Liana's POV

The office suffocated me. Don't get me wrong, the AC is working perfectly fine. But every glance, every movement, everything felt like I was being monitored. Graham’s thin smile, Lucy’s too-bright eyes, Brian’s hovering… it pressed against my chest uncomfortably, I couldn’t breathe inside those walls anymore. It was all too much

The office hum still echoed in my ears even after I stepped outside, rain misting my face like cold fingers reminding me the world hadn't changed, just I had.

After a day of mostly observing everybody at Blaise Corps, I needed out.

The streets of Shoreditch were slick with recent rain, the air sharp with exhaust and fried food. Street musicians played chords too high for human ears, and laughter drifted out from bars that smelled of alcohol and food.

Neon signs shone on the pavement, reflecting in puddles that shattered under my boots. The chill seeped through my coat, but it felt alive, better than the sterile chill of the office or the concrete death I'd escaped.

I didn’t have a plan, and I didn’t want one. I just needed the city to swallow me up for a little while. Let me vanish.

I found a dim bar tucked behind a brick alley, lights low, music throbbed beneath whispered conversations. It was soothing in an odd way and chaotic in another. I slid onto the end stool, nursing a gin and tonic, scanning the room without really looking.

The bar top was sticky under my elbows, scarred from years of spilled drinks. Bass vibrated through the wood, matching the unsteady beat in my chest. A girl laughed at something on her phone at a booth at the far end, a couple probably on a date.

A girl laughed at something on her phone at a booth at the far end, a couple probably on a date.

Then I noticed him.

Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. He was in a dress shirt. Leaning against the bar, his eyes scanning the room, and somehow, they landed on me. My stomach did that thing I hate. It flipped, betraying me entirely.

He stood out. He seemed too composed amid the chaos, like the room bent around him. The low amber light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, turning his hazel eyes dark and intent.

He smiled. Just a fraction. Not a grin, not a leer. But it held curiosity and charm at the same time. I looked away, pretending not to notice, gulping my drink to drown the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Minutes later, our eyes met again. He was closer now. Looking at me with open curiosity.

He ordered a drink, then moved to the stool beside me, just enough to intrude without asking.

His presence arrived before he did—clean cedar cologne cutting through the bar's haze of gin and damp wool. The stool creaked as he settled, close enough that heat radiated from his arm to mine.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice was deep, smooth. He had an accent. Was it Scouse? Or Irish? It was the kind that makes you forget how to think.

I raised an eyebrow. “It depends. Why are you here?”

He chuckled, low, almost dangerous. “I'm not sure. I was bored, I guess,” he continued. “But mostly… I’m curious about the woman hiding in the corner.”

His gaze didn't waver. It was steady and warm, like he saw past the sarcasm straight to the storm underneath. My pulse kicked up, traitorously loud over the music.

I wanted to scoff and shut him down. But the truth is, I liked being noticed. Even by someone I shouldn’t.

“I'm not hiding in the corner.”

“Sure, you're not.” He smiled.

“I'm Raphael,” he said, extending his hand.

“Liana.” My voice was flat, but inside, I was a mess.

He stared at me, holding my gaze.

“Is there something on my face?” I asked, lifting a hand to wipe it off.

“No.” His voice was soft. “I actually wanted to say beauty. But I didn’t want it to be cliché or awkward.”

His fingers brushed mine as we shook, brief, electric, calluses rough against my skin. The contact lingered a second too long, sending heat curling low in my belly.

I giggled, breaking into a proper smile.

“So, I guessit worked?” He murmured with a smile of his own.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

There was something in his gaze that made the hair on my arms stand.

We talked. About nothing and everything. Music, travel, corporate mundanity, London secrets. He didn’t pry, didn’t pressure. But the way he listened to me like I was the only one in the room, it made my heart flutter.

Every lean-in brought his breath warm against my ear over the noise, mint faint on it. His laugh rumbled low, vibrating through the narrow space between us. My defenses cracked with each drink, gin loosening the knot of revenge in my chest.

One drink turned into two, then four. We lost count. My defenses dropped.

I laughed at jokes I didn’t even like.

“You’re… different,” he said smoothly, moving closer.

