Is it Mark?

ARIA

The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off Zane’s exit, but her words hung in the stale air of the VIP lounge like toxic smoke.

“It gets buried.”

My blood turned to ice. I sat frozen on the leather sofa, my hand gripping the crystal water glass so hard I thought it might shatter in my palm. My heart was hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs.

Zane wasn't just a jealous wife throwing a tantrum. She was a co-conspirator. She knew about fire that erased everything. She knew exactly what kind of monster Mark Miller was because she had helped him sharpen his claws.

I looked at Mark.

I expected to see guilt. I expected to see the fear of a man whose secrets were spilling out.

Instead, I saw him sigh. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the spot where he had spilled his scotch on his trousers. He looked annoyed, like a man whose dog had just ruined an expensive rug.

"I apologize for that," Mark said, his voice smooth and dismissive. "Zane is... passionate. But she drinks too much. And when she drinks, she gets paranoid."

He looked up at me, flashing a weary, apologetic smile. It was the smile of a long-suffering victim.

"She’s jealous," Mark added, shaking his head. "She sees a woman like you—powerful, beautiful, independent—and she feels threatened. She knows she’s not on your level, Aria. It’s sad, really."

I felt bile rise in my throat.

He was doing it again. He was rewriting the narrative. Three years ago, he had told me his exes were "crazy" and "obsessive." Now, he was saying the same thing about the woman wearing my engagement ring. He used women like batteries, draining them until they were empty, and then tossing them aside the moment they sparked.

"She seemed very... certain," I said, keeping my voice cool and detached, forcing my hand not to tremble. "She said you bury your problems, Mark. That doesn't sound like business. That sounds like a threat."

Mark laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound.

"She has a flair for the dramatic," he said, walking back to the bar to refill his glass. "In this business, 'burying' someone just means outsmarting them. Zane doesn't understand the difference between business and personal feelings. That’s why she’s my wife, but she’ll never sit in the chair you’re sitting in."

He turned back to me, leaning against the mahogany bar. The charm was back in place, sliding over his face like a mask.

"But let’s forget about her," Mark said, his eyes darkening with greed. "Let’s talk about us. You mentioned a wire transfer."

"I did," I said.

"My bank details are encrypted, but I can have them sent to your phone right now," Mark said, stepping forward. He was eager. He was desperate. "We can initiate the transfer tonight. Start the partnership on the right foot."

I looked at him. He thought I was stupid. He thought twenty-five million dollars would fall at his feet because he smiled.

I stood up slowly, smoothing the red silk of my dress. I needed to get out of this room before I suffocated, but I needed to set the hook first.

"I don't think so, Mark."

Mark stopped. His smile faltered. "Excuse me?"

"I don't wire eight-figure sums based on a handshake in a hotel bar," I said, letting a hint of arrogance bleed into my voice. "And I certainly don't do it after your Chief Operating Officer just barged in here screaming about bodies."

Mark flinched. "Aria, I told you, she’s—"

"She’s a liability," I cut him off. "And if she’s running your operations, I need to know what else is messy in your company."

I walked toward him, stopping just inside his personal space. I needed him to want me, but I needed him to fear losing the money more.

"I need to see the internal accounts," I said firmly. "I need to see the physical ledgers. And I need to sign the papers in a secure location, away from the press and away from your hysterical wife."

Mark looked at me. I could see the wheels turning in his head. He needed the money desperately. He couldn't let me walk away.

"You want secure?" Mark asked, his voice dropping to a low purr. "I can do secure."

"Good," I said. "My lawyers will draft the term sheet tonight. Where do we meet tomorrow?"

Mark licked his lips. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my neck.

"Why don't you come to my place?" he suggested. "I have a home office. It’s quiet. Private. We can go over the numbers, share a bottle of wine, and sign the papers without any interruptions."

"Your office?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My penthouse," Mark corrected. "432 Park Avenue. The view is... inspiring."

My breath hitched.

432 Park Avenue.

The address hit me like a physical blow to the stomach.

It wasn't his penthouse. It was mine.

I had bought that apartment six months before the wedding. I had picked out the marble countertops. I had chosen the velvet curtains. I had designed the nursery in the spare room—the nursery that was never used.

He was living in my house. He was sleeping in my bedroom. And now, he was inviting me back there to steal the rest of my money.

I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the sharp pain to keep my face neutral.

