1:

Rise of the pink moon

“Ughhhh” Sylvie groaned as she felt like tossing her phone across the room.

"Sylvie? Thank God. You need to get in here. Now."

"It's not even 6am, Marcus. What's so important that—"

"Myles Martins."

She paused. Myles Martins. That name that made any journalist sit up and pay full attention. Billionaire CEO, mysterious background, zero interviews in the past five years. The guy was practically a ghost with a Forbes ranking.

"What about him?"

"Big story. Career-making story. But I need to brief you in person. How fast can you get here?"

She looked down at her oversized t-shirt and wool socks. "Give me an hour."

"Make it thirty minutes. And Sylvie? This stays between us until I know we can trust you with it."

The line went dead. She stared at her phone for a moment, then ran out to make coffee. It burned her tongue, but she didn't care. This was it. This was the break she'd been working toward for three years of covering small-time corruption and petty political scandals.

She hurriedly took her shower, threw on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean sweater, then grabbed her laptop bag and headed for the door. But something made her stop at the small mirror by the entrance.

Her reflection looked tired. Dark circles under hazel eyes, light brown curls escaping from yesterday's ponytail. She looked like exactly what she was—a twenty-four-year-old journalist living on deadline stress and takeout food.

But there was something else in her reflection. Something that had been there her whole life but seemed stronger lately. An awareness that felt predatory. She shook her head and grabbed her keys. No time for weird thoughts.

The subway was its usual morning nightmare, packed with commuters who looked as thrilled to be awake as she felt. She squeezed into a corner and pulled out her phone, doing a quick search on Myles Martins.

The results were frustrating. Company press releases, a few blurry photos from charity events. The guy was forty-five billion dollars worth of mystery. His company, Martins Corporation, had interests in everything from real estate to tech to pharmaceuticals. But the man himself? Nothing personal. No family photos, no college friends selling stories to tabloids, no ex-girlfriends with tell-all books.

That kind of privacy didn't happen by accident. It took serious money and serious control to stay that invisible, especially being that wealthy.

The train lurched to a stop, and she fought her way onto the platform. Twenty minutes later, she was walking through the lobby of the New York Tribune, heading to Marcus's office on the fifteenth floor. She knocked and pushed through the door without waiting for an answer.

"Thirty-two minutes. Close enough."

Marcus looked up from his computer, and she could see the excitement in his eyes. He was forty-something, graying at the temples, and he'd been chasing big stories since before she was born. When Marcus got excited, it meant something huge was happening.

"Sit down. Coffee?"

"Already had some. What's this about?"

He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. "How much do you know about Myles Martins?"

"Rich guy. Mysterious. Owns half of Manhattan. Why?"

"Because I just got a tip that he's not what he seems. And I mean really not what he seems."

She pulled out her notepad. "What kind of tip?"

"The kind that could win us a Pulitzer. Or get us sued into oblivion if we're wrong." Marcus stood up and walked to his window, looking down at the street. "I've been working sources for months. Trying to crack the Martins empire. You know what I found?"

"What?"

"Patterns. Business deals that don't make sense. Meetings with people who shouldn't exist on any government registry. Money moving through accounts that disappear when you try to trace them." He turned back to her. "And that's just the financial stuff."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning there are rumors. Weird rumors. About what Myles Martins really is."

Sylvie felt something cold settle in her stomach. "What kind of rumors?"

Marcus walked back to his desk and pulled out a thick file folder. "Rumours that sounded insane until you start seeing the evidence. Sylvie, security footage shows him moving faster than humanly possible. Multiple witnesses who swear they've seen him do things that shouldn't be possible. And then there are the disappearances."

"What disappearances?"

"Journalists. Three of them in the past two years. All working on stories about Martins Corporation. All officially relocated for family reasons or career opportunities. But none of them have published anything since."

The cold feeling in her stomach got worse. "Marcus, this sounds—"

"Crazy. I know. But here's the thing, Sylvie. You're the right person for this story."

"Why me? You've got senior reporters with twenty years of experience."

