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.

Raphael's POV

The penthouse felt too large at 3:17 a.m.

London glittered below the glass wall, rain-smeared roads, the Thames a black mirror catching tower lights. I stood with my back to the view, tumbler in hand, ice long gone. The whisky sat untouched on my tongue; it couldn't burn away the loop in my head.

Liana.

I didn't even know her last name until this afternoon.

One night. One reckless, perfect night in a Shoreditch bar that smelled of spilled gin and wet coats. She'd claimed the end stool like she owned the shadows, auburn hair escaping a bun, whiskey eyes scanning the room with the quiet wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust easy smiles.

I'd noticed her the second she walked in.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was, in that sharp, unpolished way that hits harder than perfection. I noticed her because she looked like someone carrying something heavy and refusing to let it show. Shoulders squared. Chin up. A small, private smile when the bartender made a dry joke. She laughed once, it was low, surprised, like she hadn't expected to and the sound cut straight through the noise.

I should have stayed at the bar and minded my own business.

Instead I moved closer.

"Mind if I join you?"

She'd raised an eyebrow. "It depends. Why are you here?"

I'd told her the truth: bored, curious, drawn to the woman hiding in the corner even though she insisted she wasn't.

She hadn't laughed in my face. She'd let me stay.

Conversation had come easy-too easy. Music, London secrets, the absurdity of corporate life. She was quick, sarcastic, flirty in a way that felt like a challenge rather than an invitation. Every time she leaned in to speak over the music, her breath brushed my ear, warm and faintly gin-sweet. I'd forgotten the time, the crowd, everything except the way her eyes lit when she let her guard slip for half a second.

When she'd said yes to leaving the bar, I hadn't questioned it. I'd just taken her hand small, cool from the rain and led her through the wet streets to the hotel around the corner.

The room had smelled of clean sheets and expensive soap. She'd kissed me like she was starving, like the night was the only thing keeping something worse at bay. I'd matched her hunger, careful not to push past where she led. Her nails on my back. She gasped when I found the spot below her ear. The way she'd whispered my name like a question and then like an answer.

It was dangerously perfect and she left before dawn.

She'd left a note on the hotel pad: "Thanks."

No number. No promise of more.

Just "Thanks" and the faint imprint of her perfume on the pillow.

I'd stared at it for longer than I'd admit.

By noon the next day I'd found her.

Not through hacking or surveillance-nothing that dramatic. A quick search on LinkedIn for "Liana" + "data analyst" + "London" + a few keywords from our conversation (spreadsheets, corporate mundanity, sarcastic humor). Her profile was sparse, professional photo, Blaise Corps badge. Liana Bennett.

I could have stopped there.

I didn't.

I'd sent the first message because I didn't want to scare her. " Hello!"

No reply.

I'd sent flowers.

White lilies-clean, elegant, no over-the-top roses. A card with the safest thing I could think of: "Hello! Hope you're good?"

I wanted her to know it wasn't a one-night thing for me.

I wanted her to feel seen.

Now it was past three in the morning and my phone sat silent on the coffee table.

Jackson had confirmed the delivery at 11:17 a.m. She'd opened the box in the office. Half the floor had stared. She'd carried them home instead of leaving them behind.

That small detail kept replaying.

She hadn't thrown them away.

She hadn't left them for someone else to claim.

She'd taken them with her.

I crossed to the bar cart, poured another finger of whisky. The liquid caught the low light, amber refracting gold.

I opened the phone again. The photo I'd taken. The one I pulled from a street cam feed I'd accessed, Her leaving the hotel at dawn: coat clutched against the rain, head down, auburn strands escaping the bun. Alone. Beautiful.

Sending it would be a mistake.

Too intense. Too soon.

Was it creepy?

But the silence was louder than any reply.

I thumbed the screen.

Message sent.

Then the photo.

My heart gave one hard thud.

I set the phone face-down and returned to the window.

Somewhere in Hackney, Liana Bennett was looking at her screen.

Seeing the flowers on her counter.

Reading "Did you get it?"

Opening the attachment.

Seeing herself captured in the rain, unaware.

She'd either block me, delete everything, and disappear from my life forever...

...or she'd answer.

And if she answered-if she let me in even a fraction, I'd spend every day proving I was worth the risk.

I lifted the glass in a silent toast to the dark city.

To the woman who'd walked away without looking back.

Come on, Liana.

Talk to me.