"A penthouse," I said, forcing a smirk. "Predictable. But efficient."

"It’s more than efficient," Mark said, stepping closer. "It’s where I do my best work. Come over at seven. I’ll have my personal chef prepare dinner. Just the two of us. We can celebrate properly."

He reached out and touched my arm. His fingers burned my skin through the silk.

"Unless," he whispered, "you're afraid to be alone with me?"

I looked into his eyes. Brown, empty, and soulless.

"I’m not afraid of you, Mark," I lied. "I’ll see you at 7pm."

I walked out of the hotel without looking back.

The wind outside had picked up, turning the New York night into a freezing tunnel, but I was already cold. My bones felt like ice.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb the moment I stepped outside. The back door opened automatically.

I climbed inside and collapsed against the cool leather seat. The door clicked shut, sealing me in safety, cutting off the noise of the city.

"Airport," I told the driver, though I wasn't going anywhere yet. "Just drive."

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the sea of yellow taxis.

I pulled a tablet from the seat pocket. It was already ringing.

I accepted the call. Maya’s face filled the screen. She was in her office in Chicago, the skyline visible behind her, her face illuminated by the blue glow of her monitors. She looked terrified.

"You’re alive," Maya breathed out, her shoulders sagging with relief. "I was watching the biometrics on your watch. Your heart rate spiked to 140. What happened?"

"I finally faced my fears," I whispered, leaning my head back against the headrest. "And I met his wife."

"Zane?" Maya frowned. "Did they suspect anything?"

"She senses something fishy," I said. "Zane told me he buries his problems. She threatened me, Maya. She basically admitted they killed Elara."

Maya’s jaw tightened. "We knew she was complicit. This just confirms it. We can use that."

I turned my head to look out the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red.

"He invited me to dinner tomorrow," I said softly. "To sign the papers."

"Okay," Maya said, typing something on her keyboard. "Dinner is fine. Public place? A restaurant? I’ll have a security detail at the next table."

"No," I said. "He invited me to his penthouse."

Maya froze. Her hands stopped typing. She looked at me through the screen, her eyes widening.

"Aria..." she warned.

"432 Park Avenue," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "He’s living in my house, Maya. He’s living in the apartment I bought for us. And now he wants me to walk back into the crime scene."

"You can't go there," Maya argued immediately, her voice rising. "It’s too dangerous. If you walk into that apartment, the psychological trigger alone could break you. You’ll be on his territory. No cameras, no witnesses. If Zane is that unstable, who knows what they’ll do?"

"I have to go," I said, turning back to the screen. "That’s where the safe is. That’s where he keeps the physical ledgers. If I want to send him to the chair, I need the evidence inside that house."

"It’s a trap," Maya insisted. "Zane threatened you. Mark is desperate. If he figures out who you are while you're alone in that apartment..."

"I’m not Elara anymore," I said, my voice hardening. "Elara walked into traps because she trusted him. Aria is walking in because she knows where the trap is."

"He killed you once, Aria," Maya whispered, pressing her hand against the screen as if she could reach through the miles and stop me. "Don't give him a second chance."

I looked at the passing lights of New York. I thought about the nursery in that apartment. I thought about the life I was supposed to have, the life he stole and gave to another woman.

"He won't get a second chance," I said, a cold, deadly calm settling over me. "He thinks he’s inviting a sheep to the slaughter. He has no idea he just invited the wolf into the den."

Maya looked at me, seeing the fire in my eyes. She nodded slowly.

"Okay," she said. "But keep your comms on."

"I will," I promised.

I ended the call and stared at the dark skyline.

Tomorrow, I was going home and I was going to burn it down.

I was about to power down the tablet when my watch vibrated sharply against my wrist.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

It wasn't a message. It was a security alert.

CRITICAL WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED.

My breath stalled.

"Maya..." I whispered, staring at the flashing screen.

"I see it," Maya's voice came back through the tablet speakers, urgent and frantic. "Someone is trying to bypass our firewall."

The location tag loaded slowly on the screen, a red dot pulsing against a black map.

"Who is it?" I asked, my blood running cold. "Is it Mark?"

"It's not Mark," Maya said, her fingers flying across her keyboard in Chicago. "Mark isn't smart enough for this kind of encryption break. This is professional. Someone is digging into the 'Aria' alias. They are trying to find your details.

I watched the red dot stabilize.

"Someone is hunting you, Aria," Maya whispered.