“Careful. Don’t be deceived,” I replied softly.

He laughed low. “Well, you can deceive me.”

I grinned. What did that even mean?

I leaned closer when he leaned in. And then… one reckless decision.

“Want to get out of here?”

I nodded. My skin flushed.

We left the bar together, heading to a nearby hotel.

The rain had picked up, cold drops sliding down my neck as we hurried, his hand warm and sure around mine.

The walk was casual, effortless. We held hands. My mind screamed: Stop. You can’t. You mustn’t. But my body didn’t listen.

By the time we reached the hotel building, he led me straight to the elevator. Does he stay here? Is he visiting? A part of me was excited while another part was sad.

The moment his lips met mine, the rational part of me evaporated. I didn’t pull away.

His kiss tasted of gin and restraint finally snapping firm, hungry, one hand cupping my jaw like I might vanish. Heat flooded me, drowning the prison ghosts for the first time since waking.

A fire I hadn’t realized I’d been starving for ignited.

I thought about my plans, about how I wanted to live this life.

But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not when this sexy Adonis’ hands roamed my body, leaving heat in their wake.

It was reckless and dangerous. It was perfect.

When morning came, sunlight pierced through half-closed blinds. I woke in an unfamiliar bed, tangled sheets, faint scent of expensive cologne, and a splitting headache.

The room smelled of him, cedar lingering on the pillows, mixed with the sharp tang of last night's gin. My body ached pleasantly in places I'd forgotten could feel anything but tension.

I reached for my phone. I froze. I have to go if I want to get to work on time.

I dressed quickly, leaving a note I knew he probably wouldn’t see: Thanks. I thought of writing something else, but I would probably never see him again.

Outside, London moved on. The rain had stopped.

Pigeons pecked at crumbs in the square. Runners and yoga practitioners moved in the park.

I walked away from the hotel, resisting the temptation to look back, reconsider, to stay.

My steps felt heavier, the city louder. Something important gnawed at the edge of my mind, what had I planned to do today? but the detail slipped away like smoke.

Back in my apartment, I sank onto the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling. Fingers flexed, I picked up my phone. Stopped. I wanted to do something yesterday… but I couldn’t remember what.

I sat up, trying to pull back the details that had vanished. I couldn’t.

It was probably stress. I'd think about it later.

The day at Blaise Corps had been normal on the surface. It was quiet and normal, it was controlled.

And the night, last night reminded me how easily control could slip through my fingers. I had to be careful not to fall for guys with contagious smiles.

I had a month. One month to untangle the lies, uncover the traitor, and stay alive.

And I thought about the man I left at the hotel. As much as I hated it… I wanted him.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Not if I wanted to survive.

Because every choice I make in this second chance must be precise.

I can’t be framed and killed again. I cannot afford distractions. Especially when it's tall and sexy.

Liana's POV

The office smelled like paper, coffee, and ink.

Every breath I took reminded me that something was off.

The air felt stale, recirculated through vents that hummed faintly overhead, carrying the faint metallic tang of overheated electronics and yesterday's burnt coffee grounds from the break room machine.

I sat at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor on my monitor as if it held the answers to everything. It didn’t. But it was a start.

My headache pulsed subtly behind my eyes. I made a mental note to get painkillers later.

A dull throb started at my temples, spreading like ink in water, familiar from prison nights, but sharper now, as if something vital had been scraped away while I slept.

Something important gnawed at the edge of my mind, but I couldn’t remember what.

I picked up my cup and headed to the kitchen area, I made myself a cup of instant lemonade. It was bitter, with a hint of saccharine, which I weirdly liked.

The powder clumped at first, refusing to dissolve; I stirred harder, the spoon scraping plastic with a grating sound that set my teeth on edge. The cold liquid hit my throat sharp and artificial, doing nothing for the fog in my head.

Back at my desk, I opened my emails. Nothing suspicious.

But I already knew better.

I pulled up the secure folder I had created yesterday. Empty.

My breath hitched.

No. That's not possible.

I checked again. Refresh. Re-log. Nothing.

The timestamp discrepancy I had saved the detail was gone.

I know I saved it. I remember doing it.

Except… I don’t. Not clearly.

