Page 59 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

He leaves the tray again.

Polished silver. Still-warm croissants. A glass of pressed orange juice, the kind that burns slightly in the throat. Fresh strawberries arranged like a promise I don’t ask for. And the flowers, always the flowers.

Today they are pale peonies. Soft, almost translucent. Fragile enough to bruise under their own weight.

The note is tucked under the linen napkin, folded once. Another long meeting. Stay close today. —L.

I stare at it.

Don’t smile.

Don’t touch the tray.

The penthouse is too silent. No music playing low in the background. No sound of Lucian pacing in the next room, murmuring to someone on a secure line. The screens in the wall are dimmed. His chair is pushed in.

He hasn’t just left for a meeting.

He’s disappeared again.

I pad barefoot across the marble floor, hair still damp from my shower, robe tied loosely at my waist. The entire place gleams like it has been wiped clean in the night. I used to find that comforting.

Now it just feels…staged.

Controlled.

Like the world has been arranged around me as a performance. A kind one. A beautiful one. But a performance, nonetheless.

***

By midmorning, I am curled on the couch with my laptop open, biting my nail and pretending to work through Finch Corp’s legal audit schedule. But I’m not really reading.

I’m thinking about the gala. The whispers. The file I found in his drawer. The look on Lucian’s face when I’d confronted him.

You’re safer not knowing.

The words keep repeating like a glitch in a system.

My inbox pings.

Not a new message.

A draft.

The subject line is blank, but the time stamp has changed. Seconds ago.

I open it.

The message isn’t from Lucian. Or Finch Corp. Or anyone I work with.

It is from her.

Lina.

A tech journalist I’d met during a summit in Berlin over a year ago. We’d spoken briefly weeks back at the last gala—she’d posed as just another guest, friendly and vague. I hadn’t seen her since.

But now her message stares back at me, raw and unfinished:

Look deeper into the encrypted folders.

Follow the kids.

Don’t trust anyone.

Not even him.

My chest tightens.

I read it three times before closing the laptop, like the act of shutting it would also shut the panic crawling up my spine.

Not even him.

But she doesn’t know Lucian. She doesn’t understand. He isn’t perfect, he is closer to impossible—but he is mine. He protects me. Keeps me grounded. Keeps me safe.

Doesn’t he?

***

The robe is off now. Replaced by black high-waisted slacks, a tucked-in navy blouse, and bare feet against the cold tile. I sit at Lucian’s desk, hands hovering over the keyboard. He hasn’t locked it properly. Not all of it.

He has layers. Levels of encryption, barriers most couldn’t break without military-grade access.

But months ago, back when he trusted me more than he feared the world, I’d watched him type an old password into one of his private terminals. A fallback key, he said.

I remember it.

I type it in.

Welcome back, L.D.

The dashboard loads. Clean. Minimalist. Five panels.

One labeled “Archive Metadata.”

I click.

The logs are dense. Time-stamped folders. Server locations. Obfuscated tags. But patterns start to emerge. Auction flags. Transfer slips. IDs matching shell organizations I’d seen listed on the memo I wasn’t supposed to find.

And the names—

God.

The names.

Senators. Diplomats. CEOs. At least six names I’d seen on national broadcasts just this week. The kind of men who chaired foundations for “girls in tech.” The kind who spoke about “opportunity” and “giving back.”

I click on one folder.

A string of coded transactions pops up.

Product \#0403—Assigned to Nairobi rotation Client: Redmask\_09—Confirmed bid: 117,000 USD Notes: Marketed as blind, exceptional coding skillset

I stop breathing.

Product.

Blind.

My throat clenches.

I back out of the folder. Fast.

Then sit there in the too-quiet office, heart thudding in my chest like a guilty verdict. The cursor blinks in the corner of the screen. Waiting for my next move. Like the system knew what I’d just seen.

I don’t know the full picture yet.

But the corners are starting to bleed.

And the illusion Lucian built—the safety, the silence, the curated affection—it’s cracking beneath me.

Because if these files are real…and they aren’t just for observation…then someone isn’t just watching.

Someone is involved.

And someone is making sure I never knew.

I shut the laptop slowly and look around the penthouse.

And for the first time since stepping into Lucian’s world….

I don’t feel safe; I feel surrounded.

***

The car is silent on our way to a gala.

Not quiet—silent.

Like everything between us has congealed into performance.

Lucian sits beside me, immaculate in a black tux, bowtie razor-straight, cufflinks sharp enough to cut. His thigh brushes mine. His hand rests near my leg, close enough to imply affection, but not touching.

We look like power. Like elegance. Like unity.

But I know better.

He hasn’t asked what I did today.

He doesn’t know I’d found the folder.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he is always five steps ahead knowing, watching, and containing.

I wear the dress he left for me on the bed that morning. Slate silver, backless, silk. My earrings match. My smile doesn’t.

He glances at me once.

“You look perfect.”

I don’t thank him.

***

The Androis Hotel is made for appearances. Champagne towers. Gold-leafed ceiling work. Guests with surnames that open vaults.

Lucian’s hand slides around my waist as we step inside, fingers resting possessively against the small of my back. The room swallows us whole—light and movement and curated awe.