He sat down across from her and leaned forward. "Because there's something about you that's different from the others. I can't explain it, but you see things other people don't."

That was the second time in an hour someone had mentioned something different about her. She didn't like the pattern.

"What exactly are you asking me to do?"

"Get close to him. Martins is hosting a charity gala next weekend at his estate. Perfect cover for a journalist to ask questions. I already got you credentials."

She stared at the file folder. "And if he really is as dangerous as you think?"

"Then you'll be careful. But Sylvie, if even half of what I suspect is true, this story could change everything. Not just for us, but for how people understand the world."

She thought about her rent, which was due in two weeks. About her sister Jenna, who was brilliant and talented and stuck in a dead-end job because she couldn't afford the school she wanted. About the stack of rejection letters from major publications that she kept in her desk drawer as motivation.

"What's the charity for?"

"Something called the Luna Foundation. Supports education for underprivileged kids." Marcus slid the folder across the desk. "Everything we know is in there. But Sylvie, I need you to understand something. If you take this story, there's no backing out halfway through. Whatever you find, we follow it to the end."

She picked up the folder and felt its weight in her hands. Heavy with the potential to completely change her life.

"How long do I have to decide?"

"You don't. The gala is this Saturday. If you're going to do this, we need to start preparing now."

She opened the folder and looked at the first photograph. Myles Martins at some corporate event, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. Even in the slightly blurry photo, she couldn't take her eyes off him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and short curls. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. Even through the camera lens, they looked intense. Like he was seeing something the rest of them were missing.

"Sylvie?"

She looked up at Marcus. "If he's really as dangerous as you think, why hasn't he stopped you already?"

"Maybe he doesn't know we're looking. Or maybe he's waiting to see what we find." Marcus stood up again. "But I've got a feeling that's about to change."

She closed the folder and tucked it under her arm. "Okay. I'm in."

"Good. But first, you need to call your sister."

That surprised her. "Jenna? Why?"

"Because if I'm right about Myles Martins, the next few weeks are going to get complicated. And I want to make sure the people you care about are safe."

She felt that cold feeling again, stronger this time. "Marcus, what aren't you telling me?"

He walked to his door and opened it. "Everything I know is in that file. But Sylvie? Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, get out. No story is worth your life."

She stood up and walked toward the door, but something made her turn back. "Why do you really think I'm the right person for this?"

Marcus looked at her for a long moment. "Because I think you're more like Myles Martins than either of you realizes. And that might be exactly what this story needs."

The glass elevator climbed fifty-two floors in seconds. Myles Martins stood perfectly still at the center, watching the city shrink below him. At this height, the people on the sidewalks looked like ants. Authority was clearer when you could see the whole picture.

His reflection stared back at him from the elevator's polished walls. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders filling out a

charcoal gray suit that cost more than most people's cars.

His dark skin was flawless, his short curls perfectly groomed, and his sea-green eyes showed nothing of what he was thinking. Twenty years of business had taught him to keep his thoughts locked away where no one could read them.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the top floor. The doors opened to reveal the executive level of Martins Corporation. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of Manhattan.

"Good morning, Mr. Martins."

His assistant, Patricia, was already waiting with his coffee and the morning briefing. She'd been with the company for eight years and knew better than to waste his time with small talk. She was human, like most of his employees, which meant she couldn't sense what he really was.

"The board meeting starts in ten minutes," she said, falling into step beside him. "Mr. Chen arrived early and wants to discuss the Shanghai expansion. Mrs. Rodriguez has concerns about the quarterly projections. And your father called twice this morning."

Myles stopped walking. "What did he want?"

"He didn't say. Just asked that you call him back before noon."

His father never called the office unless something was wrong. Or unless he was about to make something wrong. Myles had been running Martins Corporation for five years, but Martins Senior still acted like he owned everything, ‘including my damn life,’ he clenched his jaw.

"Tell him I'll call after the meeting," Myles said. "What else?"

