Crossed Lines

Chapter 1

Elara’s POV

The coffee was perfect.

Not the kind of perfect that came from an overpriced espresso machine or a barista with a sleeve of ironic tattoos. No, this was the quiet, honest kind. Freshly ground beans, a steady pour, and just enough sugar to make the bitterness hum instead of bite.

I cupped the mug between my palms and let the steam curl into my face. Outside the wide kitchen window, morning light spilled over the sleepy Washington suburb I’d chosen like a sanctuary. No paparazzi. No scheming relatives. No whispers about “the Duval’s fortune.”

My laptop sat open on the countertop. Two tabs were visible: one for Byte & Beam, the small software consulting firm I co-owned with Hailey, and another that looked, to any casual observer, like an empty email inbox. But behind three layers of encryption, a different screen waited, one with incoming pings, each marked with a symbol only I can recognize.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I ignored it. The only people who called me this early were my stepmother, my stepsister, or a client with no concept of time zones. One group was infinitely worse than the other.

My stepmother, Clarisse, had called twice last night, leaving voicemails dripping with feigned sweetness. We just want to check in, dear. It’s been too long. Which could only mean that she has found another angle to pry into my life.

My chest tightened at the memory of the last time I’d let them “check in.” It had been two years ago, in my father’s marble-floored study, the smell of his cologne still clinging to the air. I’d walked in expecting a family dinner only to be ushered into the study. Clarisse and Ava, her daughter, were seated like vultures, a stack of legal documents between them.

Clarisse had smiled, that slow, poisonous smile and slid the papers across the desk. I watched her plump red lips as it moved. “It's just a little adjustment to the trust fund, darling. For the good of the family”, she said. Ava had looked at me with those bored, glittering eyes, tapping a well manicured nail on the table as if waiting for me to sign away my own blood.

That was the night I realized the house I grew up in had never been a home, just a polished stage for other people’s greed.

A soft knock pulled me from the memory.

“Open up, Elara! I brought muffins before I eat them all.”

I smiled despite myself and set my coffee down. Only Hailey would dare show up unannounced before 8 a.m. She was my neighbor, my unofficial watchdog, and the closest thing I had to a sister, if only sisters came with a loud laugh and an unshakable talent for reading people.

She swept into the kitchen with a bakery bag and a pair of sunglasses pushed into her messy bun. “You’re welcome,” she said, plopping the bag onto the counter. “Blueberry. Still warm.”

I took one and bit into it. “You know bribery is unnecessary.”

“Bribery?” She leaned on the counter, eyeing me. “I call it self-preservation. You’ve been holed up in here for three days. And don’t tell me it’s just work, your face says you’ve been dodging the Duvel's circus again.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t answer.

“That bad?” she pressed.

“Worse. Clarisse called twice last night.”

Hailey groaned. “Let me guess, ‘for the good of the family’?”

I smiled faintly. “You know the script.”

She studied me for a beat, then said, “You need to get out more. Meet people. Preferably the kind who don’t want to drain your bank account or your sanity”.

“No, perhaps you have to come to the office instead of working remotely” she mumbled.

I laughed softly and reached for my coffee. “I’m fine, Hailey. I like my life exactly as it is.”

But as I turned to the counter, my laptop chimed, the subtle encrypted alert only I could see. Another client request. My pulse quickened despite myself.

One tap, and the details unfolded:

> Urgent: System breach detected. Level Red. ShadowByte recommended.

Client: CrossTech

I froze. Of all the companies in the country, it had to be his. Damon Cross. Billionaire tech magnate. Business shark. The man who once dismissed my work in a single, lazy sentence during a conference I hadn’t even wanted to attend.

I could still remember the exact words, because they had been delivered with the kind of arrogant certainty only a man with too much money and too little humility could manage: "Impressive code for a hobbyist."

Hobbyist.

I clicked “decline” without hesitation. Some clients weren’t worth the money, not even his kind of money.

Some storms you could see on the horizon. This one had a name, a face, and a voice I’d sworn I’d never hear again.