Aria's POV
David never showed up to the lunch meeting.
Two weeks have passed since that text message, and he's vanished like smoke. No calls, no emails, no more photos. Just silence, which somehow feels worse than threats.
"He's playing with you," Dominic says, not looking up from his computer. "Trying to make you paranoid."
"It's working."
We're in his office at 6 AM—our new routine. Dominic starts early, so I start earlier. He works late, so I stay later. Where he goes, I go. It's one of his rules.
The rules were established on day three, delivered over coffee like they were completely reasonable.
Rule One: You accompany me to all meetings, events, and appointments unless I explicitly say otherwise.
Rule Two: You speak only when asked a direct question or when you have information I need immediately.
Rule Three: You never question my decisions in front of others. If you disagree, tell me privately.
Rule Four: You trust my judgment on security matters without argument.
Rule Five: You tell me everything—every suspicion, every worry, every instinct. No secrets.
I've broken Rule Two six times. Rule Three twice. But never Rule Five.
Because despite everything, I do trust Dominic. More than I've trusted anyone in three years.
Maybe that makes me stupid. Or maybe it just makes me desperate.
"We have the Peterson meeting in twenty minutes," I remind him. "He'll try to negotiate down your fee. He always does."
Dominic's fingers pause on his keyboard—the only sign he's surprised. "How do you know that?"
"I read the notes from your last three meetings with him. Same pattern every time." I pull up the file on my tablet. "He agrees to your price, then two days before signing, he calls with budget concerns and asks for a discount."
"And you think he'll do it again?"
"I know he will. He sent an email to his assistant yesterday asking her to prepare 'cost reduction talking points.' She cc'd you by mistake but deleted it thirty seconds later." I meet his eyes. "I saw it before it disappeared."
Dominic leans back in his chair, studying me. "You're getting better at this."
"At spying on people?"
"At protecting my interests." He stands and adjusts his tie. "What else should I know about Peterson?"
I've learned to read Dominic's moods over the past two weeks. The slight tension in his jaw means he's angry but controlling it. The tap of his fingers means he's impatient. The way his eyes narrow just a fraction means he's testing me.
Right now, he's genuinely curious.
"Peterson's company is in trouble," I say. "Three of his board members resigned last month. His stock price dropped fifteen percent. He needs your security services, but he can't afford your full rate."
"Then he should say that instead of playing games."
"He's proud. Men like him don't admit weakness."
Something flickers in Dominic's expression. "You sound like you know him."
"I know the type. I worked with them at the gallery." The memory hits unexpectedly—wealthy men who'd negotiate over art prices while wearing watches worth more than the paintings. "They'll bleed money on everything except the things that matter."
Dominic is quiet for a moment. Then: "Come to the meeting. But this time, don't just take notes. Watch Peterson. If he's lying about anything, signal me."
"How?"
"Touch your left ear."
It feels like a spy movie, but I nod.
Twenty minutes later, we're in the conference room with Robert Peterson and his nervous assistant. Peterson is exactly what I expected—expensive suit, forced confidence, eyes that dart around looking for advantage.
"Dominic, good to see you," he says, shaking hands too enthusiastically. "And this must be your new assistant. Aria, was it?"
"Yes, sir." I keep my voice neutral, professional.
We sit. Dominic lets Peterson talk, going through his whole presentation about needing upgraded security for his corporate offices. I take notes and watch.
Peterson's assistant keeps checking her phone. He touches his tie three times in five minutes—a nervous tell. And when he quotes his budget, he blinks too much.
He's about to lowball the offer.
Sure enough, ten minutes in, Peterson leans back and sighs. "Now, Dominic, I respect your work. But given current market conditions, I was hoping we could discuss a more... flexible pricing structure."
I touch my left ear.
Dominic's expression doesn't change. "Define flexible."
"Well, your initial quote was quite high. Perhaps if we reduced the scope—"
"Mr. Peterson," Dominic interrupts smoothly, "how many board members do you have left?"
