest cousin laughed so hard she dabbed her eyes with a napkin. That was dinner on the night of the m******e. Two in the morning. Her mother shook her awake. Not woke her. Shook her. Her mother's face was something Seraphina had never seen before, and it wasn't fear. There hadn't been time for fear. Her mother's voice was barely above a whisper. "Come with me." The fire outside hadn't reached their wing yet. Seraphina was pulled to her feet, barefoot, following her mother through the corridor. She tried instinctively to look back. Her mother's fingers caught her chin. "Don't look. Don't look outside." The bookshelf at the end of the hall. Her mother pressed a hand to the side panel and a hidden door opened, a narrow passage leading down. Just wide enough for one person to slip through sideways. Her mother pushed her inside. "Don't make a sound. No matter what happens." The door was closing. Her mother's hand pressed against its edge. Her lips moved. She said something. Seraphina didn't hear it. The fire swallowed the words. The hidden door sealed shut, and her mother's mouth was frozen there, mid-syllable. Six months. She had replayed that mouth shape over and over. Live. Don't seek revenge. Maybe just her name. Before the fire took everything, maybe what her mother wanted to say was Seraphina. She would never know. The rain had stopped. Seraphina lifted her head. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting on that rooftop. The sky was still dark. Distant neon lights glowed from the city. She stood, gravel pressing into the soles of her feet. She didn't bother with it. Walked down six flights barefoot. Her rental apartment still had the water stain on the ceiling. The neighbor was watching some loud dating show. The neon sign outside the window never turned off, pulsing purple. She closed the door behind her and dragged a metal box out from under the bed. An old cookie tin, half rusted, a faded blue bird printed on the lid. Three things inside: her mother's ring. A half-burned family photo, the girl in the bottom left corner her sixteen-year-old self. And a key. She opened her phone. An encrypted message glowed on the screen. From Sylvia. It read: Found a lead. The night of the m******e, an encrypted transmission went out from your family's compound to Vance Group. Lucian Vance. She stared at those two words for a long time. Vance Group. Then she stood up. Opened the only wardrobe she had. Inside hung a black evening gown, cheap satin, a hand-sewn clasp on the left strap where she'd fixed it herself. She searched the name. Lucian Vance. CEO of Vance Group. A news photo: black suit, gray eyes, caught at some ribbon-cutting ceremony. His face held no expression, but his gaze was fixed straight at the camera like it was assessing a data point that required risk evaluation. She looked at those gray eyes. Then she turned off the phone. Tomorrow night. The Vance Group Annual Charity Gala.