We smile at cameras. Shake hands with predators in suits. I kiss cheeks and thank donors and play the role of the woman who has it all.

The role I used to want.

But now, every word feels like a script I haven’t written.

Lucian’s grip stays firm. Present. Unyielding. I know he is watching the room for threats. But I also know he is watching me.

And for the first time, I wonder if there is a difference.

***

Later, in the hotel’s private lounge, all dark velvet and poured whisky, it breaks.

I break.

“Don’t hand me another drink,” I say, setting mine down untouched. “Don’t guide me through another room like I’m porcelain.”

Lucian turns from the bar, expression unreadable. “What is it you want from me tonight, Vera?”

I stand. Meet his eyes.

“I want you to stop protecting me long enough to tell me what the hell is going on.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then: “You don’t want that.”

“Yes,” I say, stepping closer. “I do.”

His jaw tenses. “You think you’re ready for what I deal with? You’d unravel in a second, Vera.”

My laugh cracks like glass.

“Then why are you unraveling?”

His eyes darken—and for the briefest second, I see something exposed. Not rage. Not power.

Fear.

And then it is gone.

He closes the space between us in one slow step. One hand on my waist, not soft. His voice low.

“Don’t mistake silence for fragility.”

“Don’t mistake me for someone who’ll stay quiet forever.”

Our faces are inches apart. The tension coils so tight I can taste it.

His breath is warm against my cheek. But he doesn’t kiss me.

He just stares like he is memorizing something he knows he’ll have to let go.

And then he says nothing at all.

***

Back at the penthouse, I don’t speak.

Neither does he.

We move through the space like ghosts—familiar, haunted, unfinished. I slip out of my heels, peel the dress from my body, and curl into bed without waiting for him to follow.

But I hear him moving.

He doesn’t undress.

He doesn’t reach for me.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, back to me, the weight of the world hanging off his shoulders like armor he can’t take off.

“Say something,” I whisper into the dark.

He doesn’t.

But after a long moment, he leans down and presses his lips to my forehead—soft, reverent.

Like a goodbye.

Then he stands. And walks out of the room.

By the time I wake, he is gone again.

But the surveillance light on the bedroom wall blinks.

Once. Then twice.

Always watching.

And I finally understand the difference.

He isn’t just protecting me; he is managing me. Like a secret or a possession.

I used to think the penthouse was beautiful.

Now I realize it’s sterile.

Flawless, yes. Minimalist, yes. But nothing here was chosen for warmth. It was chosen for surveillance. For precision. For control.

The floors gleam like marble inside a mausoleum. The walls don’t echo. And every surface reflects me back in pieces.

I notice something new this morning—tiny, almost invisible, tucked into the corner of the bedroom ceiling. A motion tracker. Sleek. Black. Not one of the usual cameras Lucian leaves on to make me feel “safe.”

It wasn’t here a week ago.

There’s another, I realize, in the corner of the hallway. And maybe more I haven’t noticed yet.

The truth is, I’ve stopped reacting.

Not out of submission.

But strategy.

Because silence works both ways.

And if Lucian wanted me to remain unaware, he should’ve made the illusion just a little less perfect.

***

Back home, I open my laptop again. Quiet. Alone.

The draft message Lina left is still in my inbox, unchanged since morning. But the deeper I go into Lucian’s archives, the more I understand what she meant by follow the kids.

The coded transactions are more than monetary.

They are movement logs. Timed metadata tied to geolocation signals. At first glance, they looked like routine supply chain entries.

Until I recognize the names of rural hubs disguised as tech outreach programs. Places in West Africa, Southeast Asia, parts of Eastern Europe.

One labeled “AdaCode Fellows—female, 13+—Lagos Rotation.” Another: “STEMHope—South Asia Reassignments—J Market approval.”

J Market.

My hand trembles slightly as I type that into the internal network.

Access denied.

I try again.

Access granted.

Inside: a database. Password protected. Biometric authentication required.

That’s where the wall hits.

But I’d seen enough.

The rot wasn’t just under the surface.

It is built into the foundation.

And Lucian—whatever his intentions, however noble the justification—isn’t protecting me anymore.

He is curating me.

Shaping what I see. Managing what I touch. Giving me just enough truth to keep me dependent, but not enough to make me dangerous.

He doesn’t want a partner; he wants a protected possession.

A secret behind bulletproof glass.

***

That night, I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering beneath me like a trap disguised as a gift.

Lucian’s scent still lingers on the collar of the robe he’d left on the bed. The wine he poured before vanishing again still sits half-full on the kitchen island. The surveillance light blinks in rhythm.

Watching.

Always watching.

I open a new email draft.

To no one.

I type two words: “I see.”

Then delete them.

Because I’m not ready to be seen seeing.

Not yet.

Instead, I open a hidden folder inside my encrypted drive and begin saving copies of everything I’d touched today—metadata logs, transaction codes, a screenshot of the “J Market” prompt, Lina’s draft message.

Breadcrumbs.

Tiny digital rebellions.

He’d built a cage so soft, I almost forgot it was steel.

But even a woman in a silk collar will pull against it once she learns the truth.

And tonight, I don’t cry.

I don’t scream.

I just prepare.

Because I can feel it now.

Something is coming.

And this time, I won’t let it break me quietly.