The Missing Piece

CHAPTER 1

ROSE'S POV

“Oh, Senator Durian’s here too... wealthy motherfuckers,” I muttered under my breath, snapping a picture of him stepping out of his limousine, surrounded by a cluster of sycophants. His suit looked like it cost more than my rent for the year. I tugged at the thin strap of my camera bag and stepped deeper into the shadows by the hedge. “How predictable. A scandalous party with the usual corrupt suspects.”

I checked the screen of my camera. Shots of influencers, politicians, and socialites graced the gallery. Not bad, but not good enough. My editor wanted something exclusive, something that would make headlines, and honestly, so did I.

“Come on, Rose,” I whispered to myself. “You can do better than this.”

Through the side entrance, a waiter pushed a cart laden with champagne flutes. I straightened up. The villa’s back entrance. My chance.

My best friend and occasional partner in crime, Amy, had warned me not to take risks. "Stick to photographing guests outside. No sneaking around, Rose. I’m serious." Yeah, right. As if standing on the sidelines was going to save my job.

I exhaled sharply, pulling my hood low over my face, and strode across the manicured lawn. My heart was pounding as I slipped past the door.

The hallway was dimly lit and impossibly grand, with walls lined in gold-framed paintings. Even the faint scent of the place screamed money. I paused, listening. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoed from another room. My window of opportunity was slim.

“You’ve got this,” I muttered under my breath.

I pushed further into the villa, clutching my camera like a lifeline. Most of the doors I tried were locked. Then, finally, one opened.

It was a study—spacious, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy oak desk in the center. Jackpot.

“This is it,” I whispered, scanning the room for anything incriminating. My eyes fell on a stack of folders on the desk. I reached for them, flipping through. Property deeds. Contracts. Something about offshore accounts. Not quite the smoking gun I needed.

Then I saw it. A photograph in a sleek black frame, half-hidden beneath a pile of papers.

My breath caught.

It was him—Damien Sterling, the infamous billionaire heir to the Sterling fortune. But it wasn’t just him. He was standing next to a woman, her arm linked through his, smiling as though they shared some private joke.

I froze. My hands began to tremble as I lifted the photograph for a closer look. It couldn’t be. But it was.

Lily.

My sister, Lily.

The sister who had vanished from my life years ago without a trace.

“What the hell?” I whispered. My head spun. How? Why?

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

I yelped, dropping the photo as a voice cut through the air. Turning sharply, I came face-to-face with him. Damien Sterling.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes cold and sharp. He didn’t look surprised to see me—more annoyed than anything else.

My heart pounded in my chest. I scrambled for an excuse, but his gaze pinned me in place like a hawk watching a mouse.

“Well?” he asked, his voice calm, almost amused.

I held up the photograph, my hands trembling so hard I thought I might drop it. “Who is this?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

Damien leaned against the desk, his arms crossed as though he had all the time in the world. His brow arched, that damn smirk tugging at his lips. “Why is that any of your concern?”

I tightened my grip on the photo, the edges digging into my palms. “Just answer the question.”

His smirk deepened, infuriatingly calm. “You’re very bold for someone trespassing in my private study. Why are you asking about her? Do you know the person in the picture?”

“No,” I snapped, too quickly. My throat burned with the lie. “I don’t know her.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because—” The words caught in my throat. I faltered, then forced myself to meet his eyes. “ Just tell me who she is and why you have a picture with her.”

He straightened, his casual posture vanishing as he stepped closer. The intensity in his dark eyes made my stomach twist. “You’re quite persistent for someone who claims not to know her. I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying!” My voice cracked with anger, but I didn’t care. I clutched the photograph tighter, wishing I could burn a hole through him with my glare. “If you don’t tell me who she is—or where she is—I swear I’ll walk out of this room and tell everyone you’re a human trafficker or worse!”

His smirk disappeared. “Human trafficker?” he repeated, his tone slow and deliberate. “All because you saw a photograph on my desk?”

“Where is she?” I pressed, ignoring the knot of fear tightening in my chest.

He stepped closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the weight of his presence. “Why are you assuming she’s with me? A photograph doesn’t prove anything.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My heart was pounding too loud in my ears, my instincts screaming at me to run. My gaze flicked toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

I bolted. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I ran for the door, every nerve in my body screaming for escape.

“Enough!” His voice thundered, and before I could reach the door, his hand clamped around my arm like a vice.

“Let me go!” I shouted, twisting, pulling, doing anything to break free, but his grip didn’t budge.

“Not until you calm down.” His voice was maddeningly even, his dark eyes locked on mine with unnerving calm.

“Calm down?” I barked, my chest heaving. “You’re hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is!”

He didn’t reply. Instead, his hand shifted, his fingers pressing against the side of my neck in a way that made my knees buckle.

The world tilted. My vision blurred, and then everything went dark.