Ch 5: The phoenix mark

He stops in front of me, eyes scrutinizing my face.

A pause. Then demand—“What happened?"

I raise a brow, forcing a smirk I don’t quite feel. “You didn’t mention anything about your love interest’s territory-marking clause in the contract. Little oversight there, aye?” I lightly brush a nonexistent dent in his suit.

‘Act like we’re in love.’ That’s what he said today. But so far I’ve been the only one smiling and keeping my side of this ‘act’.

Something flickers in his eyes.

He glances over my shoulder, toward the direction I came from —his face expressionless.

Then he looks back at me. The recognition in his eyes telling me that he knew who I was talking about.

Without a word, he lifts his hand and brushes the hair gently from my cheek.

I look away to the ground.

Then lower… his fingers move, cupping around the side of my neck. To hold it in place. It’s not possessive—just there.

His thumb lifts my chin slowly compelling me to look up until our eyes meet — and I’m so aware of our distance. Too close. I can see those dark eyes, intense and unblinking, seeming to see straight through me.

I feel my head get heavy from our proximity—of Him. His scent.

“You are putting on my ring,” his breath fanning my face—low, deep, and steady. “Act like it.”

It takes a while to process what he said but his hand has begin moving from my neck to the small of my back. His touch lingers just a second too long, before i can question it’s intent, it is guiding me.

“Come,” he murmurs beside me again, his voice brushing my skin.

“Let’s meet the men who think they own the world.”

He gestures.

I cross the room, still buzzing as I join him.

“She’s even more stunning in person,” David says, his gaze lingering a beat too long.

Andrew’s hand rests lightly on the small of my back. “Sage,” he says, “this is David Stone—Westland Energy. And Marcus Yoon, CEO of ArcTech.”

David turns first. His gaze slides over me slowly, like he’s enjoying the view. Not crude—worse. Calm. Like someone who does the most wicked things and still donate hugely to charity every month.

Then he smiles, it looks friendly but for some reason it makes the hair on my arms stand.

“Even more stunning in person.”

David Stone. He was on Forbes last year. One of those moody black-and-white covers. Power, legacy, something like that.

But the photo didn’t do his face justice—he looks much older in person. His hairline shrink to the back. His wrinkles that is always hidden by edits.

There’s something about him—like we’ve met—in a way that makes my stomach tighten. Not from the magazine. Not from TV.

Older than that. Deeper.

A hallway? A voice? I couldn’t place my hands on it.

.“Hard to believe,” He grins to Andrew—stuffing his hands in his pockets, his grin too wide, baring his overly big teeth. “Partners for three years and now you’re married.”

Three years? My fingers twitch against my glass. I remember three years ago. With my sister. Her face flashes behind my eyes—messy hair, gold hoops, that stupid denim jacket she loved. And the familiar ache that follows. Yeah…life was almost perfect.

Marcus snorts. “To partnership,” he says, raising his glass. “And to staying on top while the rest choke on the scraps.” I stare at him his words taking me by surprise.

“That was a joke,” he says eyeing me his voice dripping with anything but sincerity.

They laugh—real, ugly laughter. Andrew from beside me doesn’t laugh, he just keeps his stare pinned on them.

He doesn’t need to speak; the weight of his gaze does the talking—and they feel it.

The laughter dies mid-air. David clears his throat, forcing a small, awkward smile, then lifts his glass with a hesitant gesture. “Go on,” he says, nudging theirs. Their glasses touch softly, deliberately, their glasses touch softly, deliberately—but Andrew doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his drink.

The silence left by his refusal presses down on them harder than any words.

I watch as David lifts his drink. The cuff at his wrist shifts, metal catching the light for a fraction of a second. But it wasn’t the glint that made my heart beat three times faster.

It’s the design.

An intricate engraving—a Phoenix rising from ashes.

My breath seizes, because Marcus moves next taking a sip off his glass. And on his cuff, the same Phoenix. The same perfect, twisted wings.

The both of them, same cuff links imprint. An impossible coincidence.

No. Not impossible.

I’ve seen it before.

On the night my sister vanished—the exact same cufflinks she left on her desk in the dorms. The one the police handed back to me in a plastic bag when they said the case had gone cold.

Has the hall always been this tight? The noises from around me were muffled, like cotton stuffed inside my ears. Mouth moved, glasses slipped and smashed somewhere far away, but all I could hear was the thudding of my blood rushing through my body at full speed.

I needed air.

The same year.

The same design.

The same men?

What the hell have I gotten into!?