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.

Liana's POV

I didn't sleep.

Not properly.

I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, watching headlights from passing cars crawl across the cracks like slow-moving insects. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed headlines, and Raphael Blackthorne's face was calm, unreadable, and dangerous.

His touch ghosted over my skin, phantom heat that wouldn't fade. Shame burned hotter than fear: I'd let the enemy in, literally, and now the memory was fraying at the edges like cheap paper.

By morning, exhaustion had settled into my bones.

I dressed mechanically. Black trousers. White blouse. Hair twisted into a bun so tight it pulled at my scalp. Armor. That's what clothes are now.

At Blaise Corps, the air felt heavier than usual.

The lobby screens flickered through performance metrics and smiling stock photos.

I scoffed.

Lucy waved the moment she saw me.

"There you are," she chirped, falling into step beside me. "You look wiped. Late night?"

I forced a yawn. "Something like that."

Her eyes lingered on my face a second too long.

We reached the elevators. Brian slid in just before the doors closed, breathless, with his tie crooked.

"Morning, ladies."

His gaze snagged on me and stayed there.

I didn't look back.

As the lift ascended, Lucy leaned closer. "Graham's been asking questions already."

My pulse ticked up. "About?"

She shrugged. "Permissions. Access hierarchies. He mentioned your name."

Again.

I smiled thinly. "I'm flattered."

Lucy laughed. Brian didn't.

On our floor, the office buzzed with tension. IT staff hovered near the server room. Graham's glass office door was shut. That was never a good sign.

I logged in and went straight to work.

The discrepancy from yesterday was still there, buried deep, timestamped wrong by milliseconds. Sloppy if you knew what to look for.

I started mapping access patterns.

Someone had been piggybacking credentials. Short bursts. Off-hours. Always routed cleanly enough to point back at me if anyone followed the trail.

Clever.

But they'd underestimated one thing.

Me.

I built a shadow protocol beneath my usual workflow. Nothing flashy. No alarms. Just mirrored processes and silent flags that logged everything twice, once where the system expected it, and once where only I knew to look.

If someone touched my files again, I'd see it.

A shadow moved in my peripheral vision.

Brian.

"You're intense today," he said lightly. "Everything okay?"

I didn't look up. "Just working."

"You always say that." He leaned on my desk. Too close. "Lucy's worried."

That made me glance up.

"She didn't say that to me."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She didn't have to."

I straightened in my chair. "Brian, if you have something to say, say it."

He hesitated. A flicker of something, nerves, maybe guilt, passed over his face.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just looking out for you.."

Then he walked away.

At ten-thirty, Graham summoned me.

Again.

His office smelled faintly of cologne and stale coffee. He didn't offer me a seat.

"I've reviewed your recent access activity," he said, fingers steepled. "You've been busy."

"Doing my job," I replied evenly.

He smiled. It was thin.

When I stepped out of his office, my hands were shaking.

I exhaled and walked back to my seat.

I barely sat before my phone buzzed-a sharp vibration against my thigh like a warning shot.

Unknown number.

Hello!-R

My thumb froze. Before I could reply, another buzz-same number.

Did you get it?

My breath caught.

Before I could process, a courier stepped onto our floor, scanning desks until his eyes landed on me. He walked over, holding a long black box like it contained something fragile.

"Liana Bennett?" he asked.

Every head in the office lifted.

"Yes," I said slowly.

He handed it to me and left without another word.

The box was heavier than it looked.

Lucy appeared at my side almost instantly. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Who's the lucky guy?"

I didn't answer.

I hadn't moved yet.

The box was matte black, no logo, no brand name. Just a slim silver ribbon tied neatly.

I opened it.

White lilies.

Perfect. Pristine. Not a single petal bruised.

The scent rose clean and overpowering white flowers that symbolized purity, rebirth, second chances. In my flat they would have felt hopeful. Here, on my desk surrounded by enemies, they felt like a blade wrapped in silk.

The card rested between the stems.

I hesitated, then picked it up.

No name.

Just four words, written in precise, elegant print.

Hello! Hope you're good?

My fingers curled slightly around the card.

Lucy squealed. "That's so romantic! Do you have a secret admirer?"

Around us, people murmured. Brian stared at the flowers like they'd personally offended him.

Graham glanced out of his glass office, eyes narrowing before he turned away again.

I forced a smile. "Looks like it."

But my pulse had started to race.

I slid the card back into the box and pushed it aside, pretending to admire the arrangement while my mind sprinted ahead.

The lilies stared back, innocent white against the black box. But innocence was a lie I'd learned the hard way. Someone was watching. Close. Too close.

Lunch came and went. I didn't eat.

Lucy tried to coax me out. Curry. Laughter. Normalcy.

I declined.

By mid-afternoon, the trap was set.

I seeded a file, nothing incriminating on the surface. Just a little trap.

Across the office, Lucy was on her phone again, smiling too brightly. Brian paced near IT. Graham hadn't emerged once since the delivery.

Everything felt... tightened. Like a noose being adjusted millimeter by millimeter.

By the time work ended, the flowers were still on my desk.

I debated leaving them behind.

I didn't.

Outside, London was damp and grey, the air thick with rain. I carried the box home like contraband, every step echoing louder than it should.

In my flat, I set the flowers on the kitchen counter and stared at them.

They didn't belong here.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

The screen lit my face in the dim kitchen. My thumb hovered over the message.

The message loaded.

Did you get it?

Then, before I could breathe another photo attached: me, leaving the hotel at dawn, rain in my hair, coat clutched tight. Shot from across the street. Someone had been there.

My heart slammed against my ribs.