Claire waited until Olivia fell asleep in the cab before making her move.
"Can you pull over here?" she whispered to the driver, giving him extra cash. "My friend's had too much champagne. I need to grab something I forgot."
As the cab idled, Claire slipped out and ducked into the dark. Her heart hammered against her chest as she watched the car disappear around the corner with her sleeping friend inside. She'd texted Olivia's doorman to help get her upstairs.
Now she was alone in her party dress, clutching the key card Damian had given her. The location led to a secret entrance at the back of the Grand Plaza Hotel, where the gala was still in full swing.
"This is crazy," Claire grumbled to herself, shivering in the cool night air. Going to meet Damian Blackwood alone was exactly the kind of risky thing Vincent had warned her against.
But the thought of finally learning the truth about her father pushed her forward.
The key card worked with a soft click, opening a door to a poorly lit service hallway. Claire stepped inside, jumping when the door locked automatically behind her. The hallway stretched ahead, empty and quiet.
At the end stood another door with a small code. Claire tried the card again, but nothing happened. She frowned, studying the card more closely. There, etched faintly along the edge, were four numbers: 1984.
Her father's birth year.
Claire's fingers trembled as she punched in the code. The door opened with a heavy thunk, showing a small office decorated in dark wood and leather. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a big desk filled the center of the room.
But no Damian.
"Hello?" Claire called softly. No answer.
She stepped inside, noticing a folder sitting in the center of the desk, as if put there intentionally. Her name was written across the top in big letters.
Claire opened it and gasped. Inside were photos of her—leaving her apartment, meeting Jonathan Pierce, even dancing with Damian at the gala mere hours ago. Someone had been watching her every move.
Behind the pictures was a stack of papers about Hart Industries. Balance sheets, contracts, and a list of goods taken when the company collapsed. Her father's signature showed on page after page, alongside another autograph she recognized immediately—Amelia Blackwood, Damian's mother.
Claire's hands shook. Her father had never mentioned working directly with the Blackwood family.
A soft beep from her bag surprised her. She pulled out her phone to find a text from an unknown number: Keep looking. Bottom drawer.
Claire glanced around nervously. Was Damian watching her right now? She moved to the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside sat a single flash drive labeled "HART—CONFIDENTIAL."
Without pause, she plugged it into the computer on the desk. Password protected.
Claire bit her lip, trying her father's birth date again. Access blocked.
She tried her own birthday. Access blocked.
Then she remembered something—her father's favorite saying, the one he repeated whenever things got tough: "Truth rises."
She typed it in. The screen flashed green, and files started opening immediately.
Video files.
Claire's breath caught as her father's face showed on screen, looking much younger. He was sitting in an office, smiling as he shook hands with a beautiful older woman Claire recognized as Amelia Blackwood.
"The merger is final," the woman was saying. "Hart Industries will operate as an independent subsidiary of Blackwood Enterprises, just as we agreed, Richard."
Claire's father nodded, looking pleased. "And my seat on the board?"
"Guaranteed, along with everything else in our agreement."
The video cut to another meeting, this one more tense. Her father looked worried, while Amelia appeared cold and detached.
"You can't do this," her father was saying. "We had a deal."
"The deal changed when you started working with Pierce behind my back," Amelia snapped. "You made your choice, Richard."
"I wasn't working with—"
"Don't lie to me!" Amelia slammed her hand on the desk. "I have proof. Either you sign these transfer papers, or I'll make sure everyone knows what you've done."
The video jumped again. Now her father looked broken, slumped in a chair in what Claire recognized as their old living room.
"If you're watching this, Claire," he said straight to the camera, "then something has happened to me. The Blackwoods aren't what they seem. Amelia threatened me, forced me to sign over everything. But she wasn't working alone. There was someone else, someone I trusted who betrayed me to them. I don't have proof yet, but I'm close. Whatever you do, don't trust—"
The video cut off suddenly.
