Ten

Chapter 10

KIARA’S POV

The shadows of the orphanage always felt colder in my dreams. I could smell the damp concrete, the metallic tang of cheap cleaning supplies, and that underlying scent of stale soup and unwashed blankets. In the dream, I was seven again, huddled in the corner of a room that held too many children and not enough hope. I was waiting for someone to look at me, to see me, but the figures passing by were just grey blurs. Then the blur sharpened into the face of my adoptive father, his blue eyes piercing and judgmental, reminding me that I was a project, a contract, a girl with a name that didn't belong to her.

I jolted awake, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My silk sheets were damp with cold sweat, and the air in Silva’s hyper-modern bedroom felt suffocatingly thin. I didn't scream. I had learned a long time ago that screaming didn't bring help; it only brought attention to your weakness.

I sat up, clutching my stomach. The baby kicked—a small, fluttering reminder that I wasn't that lonely girl in the corner anymore. But the fear stayed, lodged in my throat like a shard of glass.

I couldn't stay in bed. The silence of the penthouse was too heavy, filled with the echoes of the things I tried so hard to forget. I threw on a silk robe and padded down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the cold floors. I bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for the small room Silva had begrudgingly allowed me to use as a home office.

I sat at the desk, the glow of the dual monitors the only light in the room. I didn't need sleep; I needed to win. I needed to build my empire so high that no one, not even the ghosts of my past, could reach me. I opened the files for the Russian industrialist project, my eyes scanning the fine print for any weakness, any crack I could exploit.

Work was my anesthesia. As long as I was calculating market shares and projecting revenue, I didn't have to feel the hollow ache in my chest. I didn't have to think about the fact that I was legally bound to a man who viewed me as a security risk, or that my own "family" had sold me off like a piece of livestock to satisfy a thirty-year-old debt.

A soft sound at the door made me freeze. I didn't turn around, but I could feel the shift in the air. Silva.

"It’s three in the morning, Kiara," his voice was low, devoid of its usual sharp edge.

"Market waits for no one," I replied, my voice sounding brittle even to my own ears. I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, my fingers flying across the keyboard. "I have a merger to finalize. Go back to sleep, Silva. I’m sure your dreams are full of grids and spreadsheets."

"You look like hell," he said, stepping into the room.

I finally turned, my "Ice Queen" mask firmly in place, but I knew I was failing. My hair was a mess, my eyes were likely bloodshot, and I was trembling just enough for someone as observant as him to notice. "Thank you for the compliment. Now, if you're done being a critic, I have work to do."

He didn't leave. He stood there, his gaze narrowing as he looked at me. For a second, the mask slipped. A flash of the nightmare—the cold corner, the grey blurs, the feeling of being utterly alone—flickered in my eyes. I saw his expression change. The cold, calculated disdain softened into something else. Curiosity? Concern? No, men like Silva Blackwood didn't do concern.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing happened," I snapped, turning back to the monitors. "I'm just working. Something you should appreciate, considering our 'legacy' is on the line."

"You’re shaking," he noted, his voice closer now.

"I'm cold. Your penthouse is a freezer."

I felt him linger for a moment longer, a heavy presence behind me. I expected a lecture on health or a demand to see my progress, but instead, I heard the soft click of the door closing. I closed my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. I was Kiara Monroe. I was the smartest woman in New York. I was untouchable.

But as I looked at the glowing screens, the numbers started to blur, replaced by the memory of a cold, concrete floor.

SILVA’S POV

I stood in the hallway outside her office, the silence of the penthouse feeling different than it had ten minutes ago. I had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water, expecting the usual quiet, only to see the sliver of light beneath her door.

I had expected to find her gloating over the gala's success or perhaps plotting her next move against me. I hadn't expected to see her looking like a broken bird.

The look in her eyes... it wasn't the Ice Queen. It was a flash of genuine, raw terror. I’d seen that look before in the eyes of people who had lost everything, but seeing it on Kiara Monroe—the most arrogant, self-assured woman I’d ever met—was a jolt to my system. It didn't fit the narrative I’d built. Greed was easy to understand. Ambition was something I could manage. But fear? Fear was a variable I hadn't accounted for.

I walked back to my bedroom, but I didn't go to sleep. I sat in the dark, staring at the city skyline. Who was she, really? The Monroes had adopted her when she was fourteen, a late addition to a family that valued status above all else. She had fought her way to the top with a ruthlessness that made even me pause. I’d always assumed it was a hunger for power. Now, I wasn't so sure.

I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Ben. I knew he was likely asleep, but he’d see it by dawn.

*Ben, I need a detailed, discreet background check on Kiara. Not the Monroe years. I want everything before that. The orphanage, the birth parents, the records that were supposedly sealed. Use the private investigators we keep for the board vet-offs. Keep this entirely off the company books.*

I put the phone down, feeling a strange restlessness in my chest. This wasn't part of the plan. My plan was to tolerate her, secure the child, and dissolve the union. My plan was to hate her because it was easier than dealing with the complicated reality of who she was.

But the image of her sitting at that desk, trembling while staring at a screen of numbers, wouldn't leave me. Her aggressive ambition wasn't just a personality trait; it was a fortress. She was building a wall between herself and whatever she had seen in that nightmare.

I hated that I was curious. I hated that I was looking for cracks in her armor instead of just waiting for the whole thing to shatter. It was a violation of my own internal logic. She was a means to an end. An asset. A security risk.

And yet, as I watched the sun begin to bleed over the New York skyline, I realized that the "Ice Queen" was a lie we both believed for our own protection. There was something buried deep beneath her gold leaf and sapphire dresses, something dark and jagged.

And for some reason, I was the only one who had seen it.

I closed my eyes, but I didn't see spreadsheets or market reports. I saw blue eyes filled with a terror that no amount of money could ever cure.

"What are you hiding, Kiara?" I whispered to the empty room.

I told myself I was doing this for the child. For the heir. I needed to know what kind of trauma I was bringing into the Blackwood line. It was a logical, defensive move.

But as my heart rhythm finally slowed, I knew I was lying to myself. This wasn't about the child. It was about her. And that realization was the most dangerous thing of all.