Elara's POV
I learned two things that morning.
The first was that Aurellian Global did not forgive mistakes.
The second was that someone inside the building wanted Julian Moreau exposed.
I arrived earlier than usual. Not because I was eager. Because sleep had refused me. That message still lingered like a bruise I could not stop touching.
You were right about Blackthorn. And you were wrong about me.
I told myself not to read into it. Told myself it was nothing more than professional acknowledgment wrapped in Julian's particular brand of control.
I was lying again.
My desk light blinked as I logged in. A routine overnight sync. Internal reports. Market feeds. Milan subsidiary updates.
Then something unfamiliar surfaced.
A folder that should not have been there.
Its access trail was subtle. Not sloppy. Deliberately quiet. Buried under legitimate permissions. Someone who knew the system well enough to move without leaving fingerprints.
I hesitated.
Then I opened it.
Projected earnings models. Early stage vulnerability assessments. Internal risk commentary.
My breath slowed.
This was what Blackthorn had used.
Not everything. But enough.
Footsteps approached.
I closed the file instinctively, my pulse steady but alert.
"Elara."
Marcus Hale stood beside my desk, coffee in hand, perfectly composed. The picture of corporate calm.
"You are early," he said.
"So are you," I replied.
He smiled. Again, that same polite curve that never quite reached his eyes.
"Busy week," he said. "Julian expects results."
I nodded. "He always does."
Marcus watched me for a second longer than necessary. Then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"You handled yourself well yesterday."
"Thank you."
"You should be careful," he added softly. "Visibility can be dangerous here."
There it was.
Not concern. A warning.
"I am aware," I said evenly.
He straightened. "Good."
As he walked away, something settled into place in my mind. Not certainty. But alignment. The pieces were beginning to form a shape I did not like.
Midmorning brought the summons.
Julian's assistant, Adrian Cole, appeared at my desk with a tablet tucked under his arm. Early thirties. Impeccably efficient. Eyes that missed nothing.
"Mr Moreau would like to see you," he said.
My chest tightened. "Now."
"Yes."
The executive floor felt different when you were called alone.
Julian's office was all glass and restraint. City stretching endlessly behind him. He stood by the window, back to me, jacket off, sleeves rolled with deliberate care.
"Close the door," he said.
I did.
He turned.
"You accessed something you should not have," he said calmly.
My heart thudded once. Hard.
"Yes."
No point lying.
"Why."
"Because it was already exposed," I said. "And because whoever did it wanted it found."
His gaze sharpened. "Explain."
"Blackthorn did not hack us," I said quietly. "They were fed. Not recklessly. Carefully. By someone who wanted you to underestimate them."
Silence stretched.
Julian stepped closer.
"How sure are you."
"Enough to know it was not an accident."
His jaw tightened. That crack again. Deeper this time.
"Who," he asked.
I hesitated.
Not because I was afraid.
Because names have consequences.
"Marcus Hale," I said finally.
The air shifted.
Julian did not react immediately. No anger. No denial. Just a stillness so complete it was frightening.
"Leave," he said.
I turned.
"Elara."
I stopped.
Without looking at me, he said, "You should have stayed invisible."
I swallowed. "You hired me to see."
"Yes," he replied quietly. "And that may cost you more than you understand."
That afternoon, the building hummed louder. Emails moved faster. Doors closed more often. Marcus did not come near me again.
But as I left that evening, five minutes back to my apartment, my phone vibrated.
A message.
From an unknown number.
Stop digging. Or he will be the one who pays when this collapses and you will be standing right beside him when...….