Liana's POV

The kitchen light buzzed overhead like a dying insect.

I stood frozen, phone in one hand, the black box of lilies still open on the counter. Their scent had turned revolting, the sweetness gone rotten in the small space.

The photo stared up from the screen: me at dawn, rain in my hair, coat clutched like a shield, walking away from the hotel.

Someone had followed me.

Someone had waited across the street with a camera.

It was too grainy but that was me.

My thumb trembled over the reply button.

The second message from the same unknown number sat right above the photo.

My heart slammed so hard I felt it in my throat. I glanced at the window, curtains drawn, but the gap between them showed only wet streetlight and rain-streaked glass. No silhouette. No movement.

Still, the back of my neck crawled.

I set the phone down like it might bite. Breathed. Once. Twice.

Think.

The flowers had arrived after the texts. Same number. Same person.

The only person I could possibly think of is Brian. No, it can't be him or it's it- wait!

Could it be..... Raphael

No, I doubt it.

But even if it was, why the photo? Why not just say "It's me?" Why make it look like surveillance?

Unless he wanted me scared.

Unless he knewI was already scared.

The lilies mocked me from the counter-white petals perfect, stems clipped at sharp angles. Purity. Renewal. Second chances.

I wanted to laugh. Or scream.

Instead I grabbed the box, carried it to the sink, and dumped the flowers in. Water hissed as I turned the tap full blast. Petals swirled down the drain like drowned secrets.

The card fluttered to the floor.

*Hello! Hope you're good?*

I crushed it under my heel.

My phone buzzed again.

I flinched so hard the edge of the counter bit into my hip.

New message. Same number.

"I didn't mean to scare you. Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you."

A pause. Three dots dancing.

Then:

"Can we talk? In person. Just us."

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Just us?

I thought of his mouth on my neck, his hands careful even when they weren't gentle, the way he'd listened-like every word I said mattered. No pressure. No rush.

I believed it then.

Now I didn't know what to believe.

Another buzz.

Tomorrow. The coffee shop on the corner of your street. 8 a.m. I'll wait. If you don't show, I won't contact you again.*

My breath caught.

He knew where I lived.

Of course he did. He'd found my name somehow. LinkedIn. It could be LinkedIn. A quick search. The internet is really helpful.

Right?

The lilies' scent still lingered, faint and accusing.

I picked up the phone. Fingers numb.

I typed one word.

"Why?"

Sent.

The three dots appeared instantly.

"Because one night wasn't enough."

I closed my eyes.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

He didn't know about the rebirth. Didn't know about the poison, the prison, the framed files, the people who'd already tried to erase me once.

He just wanted coffee.

And maybe more.

I opened my eyes.

The kitchen clock ticked past 10:00 p.m.

I had hours to decide.

Go and risk him being part of whatever was closing in.

Or stay away and risk never knowing if the one person who'd made me feel alive again was actually the safest thing in this second chance or the most dangerous.

I looked at the drain. A single white petal clung to the metal, refusing to go down.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Another message came through before I could type.

A single photo.

Not me.

Of a coffee cup. Steam rising. It was black.

His caption:

Table by the window. I'll be waiting.

I laughed short, shocked.

Then the final buzz.

"Please, Liana."

My name in his text felt like a hand on my cheek.

Soft. Dangerous.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed.

One choice.

If I went, I might get answers.

If I didn't...

My phone vibrated once more-not a text this time.

An email notification.

From an internal Blaise Corps address I didn't recognize.

Subject: Access Violation Alert – Immediate Review Required

My stomach plummeted.

I opened it.

The body was short.

Your workstation has triggered an automated security flag. All elevated permissions suspended pending audit. Report to Graham McFadden's office at 09:00 tomorrow. Failure to attend will result in immediate disciplinary action.

Attached: a screenshot of my login activity.

Timestamps matching the ones I'd flagged yesterday.

And one new entry.

Logged in at 02:47 a.m.

From my home IP.

I hadn't touched my work laptop since 7 p.m.

Someone was inside my system.

Right now.

The lilies' last petal finally slipped down the drain.

I looked at Raphael's last message. Then at the email.

Two invitations.

Two traps.

One night to choose which one would kill me first.

I picked up the phone.

Fingers steady now.

I typed three words.

"I'll be there."

Sent.

Then I turned off the kitchen light.Darkness swallowed the room.

But not the sound of my heartbeat.

Or the quiet certainty that tomorrow morning, everything would change.

Again.