It’s like trying to recall a dream after waking up.

The edges are there, but the substance? Missing.

Fingers curling into fists beneath the desk, one night, my mind racing. I forced myself to breathe.

My nails dug into my palms, leaving half-moon indents. The screen blurred for a second.

Panic won’t help. Panicking never does.

“Morning, bestie.”

Lucy’s voice cut through my thoughts.

With a cup of coffee in hand and smiling.

“You left pretty fast yesterday,” she said lightly. “Everything okay?”

I met her eyes, searching for cracks, guilt, anything. Nothing was obvious.

Her smile curved perfectly, but the light didn't reach her eyes, flat blue, watchful. Steam from her coffee curled between us, carrying the rich, bitter scent that used to mean safety, now just another layer of mask.

“Just tired,” I replied. “Didn’t feel like socializing.”

Her smile tightened just a fraction.

“Same. Though you missed a lot of chatter.”

Of course I did.

“Did you know Danielle had a boyfriend? He came to pick her up yesterday. And everyone knows Brenton likes her. He must have been so sad.”

I turned back to my screen. “I’m sure.”

She lingered.

“By the way,” Lucy added casually, “Graham wants an updated permissions audit by end of day. He said it’s urgent.”

Urgent.

The word landed like a threat.

“Did he say why?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Something about tightening security. Funny timing, right?”

Her shrug was too casual. She turned away, heels clicking softer than usual, as if measuring each step.

Lucy walked away, her heels clicking the marble floor. I stared at my screen, pulse ticking faster with every second.

I opened the access logs again.

There it was.

The same discrepancy.

The same timestamp.

Right where I remembered it. Except this time, I couldn’t recall finding it before.

My stomach twisted.

So I didn’t imagine it.

But I forgot how I found it. That’s worse.

I grabbed my hair in frustration. “What is going on with me?” I groaned, glaring at the cup of processed lemonade.

“Hey, Bennett.”

Brian.

He walked over like he owned the space. He smelled like cheap cologne and mint. He was too close for my liking

He leaned against my divider, arm brushing the edge, close enough I felt the warmth off his sleeve.

“Did you see Graham this morning?” he asked. “He’s on edge.”

I kept my eyes on my screen. “He’s always on edge.”

Brian chuckled. “Yeah, but this is different. He’s been asking about file access histories. Old ones.”

Old ones.

My spine stiffened.

“And?” I asked carefully.

He lowered his voice. “He specifically mentioned your name.”

Of course he did.

I finally looked at him. He was grinning, a bead of sweat at his temple.

Interesting.

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

Brian hesitated. Just a beat too long. “I mean… you’re good at your job. He probably wants you to help him clean up, as usual.”

Clean. That word again.

“Right,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

He lingered, eyes flicking to my lips, then back to the screen. “If you need help,” he added softly,

“I’m around.”

I didn’t answer.

Why would I need his help?

He left, his feet dragging behind him.

I leaned back, eyes drifting across the office. Lucy talking to someone from IT. Brian leaning on Sasha’s divider, listening to her talk about her four cats he probably didn’t care about.

They were moving. So was I.

At noon, Graham called a brief department meeting. Standing at the head of the table, fingers drumming against the glass.

The glass tabletop reflected his flushed face in distorted waves; each drum of his fingers sent tiny vibrations up my arms through the wood.

“We’ve identified potential vulnerabilities in our internal systems,” he said. “Effective immediately, all data access will be reviewed. No exceptions.”

My stomach dropped.

“This includes analysts,” he continued, eyes flicking across the room “with elevated permissions.”

There it was. A test.

“Any questions?” he snapped.

I raised my hand. The room stilled.

“What’s the scope of the review?” I asked, my voice even. “And who’s conducting it?”

Graham’s jaw tightened. “Internal,” he said. “Led by me.”

Of course it was.

“That’s a conflict of interest,” I said calmly, my heart racing. “Standard protocol would require an independent reviewer.”

A ripple passed through the room.

Martha froze. Brian’s face was drained of color.

Graham’s thin smile sharpened. “Are you questioning my authority, Bennett?”

I met his gaze. “I’m protecting the company,” I said, pointing to the goals and mission on the screen. “Isn’t that the goal?”

