The car was quiet—too quiet.
Thick tension hung in the backseat like a fog, choking the air inside the luxury black sedan. Outside, dusk had fallen over the city, washing the skyline in shades of deep grey and pale blue. Raindrops clung to the tinted windows, streaking slowly like tears down a cold face. The soft hum of the engine was the only sound that dared exist, besides the occasional whisper of rubber on wet asphalt.
Up front, the driver kept both hands tightly on the wheel, his jaw locked and eyes pinned to the road like his life depended on it. Beside him sat a young assistant, stiff as a statue, clutching a sleek black tablet with trembling fingers. Neither of them dared speak unless spoken to. Not with him in the back.
Lucien Blackmoor.
The name alone carried weight. Enough to make grown men pause before they spoke, enough to silence entire rooms. And in this moment, seated in the plush leather of his custom Maybach's rear seat, Lucien radiated something even heavier than wealth or power: rage held on a leash.
His black-gloved fingers drummed against the armrest, slow and deliberate. Jet-black hair, thick and swept back in effortless precision, framed a chiseled face carved from cold marble. His jawline was razor-sharp, his cheekbones high and commanding, and those eyes—icy grey with a ring of stormy silver—glimmered like they could see through lies and flesh alike. Handsome didn't quite capture him. He was dangerous in his beauty, the kind of man women fantasized about and feared in equal measure. Billionaire, yes. Heir to one of the most powerful tech empires in Europe, yes. But behind that perfect face was a predator's mind—calculating, merciless, and relentless.
He didn't need to speak to be intimidating.
But he did.
"Still nothing?" Lucien's voice cut through the silence, low and smooth, like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.
The assistant flinched. "N-no, sir. Still no trace of her. We're following a few leads, but nothing concrete yet."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "Two weeks," he said, barely above a whisper, yet every syllable hit like a whip. "You're telling me she managed to infiltrate my private residence—my estate—completely off the radar, and not only that… she vanished without a trace?"
Silence again.
"She was right there," Lucien murmured, more to himself now. "In my room. Going through my drawers like she owned the place. I walk into my hotel suite after closing a billion-dollar merger, and find her elbows-deep in classified files."
The assistant swallowed.
"I could've turned her over to the police," Lucien went on, voice cold. "Let her rot in a cell somewhere. But I knew better. She wasn't just some nosy reporter. No. She was looking for something." He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed like stormclouds. "And someone sent her."
The assistant opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"I was interrogating her," Lucien said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I was this close to breaking her when—poof—she disappears. From under my own roof. My own surveillance systems. Do you know what that means, Eli?"
Eli, the assistant, gave a meek nod. "Y-yes, sir. It means there's a breach in your private network—someone good enough to bypass our security."
Lucien leaned back again, a humorless smile curling at the edge of his lips. "And do you know what my enemies would do if they found out someone got the better of me? That the almighty Lucien Blackmoor had a trespasser and lost her?"
He let the words hang, then added softly, "They'd think I was slipping."
"Sir…" Eli said cautiously. "The hacker will be here soon. He may have something. We made sure no digital footprints were left behind, no press leaks. This is still off the radar. Discreet. Just like you asked."
Lucien said nothing. He stared out the window instead, watching the night deepen across the skyline. People were so easy to control with money, fear, or secrets. Yet this girl—whoever she was—had slipped from his grasp like smoke. And that bothered him.
She shouldn't have been able to get in.
She definitely shouldn't have been able to get out.
And now, she was out there, somewhere, possibly feeding information to the very people who wanted to destroy him.
Lucien's lips thinned into a line.
He didn't care if she was innocent. Or scared. Or desperate. That wasn't his problem. The fact remained—she broke into his life, saw things she shouldn't have seen, and someone helped her do it. Whether she was a pawn or a mastermind didn't matter.
He was going to find her.
And when he did… he would make sure she never disappeared again.
---
A knock came at the window.
Lucien's cold stare flicked toward it.
The door opened swiftly, and a man stepped in from the rain—hooded, wiry, and smelling faintly of burnt coffee and ozone. His fingers were long, stained with ink and machine oil, clutching a small device that blinked with a green light. His eyes, however, gleamed with the quiet arrogance of someone who knew he was indispensable.
"The ghost," Eli muttered, announcing him.
Lucien said nothing.
They had sent the driver away for he didn't want anyone knowing what his hacker looked like.
The hacker slid into the seat beside Eli, slicking back wet strands of hair. "Tracked her," he said simply. "Took longer than expected, but I found her."
Lucien's fingers stilled.
"She's off-grid. Far from the city. A small countryside settlement in the south. The place barely has electricity. No signal towers. Like someone wanted to vanish. My guess—she was helped. She's staying with an old woman. They run a modest bakery… cash-only, no surveillance cams. Completely off the map."
Lucien's voice was calm. "Location?"
"Sent to Eli's tablet," the hacker said, grinning faintly. "It's remote. No airports, no train stations. You'll have to drive part of the way. But she's there"
Lucien's expression flickered slightly. Just a beat.
Then, colder: "Get the car ready. She's coming back with me."