Peterson freezes. "I'm sorry?"
"You had nine two months ago. Three resigned. That leaves six." Dominic's voice is casual, deadly. "Which means you no longer have the votes to approve my full proposal, even if you wanted to. So this meeting isn't about negotiating price. It's about you stalling until you can secure enough support to move forward."
The color drains from Peterson's face.
"I... that's not..."
"Don't waste my time with lies." Dominic stands. "When you have your board in order, call my office. Until then, this meeting is over."
He walks out. I scramble to follow, my heart pounding.
In the elevator, Dominic turns to me. "How did you know he was lying?"
"He blinked too much when he mentioned budget. And his assistant kept checking her phone—probably getting updates from the board members he's still trying to convince."
"You got all that from watching them for ten minutes?"
"I can read people," I admit. "It's how I survived on the streets. You learn to tell who's dangerous, who's safe, who's lying about wanting to help."
Dominic studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"That's a useful skill," he says quietly. "Very useful."
We don't talk about it again, but something shifts. Dominic starts bringing me to more meetings, asking for my observations afterward. I'm not just an assistant anymore. I'm an asset.
That evening, I'm alone in my apartment—the safe, beautiful cage Dominic provides. I make dinner, watch TV, try to pretend this is a normal life.
But it's not normal. I've spent two weeks learning everything about Dominic Cross while revealing nothing about myself. I know he takes his coffee black, hates tardiness, and works out at 5 AM every morning. I know which clients he respects and which ones he tolerates.
I know the exact sound his footsteps make in the hallway.
And I realize, with sudden clarity, that I haven't thought about my old life in days. Haven't remembered the gallery or my old apartment or the girl I used to be.
That girl is gone.
This new version—Dominic's assistant, his observer, his protected asset—is taking her place.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like relief.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
My blood turns cold. Not again.
But when I open it, the message makes my heart stop for an entirely different reason.
It's a photo of Dominic. Taken tonight. Entering his penthouse.
Below it, two words:
He's next.
I'm calling Dominic before I can think, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.
"Aria? What's wrong?"
"Someone just sent me a photo of you. A threat." My voice cracks. "They said you're next."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Forward it to me. Now."
I do, my fingers fumbling.
"Stay in your apartment," Dominic orders. "Lock everything. Gabe's already on his way to you."
"What about you? If someone's targeting—"
"I can handle myself. You're the one who's vulnerable."
"Dominic—"
"I'm coming to get you. Twenty minutes. Pack essentials."
"Pack? Why?"
His voice drops, becoming gentle in a way I've never heard. "Because you're not safe there anymore, Aria. Whoever's doing this knows where you live. Knows your routine. And they just threatened me to get to you."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
A pause. Then: "My penthouse. With me. Where I can protect you properly."
My mouth goes dry. "That's not... we can't..."
"It's not a request. It's necessity." His voice hardens. "Someone wants you scared and isolated. So we're doing the opposite. From now on, you stay close enough that I can keep you alive."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I'm shoving clothes into a bag when my phone rings again. Unknown number.
I should ignore it. Should wait for Dominic.
But my hand moves on its own.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then a voice I never thought I'd hear again.
"Hello, Ari."
David.
"I believe we have some catching up to do," he says, and his voice is nothing like I remember. It's cold. Calculating. "You've been a busy girl. Working for Dominic Cross. Playing detective. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
"David, what—"
"Tomorrow. 2 PM. The old coffee shop where I proposed." His voice is soft, deadly. "Come alone. Tell anyone—especially Cross—and I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what you really witnessed that night. Every detail. Every lie. Everything."
"I don't understand—"
"Tomorrow, Ari. Or I start talking. Your choice."
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen, David's words echoing in my head.
What you really witnessed. Every lie.
What does he know?
What doesn't he know?
And why does it suddenly feel like the murder I witnessed three years ago was just the beginning of something much, much worse?