For a moment, I thought he might explode. Then, he smiled.

“Meeting adjourned,” he said. “Bennett, stay.”

Alone now, he stepped closer. “This is why I like you, Bennett,” he said quietly. “You’re smart, you think things through. How about I propose an idea?”

My blood ran cold.

I left his office five minutes later, heart pounding.

Back at my desk, fingers flexing, trying to steady my thoughts.

“Liana!”

I jumped.

Brian.

“Coffee break? Figured you could use a little human interaction.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m good,” I said. “I’ve had plenty of coffee already.”

Lucy approached, eyes lingering on Brian.

“You were… intense today,” she said. “It was about time someone stood up to Graham. Brave of you.”

I didn’t respond immediately. Just watched her.

“It’s been tense lately,” she added, voice soft.

What does she mean by that?

I leaned back, ran my hands over the keyboard. I created another folder. Wrote some notes. Things I remembered. Things to avoid.

The keys felt sticky again, resistant; each tap echoed louder in my head than it should have. The new folder blinked into existence, it was a small victory.

I couldn’t trust anyone around me, but I could trust myself.

The day blurred into evening.

Brian wandered near my desk again. Probably the fourth time today. He walked too quickly. A flicker in my peripheral vision.

Why does he keep looking at my screen?

I didn’t dwell on it. It was time to go home.

Outside, the city darkened. Streetlights flickered. Rain threatened again. It is always raining in this city.

The Thames shone faintly, reflecting the sunset.

Somewhere, someone was already planning their next move.

But this time, I had the advantage.

Foresight. Knowledge.

Tomorrow, I will strike again.

Liana's POV

I decided to get some food before heading home.

The grocery store was bright, and it smelled like freshly baked bread and antiseptic cleaner that made me wrinkle my nose.

The automatic doors whooshed open with a puff of warm air laced with the sweet, yeasty scent of in-store bakery, fresh loaves cooling under heat lamps, cut by the sharp tang of floor polish and chilled produce mist. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright after the dimming streets, casting long shadows down the wide aisles lined with bright packaging.

I pushed a cart down the narrow aisles, the boxes of cereal tagged with, “Buy one, get one free!” I wanted to throw a box at the nearest shelf. Lies.

The wheels squeaked faintly on the linoleum, still slick from the day's foot traffic and a recent mop. Promotional signs dangled overhead, fluttering slightly in the recycled air from the vents—red banners promising deals that always felt like traps.

I remember when I bought one and was still charged for the other.

I grabbed pasta, tomatoes, eggs, frozen chicken, and some fresh produce.

I noticed the slight stickiness of the floor where someone had spilled juice. My mind wandered: the office, the tension, I shook my head as if to physically knock away the memory.

The spill left a faint orange sheen under the lights, tacky under my shoe soles. A toddler in the next aisle wailed briefly, quickly hushed; the sound echoed off the high ceilings, mixing with the low hum of fridges and distant trolley rattles.

I walked past the lemonade powder box, the brand I liked. It came in strawberry now. My hand hovered. Should I take it? It’s not healthy.

I should take it. I shouldn’t. I argued silently with myself before grabbing two boxes.

The boxes felt lightweight, crinkling under my fingers; the artificial strawberry scent wafted up faintly when I shook one, sweet and chemical, promising comfort.

As I continued shopping, I noticed a couple quietly arguing over bread near the bakery. The man gestured wildly with a baguette; the woman shook her head, a kid chasing a cart, the soft clatter of cans falling in a basket. I focused on the normalcy of it all, trying to anchor myself.

The bakery section glowed warmer, heat lamps humming softly; the argument carried low, tense murmurs—ordinary frustration that felt worlds away from my own secrets.

A man walked past, everything in his cart green, apples, lettuce, broccoli. He was one of those people who’d make you feel guilty for eating a chocolate bar. I shot him a glare that he definitely did not notice.

His cart rattled past, wheels steady; the crisp snap of fresh leaves brushing against each other as he turned the corner. My own cart felt heavier suddenly, loaded with small rebellions.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The stress from the office clinging to my shoulders.