"The Luna Foundation charity gala is this Saturday. We've confirmed three hundred guests, including Mayor Blackwell and Senator Hayes. The final seating chart is on your desk."

"Good. Anything else?"

Patricia hesitated for just a moment. "There was a call from a reporter. New York Tribune. She's been asking questions about the company."

"What kind of questions?"

"Detailed ones. About our offshore accounts. I told her to submit a formal request through our media relations department."

Myles felt something tighten in his chest. Journalists asking detailed questions usually meant trouble. Trouble that required careful handling.

"Get me everything we have on this reporter," he said. "Name, background, recent stories. I want it on my desk by this afternoon."

"Yes, sir."

The conference room was already full when they arrived. Twelve board members sat around a table. They were all human, ambitious, and completely unaware that who they were working for could kill them with his bare hands if he chose to.

Myles took his seat at the head of the table and looked around the room. These people thought they understood power because they controlled money. They had no idea what real power looked like.

"Let's begin," he said.

"The Shanghai deal is solid," said Chen, sliding a folder across the table. "But we need to move fast. The Chinese government won't keep the offer open indefinitely."

"What's the timeline?" Myles asked.

"Six weeks. Maybe less."

Myles nodded. Six weeks was manageable, assuming nothing else went wrong.

But lately, it felt like everything was going wrong. His father was pushing him to settle down and produce an heir. The pack elders were questioning his leadership. And now there was a reporter asking about offshore accounts.

How did she even know about that?

"Mrs. Rodriguez, you had concerns about the quarterly projections?"

Maria Rodriguez in her fifties, was one of the few board members who wasn't intimidated by his presence. She'd been with the company since before he took over, and she knew how to stand ramrod straight in the face of his intimidation.

"The numbers look good on paper," she said. "But there are some irregularities in our subsidiary spending. Money moving through accounts I can't track. It's not illegal, but it's not transparent either."

Myles kept his expression neutral, but inside he was calculating. The subsidiary accounts were how the pack funded its more sensitive operations. Security, territory maintenance, and payments to contacts who helped keep their supernatural activities hidden from human authorities. All necessary, but not the kind of expenses that belonged in public financial reports.

"Those accounts handle specialized security contracts," he said. "The details are confidential for obvious reasons."

"I understand the need for security," Rodriguez said. "But as a board member, I need to be able to verify that these expenses are legitimate business costs and not personal expenditures."

"Are you questioning my integrity, Mrs. Rodriguez?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Everyone else around the table looked uncomfortable, but Rodriguez held his gaze without flinching.

"I'm doing my job," she said. "Which is to protect the interests of our shareholders."

Myles stared at her. "I'll have our accounting department prepare a detailed breakdown for your review. Anything that can be disclosed without compromising our security operations will be included."

"Thank you."

By the time the meeting ended, Myles had made sixteen major decisions and approved expenses that would total over two hundred million dollars. It was a typical Tuesday morning.

After the board members left, Myles walked to his office and closed the door. What he really needed right now was privacy.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his father's number.

"It's about time," came the gruff voice on the other end.

"Patricia said you called. What's wrong?"

"Can't a father call his son without something being wrong?"

"You never do, so no."

Martins Senior laughed, but there was no humor in it. "We need to talk. Tonight. My office."

"I have dinner plans with—"

"Cancel them. This is pack business."

The line went dead. Myles stared at his phone for a moment, then set it aside. ‘Pack business’ usually meant bad news.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Patricia entered with a stack of documents.

"The information you requested," she said, placing a folder on his desk. "About the reporter."

Myles opened the folder and found himself looking at a photograph of a young woman with light brown curls and pretty hazel eyes. She was beautiful, but there was something intense about her expression that made him look twice.

"Sylvie Carter," he read from the attached bio. "Twenty-four years old. Investigative journalist with the New York Tribune. Specializes in corruption and financial crimes."

He flipped through the pages, scanning her recent articles. She was good at her job, that much was clear. Her stories were well-researched and thoroughly documented.

"She's been asking about our subsidiary companies," Patricia said. "Specifically about accounts that don't appear in our public filings."

