EXCLUSIVE, Explosion at Draxon Facility Possible Corporate Sabotage?"
Every media outlet was spinning the story. Stockholders were panicking. Rival corporations were circling like vultures. But Elias Thorne formerly Mr. Dime sat calm at the head of the conference table in the executive wing.
Jude, bruised but defiant, stood beside him. Magritte sat at the far end of the room, her face an unreadable mask. Valerie Dexter, dressed to perfection and simmering with silent rage, had joined the emergency session via hologram.
"I want names," Valerie hissed, her voice glitching through the holo-feed. "I want heads. This kind of breach is inexcusable."
"We have a lead," Elias said. "There's suspicion of internal betrayal. The evidence points to someone once affiliated with your family, Valerie."
She narrowed her eyes. "Do not dare cast shadows on me, Elias."
"This isn't about shadows," he said. "It's about the truth. And keeping Draxon from collapsing under the weight of our enemies."
A pause.
Valerie's image flickered. "You're lucky I care about this company more than I hate surprises. Find the traitor. Fix this. Or I will."
The line cut.
Magritte let out a low whistle. "I see diplomacy isn't her strong suit."
"She's right to be angry," Elias murmured. "But she's also hiding something."
"What do you mean?" Jude asked.
Elias turned to them both. "The warehouse schematics that were breached? Only two people had access. Me and the late Dr. Halvorsen. But Halvorsen died two years ago. And yet, someone used his credentials to override the lockdown system."
Jude frowned. "Are you saying he's alive?"
"I'm saying someone has access to ghosts."
Later That Evening Elias's Private Penthouse
The city below glimmered in fractured lights. Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows like glass tears.
Magritte sat with a glass of wine, watching Elias from across the room. His expression was distant, lips pressed in deep thought.
"You haven't said a word since the meeting," she said.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, "Why didn't you tell me about Valerie?"
Magritte blinked. "What about her?"
"She visited Landon's facility three times in the past year. Jude pulled surveillance. She used a false ID."
Magritte set her wine down, face hardening. "That's not possible."
"It is."
"And you think I knew?" Her voice rose.
"I don't know what to think anymore," Elias admitted. "Everyone around me is playing a different game. Even you."
Magritte stood. "That's not fair. I've risked everything for you "
"Then be honest with me!" he snapped. "Tell me everything. No more riddles. No more half-truths. Who are you really, Magritte?"
The question hung in the air like thunder.
She stared at him, something flickering in her eyes.
And then, finally, she spoke.
"My real name isn't Magritte."
Elias froze.
"My name is Isla Maren. I was recruited at 19 by a government black ops unit. Landon was my handler. I infiltrated Duchess Corporation as part of a larger plan until I realized what he was doing. The experiments. The trafficking. I tried to get out, but he held too much leverage. You Draxon was my way out."
Elias's breath caught. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I didn't trust you. Not until I saw what kind of man you were."
He stared at her, the lines of his face unreadable.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now," she said, stepping closer, "I do."
There was a silence so fragile it could break under breath. Then Elias reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I don't know who I can trust anymore, Isla. But I want to trust you."
She took his hand.
"Then let me help you destroy Landon. Together."
Meanwhile Unknown Location, Landon Crick slammed a file onto the table. "They're getting too close."
Across from him, a shadowed figure in a gray suit nodded. "Shall I proceed?"
"Yes. Initiate the next phase. The twins are ready?"
"They've already infiltrated. One's in Draxon's legal team. The other… in finance."
"Good," Landon said. "And Magritte?"
The man smirked. "She's started falling for him."
Landon's grin widened, wicked and cruel. "Excellent. It's always the heart that breaks empires."
The silence after Elias Thorne's confrontation with the Sovereign Ring wasn't peace it was prelude. A chessboard was being reset in the shadows of skyscrapers and shattered alliances. Magritte stirred beside him in the safehouse bed, tangled in sheets and tension.
He hadn't slept. Not really.
A dozen messages blinked on the burner phone on his nightstand. Most were coded, one was from Jude: "Landon's moving. And he's not moving alone."
Thorne sat up, muscles stiff, and reached for his shirt. Magritte stirred awake, watching him.
"You're leaving?" she asked.
"For now."
"You're not safe alone."
He looked at her. "I'm never safe, with or without you."
She sat up too, running a hand through her dark curls. "You still think I'm one of them, don't you?"