“Ohhh,” I gasped as I grabbed three boxes of pancake mix. Excitement mingled with relief. The ordinary act of shopping felt like a small victory.

The pancake boxes stacked neatly, cardboard cool against my palms.

My phone rang as I reached for a carton of milk.

Mum.

Of course.

I answered before she could hang up again. “Hi, Mother.”

“Liana,” she said immediately, voice sharp with irritation. “That dog is back.”

I smiled despite myself. “Which dog?”

“You know which dog. That woman two houses down, the one with the awful red hair and no manners. Her dog keeps coming into my garden and doing its business.”

Her words tumbled out familiar, unchanged—like stepping back into a well-worn conversation from before everything shattered. The store noise faded slightly; I could almost smell her kitchen tea brewing on the other end.

I closed my eyes. Same complaint. Different timeline. Different life.

“Mum,” I said gently, "I don't think dogs don’t understand where they are and they're not supposed to go.”

“Well, she does,” Mum snapped. “And yet here I am, cleaning up after an animal that isn’t mine. Again.”

I steered my cart toward the checkout, listening as she vented like someone who was personally wronged.

“You should talk to her,” I suggested.

“I did,” Mum said. “She said it wasn’t her dog.”

“Is it her dog?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is her dog.”

“Exactly!” Mum said triumphantly. “Finally, someone with sense.”

I laughed quietly, earning a curious look from the cashier. For a moment, everything felt better, normal.

The cashier's scanner beeped rhythmically—beep, beep—as items slid across; the plastic bags rustled, and the faint scent of rain clung to my coat from outside.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Mum asked, suspicion creeping in her voice.

“You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly. “Just work.”

She hummed. “You always say that. Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

The words landed heavier than she knew.

I promised myself I wouldn’t. I couldn’t afford to.

We hung up shortly after. Mum was still muttering about the woman in her book club whose daughter had come home pregnant. She is in college.

I paid for my groceries and stepped back into the cold London evening, bags cutting into my palms.

The doors whooshed shut behind me; outside air hit sharp and damp, carrying the wet-earth smell of recent rain and distant exhaust. Streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, orange halos shimmering.

The streets glistened from the afternoon rain.

Streetlights flickered one by one. A taxi sped past, drowning out the faint sound of a street musician playing a battered guitar.

Music from nearby apartments drifted down the street.

I forced my mind back to the present, resisting the urge to dwell on last night, on him.

Back in my flat, I unpacked slowly. Put the pasta into the cupboard, placed the tomatoes into the fridge, and arranged everything in their rightful place.

The fridge door sucked shut with a soft pop; cold air brushed my face as I slotted items in neat rows.

I washed my hands after I was done. I noticed the leftover pasta salad and garlic bread in the fridge. I popped it in the microwave and watched a reunion show while I ate, half-listening, half-lost in thought.

Then my mind betrayed me. Raphael.

His name slid into my thoughts uninvited. The way he said mine. The way he watched without making me uncomfortable.

One night doesn’t mean anything.

Still… curiosity got the best of me.

I leaned over to the center table, grabbed my laptop, and opened it, telling myself this was nothing.

I typed into the search bar.

Raphael.

I stared at it, then snorted softly. That’s absurd.

This is pointless.

I hit search anyway.

The results were exactly what I expected. Random profiles. A sculptor in Italy. A dentist in Manchester. A fitness influencer who definitely skips leg day. Lawyers. Men with gym selfies and motivational quotes.

See? Nothing.

Then my eyes caught it.

A small panel on the right side of the screen.

Famous people named Raphael. I frowned. Curiosity pricked at the edge of my thoughts.

I clicked.

The page loaded slowly, and for half a second, I was annoyed at myself for even entertaining this.

Then his face appeared.

Sharp jaw. Jet black hair. Hazel eyes I recognized instantly.

The same calm, controlled expression. The same man who watched me like a piece of art.

My breath left me in a single, stunned exhale.

Raphael Blackthorne.

My jaw dropped. And the bread in my mouth fall out.

The name sank in like ice water.

CEO and Founder of Oraion Technologies.

Industry: Cybersecurity.

Headquarters: London.

Oraion. Blaise Corps’ biggest rival.