"How much does she know?"

"It's hard to tell. She's been careful about her questions. But she's definitely looking for something specific."

Myles studied the photograph again. There was something about this woman that bothered him, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was the intensity in her eyes, or the way she seemed to be looking directly at the camera as if she could see through the lens to whoever might be viewing the picture.

"She'll be at the charity gala," Patricia said. "I checked the guest list. She's registered as press."

"Is she now?" Myles closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. "Interesting."

"Should I have security keep an eye on her?"

"No. Let her come. Let her ask her questions." He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city that sprawled below his tower. "Sometimes the best way to handle a problem is to get close enough to understand exactly what you're dealing with."

"Sir?"

He turned back to Patricia. "Make sure Ms. Carter has everything she needs at the gala. Good seat, access to the right people, whatever she requires to do her job."

Patricia looked confused, but she nodded. "Of course."

After she left, Myles walked back to his desk and opened the folder again. He studied Sylvie Carter's photograph, trying to understand why she seemed familiar even though he was certain they'd never met.

In his experience, that usually meant one of two things. Either she was going to be important…

Or a very serious problem.

Sylvie spread the contents of Marcus's folder across her kitchen table and stared at the mess of documents and pictures. Three cups of coffee later, she was no closer to understanding what made Myles Martins so dangerous, but she was definitely more awake.

The financial records were the most confusing part.

Martins Corporation had subsidiary companies that owned other subsidiary companies, creating a web of business relationships that would take a team of accountants weeks to untangle.

Money flowed between accounts in patterns that didn't make obvious sense, and several of the companies were registered in countries that weren't known for their transparency in business dealings.

But it was the personal information that really bothered her. Or rather, the complete lack of personal information.

"Nobody is this private," she muttered, pulling out her laptop. "Not even billionaires."

She opened a new browser window and started her own search, going deeper than the basic Google results she'd looked at earlier. Social media turned up nothing. School records from his supposed college showed no trace of him. Even the business journals that covered his company religiously had almost nothing about the man himself.

It was like Myles Martins had appeared fully formed as a billionaire CEO without any history before that point. Which was impossible, unless someone had spent a lot of money and effort making sure his past stayed buried.

Her phone buzzed with a text message. Paul.

"Hey beautiful. Been thinking about you. Coffee later?"

Sylvie stared at the message and felt her mood drop even further.

Paul Kingston had been her boyfriend for eight months, and they'd broken up three weeks ago when she finally admitted that she wasn't in love with him and never would be.

He was a nice guy, smart and funny, but there hadn't been any spark between them. Dating him had felt like going through the motions of having a relationship without actually having one.

She'd tried to let him down easy, but apparently he wasn't ready to accept that it was over.

"Can't. Working on a story," she texted back.

"Come on, Syl. Just one cup. I miss talking to you."

She put her phone face down on the table and tried to ignore it. Paul was the last thing she needed to worry about right now.

Her laptop chimed with an email notification. The subject line made her sit up straight.

"Myles Martins inquiry - Luna Foundation"

She opened the message and found a formal response from Martins Corporation's media relations department. They were pleased to hear about her interest in the Luna Foundation and would be happy to provide her with access to the charity gala this Saturday evening. A press pass would be waiting for her at the registration table.

"That was fast," she said to her empty apartment.

Most companies took days or weeks to respond to media requests, especially when journalists were asking detailed questions about their finances.

Getting a response within hours was unusual. And an invitation to their biggest social event of the year? Yup. Suspicious.

But it was also exactly what she needed.

Her phone buzzed again. Paul.

"I heard you're working on something big. Maybe I can help. I know people."

That made her look up from her laptop. Paul worked for a consulting firm that did business with half the companies in Manhattan. He did know people, and he'd helped her with sources before when they were dating. But something about his timing felt wrong.

"How did you hear I was working on something?" she texted back.

"Word gets around. You know how it is."

Word got around among journalists, sure. But he wasn't a journalist. He was a business consultant who specialized in financial analysis and strategic planning. There was no reason for him to know anything about her current assignment unless someone had told him specifically.