Don't trust who? Claire frantically clicked around, looking for the rest of the clip, but it was gone.
A new text message showed on her phone: Now you know part of the truth. Not everything was Damian's fault.
Claire's mind raced. The message had to be from Damian. But if not everything was his fault, whose was it? His mother's? The unknown enemy her father mentioned?
She quickly copied the files to her phone and was about to unplug the flash drive when she noticed another folder titled "SINCLAIR CONNECTION."
Curious, she clicked it open. Inside were photos of Margaret Sinclair meeting secretly with Jonathan Pierce, dates and places marked carefully beneath each shot. They went back years—long before Damian and Margaret's engagement ended.
Was Margaret the traitor? Had she been working with Pierce all along?
The lights suddenly flicked on, stunning Claire briefly.
"Finding everything you need?" a cool female voice asked.
Claire spun around to find Margaret Sinclair standing in the doorway, still wearing her silver gown from the gala. Her yellow hair was pulled back now, making her sharp features look even more stern.
"This is a private office," Margaret said, moving into the room. "Though I suppose Damian invited you here?"
Claire stood her ground. "Where is he?"
Margaret laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Damian isn't coming. He doesn't even know you're here."
"But the key card—"
"Was from me." Margaret smiled, taking an identical card from her bag. "I wanted to see what you'd do if you thought Damian was reaching out. And now I know."
Claire's mind spun. "The text messages?"
"Also me." Margaret moved closer, her perfume filling the air between them. "You're so eager to find the enemy in your story, Claire Hart. So determined to blame Damian for your father's failure."
"I saw the videos," Claire said definitely. "His mother—"
"Amelia did what was necessary to protect the company." Margaret's eyes narrowed. "Your father was weak. He made mistakes."
"He wasn't working with Pierce. The video said—"
"Videos can be changed. Stories can be twisted." Margaret reached for the flash drive, but Claire was faster, pulling it from the computer.
"Give me that," Margaret ordered, her polished skin cracking.
"No." Claire backed away. "My father was trying to tell me something important. Someone misled him—was it you?"
Anger flashed across Margaret's beautiful features. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"I think I do." Claire clutched the flash drive tightly. "You're afraid of what's on here. Afraid I'll show it to Damian."
A cunning look replaced Margaret's anger. "Damian wouldn't believe you. He knows better than to trust a Hart."
"Maybe. But Jonathan Pierce might be interested in these files showing you meet with him while engaged to Damian."
Margaret's face paled. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me." Claire edged toward the door, keeping her eyes on Margaret. "My father lost everything. I have nothing left to lose."
"That's where you're wrong," Margaret said softly. "You've already lost more than you know."
Before Claire could reply, alarms blared throughout the building. Red lights flashed in the hallway.
"Security breach," a mechanical voice stated over secret speakers. "All exits sealing in ten seconds."
Margaret's smile returned, colder than before. "You should run."
Claire didn't need to be told twice. She bolted for the door, hearing Margaret's laughter following her down the hallway. The key card got her back to the service door, and she burst outside just as heavy security gates began dropping throughout the hotel.
Gasping for breath, Claire ran until she couldn't hear the sounds anymore. She ducked into an allnight diner, sliding into a table where she could watch the street.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Olivia: Where are you??
Then another from Vincent: Call me! Urgent!
And finally, one from an unknown number that made her blood freeze: I know what you took. This isn't over.
Claire clutched the flash drive, her mind spinning with questions. If Margaret had sent the key card, who had sent the texts leading her to the files? Who had changed her father's final message? And most importantly—who was the criminal her father had tried to warn her about?
As dawn broke over the city, Claire made a choice. She couldn't trust anyone—not Olivia, not Vincent, not Damian, and certainly not Jonathan Pierce.
She texted Damian: We need to talk. Today. Alone.
The answer came seconds later: My office. 8 AM. Come through the private lift. Tell no one.
What Claire didn't know was that three different people had just gotten the exact same message, apparently from her.