"No," he said, almost gently. "But someone close to you is."
The weight of that hung between them, heavy and fragile as blown glass.
They met Lewis at a bar disguised as an underground jazz club in the East End. Thorne barely walked through the door before Lewis tossed him a dossier.
"You're being hunted," Lewis said casually, as if stating the weather.
"I always am," Thorne replied.
"No, I mean... there's a price. Not just political or corporate. Personal. A contract. Someone wants you dead badly and they've got Duchess Corp agents in motion. Not all of them are rogue anymore."
Thorne flipped open the file and saw surveillance shots grainy, but unmistakable. Himself. Magritte. Jude. Even Valerie, though she was far removed now, engaged in media scandals to distance herself from him.
Then he saw the name.
"Damien Vale."
Magritte froze beside him. "That name again..."
"You know him?" Lewis asked.
She shook her head. "No. But I've heard it before whispers in the halls at Duchess. They said he was the one who vanished years ago after the Black Vault burned down."
Thorne's jaw set. "Then we smoke him out."
That night, Magritte and Thorne stood on the balcony of a penthouse in the upper district, the city twinkling like static beneath them. The air smelled of rain and consequence.
Magritte sipped wine in silence. "Why do you never talk about your past?"
"Because the past is a weapon. And people like us get stabbed with it more than once."
"That's not an answer."
Thorne turned to her, shadows crossing his features. "You want honesty?"
She nodded.
"I don't remember the shipwreck. I only remember the cold. The silence. And then I woke up as someone else."
"And now?"
"Now… I dream of fire. Of drowning. Of someone pulling me under and whispering my name like a curse."
Magritte reached out and touched his cheek. "You're not cursed, Elias."
He laughed softly, bitterly. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"I know enough to say I'm falling for you."
His hand caught hers, thumb brushing over her pulse. "You shouldn't. I break everything I touch."
Magritte leaned in, lips brushing his. "Then learn how to hold me."
Three days later, the trap was set.
A gala at the Glasshouse Pavilion a pristine, modernist monstrosity funded by Duchess Corporation and rumored to be a front for Vale's intelligence network. The elite would be in attendance: corporate sharks, government liaisons, and the ghosts of Thorne's past.
It was Magritte who secured the invitation, her old badge still useful. She wore a blood-red gown that clung to her like danger, her arm looped through Thorne's as they entered beneath a chandelier of living vines.
Inside, champagne flowed like secrets. Eyes watched. Whispers followed.
Jude, dressed like a royal advisor, moved through the crowd dropping false hints and swapping real data. Lewis played security from the shadows, watching for snipers, eavesdropping with infrared tech.
Then a familiar voice cut through the hum.
"Elias Thorne. I thought they buried you in pieces."
Thorne turned. Damien Vale stood by a marble sculpture, tall, lean, polished. His smile was a scalpel.
"I got better," Thorne replied coolly.
Vale raised a glass. "Or worse, depending on your company."
His eyes flicked to Magritte. "Still picking women who lie well, I see."
Magritte stiffened, but Thorne squeezed her hand. "You talk a lot for a man who hides behind shadows."
"I do more than talk," Vale said. "I build kingdoms."
"And I tear them down," Thorne countered. "Starting with yours."
The conversation was the fuse. By the time midnight struck, the pavilion was in chaos.
One of Lewis's planted signals triggered a lockdown. Magritte hacked the internal cameras to reroute feeds. Jude dragged an ambassador to safety while three drones buzzed into the main hall delivering not explosives, but truth.
Video footage. From the Black Vault. Showing Duchess Corp's betrayal. Showing Elias's fall.
The crowd screamed.
The walls cracked.
And Thorne smiled.
They escaped through the tunnels, drenched in smoke and scandal. Outside, the rain fell like absolution.
Back at the safehouse, Thorne leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
"You planned this whole thing?" Magritte asked.
"Mostly."
"And what about the aftermath?"
Thorne looked at her, eyes blazing.
"I'm not done. Vale thinks he owns the board. I'm about to flip the table."
Magritte stepped forward, cupping his face. "You're playing with fire."
"I am fire."
She kissed him, hard and sure, and for a moment, the war paused.
But only for a moment.
Because as they fell into each other, a silent signal blinked on Vale's encrypted laptop.
The Obsidian Directive.
The real war had just begun.