Her phone rang. Jenna.

"Thank God," Sylvie said, answering immediately. "I need to hear a normal voice."

"What's wrong? You sound stressed."

Jenna was two years younger than Sylvie, but sometimes she seemed like the more mature sister. She had a way of cutting through drama and getting straight to the point that Sylvie envied.

"I'm working on this story about a billionaire CEO, and something feels off about the whole thing."

"Off how?"

Sylvie looked at the scattered documents on her table. "Like he doesn't really exist. Or like someone worked really hard to make sure most of his life stays hidden."

"Maybe he's just private. Rich people can afford to be invisible if they want to."

"Maybe. But Jenna, there are rumors about him. Weird rumors. About him doing things that shouldn't be humanly possible."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "What kind of things?"

"Moving faster than humans should be able to move. Plus, he's having meetings with people who don't even show up in any government records."

Another pause. "Sylvie, you're starting to sound like one of those conspiracy theory people."

"I know how it sounds.” She groaned. “But my editor has been researching this guy for months, and three other journalists who were working on similar stories have disappeared."

"Disappeared how?"

"Officially? They relocated for family reasons or got better job offers. Unofficially? Nobody has heard from any of them since they stopped working on their Myles Martins stories."

"That's scary."

"Yeah, it is. Which is why it's good you called. I needed to check on you. Marcus thinks this story could get complicated, and I want to make sure you're safe."

"I'm fine, Syl. I'm working at the gallery, going to my art classes, living my boring little life. Nobody's going to bother me."

But that wasn't entirely true, and both sisters knew it. Jenna worked at an art gallery that barely paid her rent, and she'd been trying to get into a prestigious art school in Europe for two years.

The tuition was more money than their family had ever seen, and Jenna was too proud to ask Sylvie for help, which was kinda better because she couldn't even afford it if she wanted to. She winced at that last thought.

"Promise me you'll be careful," Sylvie said. "Don't talk to any strangers asking questions about me. Don't give out my address or phone number to anyone. And if anything weird happens, call me immediately."

"You're scaring me."

"Good. I'm scared too."

After they hung up, Sylvie went back to her research, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something important. She pulled out the photographs from Marcus's folder and spread them across the table, studying his entire demeanor.

It wasn't arrogance, exactly, though he clearly had plenty of that. It was more like he was constantly evaluating everyone around him, measuring them for some purpose that wasn't obvious to casual observers. Like a predator sizing up potential prey.

Her phone buzzed again. Paul.

"Seriously, Syl. I can help. I've done work for some of the big corporations. I might have contacts who know things about your guy."

She stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back: "What kind of things?"

"Ones you need. Doesn't show up in public records. Financial stuff, personal connections, business relationships that aren't supposed to exist officially."

That was exactly the kind of information she needed, but something about Paul's eagerness to help bothered her. He'd never shown much interest in her work when they were dating, and he'd definitely never offered to share confidential information from his consulting clients.

"Meet me at Rosario's at six," she typed. "But Paul, this has to stay between us. I'm serious."

"Of course. See you then."

She put her phone aside and went back to the photographs. She was still staring at her laptop screen when her phone rang. Marcus.

"How's the research going?"

"Confusing. I'm finding patterns, but I don't understand what they mean. And Marcus, my ex-boyfriend wants to help. He says he has contacts who might know things about Martins that aren't in public records."

"Your ex-boyfriend the business consultant?"

"Yeah. Paul Kingston."

There was a long pause. "Sylvie, be very careful about who you trust with this story. If even half of what I suspect is true, there are going to be people who don't want this information to become public."

"You think Paul might be working for someone else?"

"I think you should trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is."

After Marcus hung up, Sylvie sat at her kitchen table surrounded by documents and photographs, trying to piece together a puzzle that seemed to get more complicated with every new piece of information she found.

One thing was clear though, she was going to the charity gala on Saturday night, and she was going to get close enough to Myles Martins to figure out what he was hiding.