Cassius stood a foot away, his breathing perfectly steady. He stared at her in the dim light. The rage in his eyes had dissolved, replaced by a burning, focused curiosity.
“That was a very professional threat, Miss Joyce,” he murmured, his voice echoing softly in the stairwell. “You handle the press like a shark.”
Ayla swallowed hard and forced her breathing to slow. She reached into her bag, pulled out her tablet, and pressed it firmly against Cassius’s chest.
“The paparazzi are just the distraction,” she said, her voice recovering its cold edge. “The real hit piece drops on the Wall Street Journal in thirty minutes. Axel Farrell planted the offshore banking rumor.”
Cassius took the tablet and looked down at the screen.
His eyes moved across the counter-strategy Ayla had built – the legal loopholes she had identified, the pre-written press releases, the precise timeline designed to destroy the tabloid’s credibility before the story gained traction.
It was brilliant. It was ruthless. It was a masterpiece of corporate warfare.
Cassius slowly looked up from the screen.
He no longer saw a runaway mistress. He saw a weapon of mass destruction – and she was standing right in front of him.
Cassius said nothing. He turned and pushed open a secondary door inside the stairwell, leading them into a private, wood-paneled service elevator. He swiped a black keycard. The elevator shot upward, bypassing the main floors, and opened directly into a sprawling, ultra-secure penthouse safe room at the top of the club.
The doors closed, sealing them inside a world of absolute silence and bulletproof glass.
Cassius walked to a crystal decanter on a mahogany wet bar and poured two fingers of neat whiskey into a heavy glass. He carried it back and held it out to Ayla – a silent acknowledgment, treating her as an equal.
Ayla didn’t take it. She crossed her arms and held her ground.
“Did you read the strategy?” she asked, her voice tight.
Cassius took a slow sip of the whiskey, his dark eyes never leaving her face.
“It’s flawless,” he admitted, his voice a low rumble. “It uses the time-zone delay of the Cayman Island banks against the publishers. It will make the Journal look like amateurs.”
He set the glass down on a side table and took a step closer, his towering height casting a shadow over her.
“You built a ten-million-dollar defense strategy in the back of a freezing car in two hours,” he said quietly. “Who exactly are you, Ayla Joyce?”
Ayla kept her chin high. “I’m the person who just saved your acquisition deal. Now I want my payment.”
“Name it,” Cassius said.
“The repair bill for the Maybach is canceled,” she said. “And you give me back my driver’s license right now. I walk out of here, and we never see each other again.”
Cassius let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced her plastic ID card, holding it up between his fingers just out of her reach.
“The debt is canceled,” he agreed smoothly. “But I’m keeping the card.”
Ayla’s eyes flared. She reached for it, but he pulled his hand back effortlessly.
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“You are too valuable to lose in the wind,” he whispered, his voice carrying a dangerous edge of possession. “Consider this ID a retainer fee. We are going to do a lot of business together.”
Before Ayla could respond, the heavy doors of the safe room burst open.
Vance rushed in clutching an iPad, looking on the verge of a heart attack.
“Sir, the paparazzi video just hit Twitter,” he gasped. “It’s going viral.”
Cassius straightened instantly, his demeanor turning to ice. He took the iPad from Vance and hit play.
Ayla stepped closer and looked at the screen over Cassius’s arm.
The footage was shaky and loud – Ayla stepping out of the car and confronting the reporter. Because of the blinding flashes and the camera angle, her face was completely blown out by the light. She was nothing but a blurry silhouette in a trench coat.
Ayla let out a quiet breath of relief. Axel wouldn’t be able to identify her face.
Then the video played its final three seconds.
As Ayla grabbed Cassius’s wrist and pulled him away, the cameraman stumbled. The lens swung wildly and snapped into perfect focus on the back of the Ford Explorer. The flash illuminated the license plate. The custom Farrell Group fleet serial number was crystal clear in 4K resolution.
Ayla’s heart stopped. The blood froze in her veins.
A wave of nausea hit her so hard she stumbled backward. Axel monitored every mention of his company online. His security team would see that plate within minutes. They would check the garage logs. They would know she had taken the car. They would know she had been standing beside his worst enemy.
Cassius caught her sudden panic. He looked from the screen to her face.
“What is it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing sharply.
“I have to go,” Ayla choked out, her lungs feeling like they were collapsing.
She turned and sprinted toward the elevator, slamming her hand against the call button.
“Ayla!” Cassius barked, stepping toward her.
The doors slid open. She jumped inside and hit the lobby button.
“Call the number on the sticky note!” she shouted as the doors closed, cutting off his intense stare.
Miles away, in the penthouse office of Farrell Tech, Axel stood before a massive wall monitor, the Twitter video paused on its final frame. His eyes were locked on the license plate. His face was bloodless. The veins in his neck stood out in sharp relief.
He stared at the blurry silhouette of the woman holding Cassius Gilliam’s wrist.
A violent, sickening jealousy erupted in his chest. He seized a heavy bronze paperweight from his desk and hurled it at the monitor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of dead pixels.
“Find her!” Axel roared at Jared, his voice tearing raw. “Lock down the city. Find that car!”
Ayla burst out of the service exit of the private club and ran into the freezing Manhattan night.
She didn’t stop until she was three blocks away, her lungs burning and her wet boots slapping against the pavement. She ducked into a dimly lit, empty coffee shop and collapsed into a booth in the far corner.
Her hands were shaking as she pulled out her burner phone and dialed the private number Cassius had given her.
The line rang once and was picked up.
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