CHAPTER ELEVEN

Caleb’s grip tightened on the phone. Across the room, Jonathan Monroe stopped pacing, his sharp eyes narrowing.

“What happened?” Caleb asked, voice clipped and low.

Miss Jones—his ever-efficient, never-rattled executive secretary—let out a frustrated breath. “There’s a diplomatic issue. The Monaco delegation dropped out of the virtual summit... ten minutes in.”

Caleb frowned. “That’s it?”

“They were offended by your virtual background during the opening remarks. The artwork displayed behind you—it triggered political tension. Apparently, the AI-generated image resembled an old sovereignty emblem banned in their region.”

Caleb blinked at the glowing whiskey in his glass. “You’re saying Monroe Holdings is trending on European media because of... a background?”

“Technically,” she said, “it was an image you signed off on from our visual content AI. Their media’s calling it a veiled insult. It's blowing up online.”

Jonathan muttered, “Damn delicate nations.”

Caleb rubbed his temples. “So this has nothing to do with the West Coast logistics project?”

“Nothing, sir. The reports on that end are still clean.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “Issue a formal apology. Get our PR team on damage control. Replace the image, and donate to one of their cultural restoration programs. Discreetly.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “All that panic… over an image?”

Caleb leaned back, letting out a dry laugh. “I thought Blackspire had finally found the cracks.”

“But they haven’t,” Jonathan said slowly, his voice thoughtful now. “And that’s what should worry you more.”

Caleb’s smirk returned, but his eyes were cold. “We still have time.”

But deep inside, his gut twisted.

Blackspire hadn’t just survived the West Coast stunt. They profited.

That wasn’t oversight. That was design.

And if Ethan Whitmore was pulling strings that cleanly... then the game had shifted.

***

Caleb had asked to meet Ethan at Bravado Restaurant—the same place they last met when Caleb first discovered Ethan was still alive.

He needed to find out if Ethan had intentionally pulled out a bait.

Bravado still carried its quiet, luxurious elegance. Velvet-lined booths, soft jazz humming from hidden corners, and privacy so thick, it made secrets feel welcome.

Caleb Monroe sat at their usual table in the back—red wine untouched, suit crisp, eyes fixed on the door.

Ethan Whitmore entered moments later, the kind of calm that made even silence feel calculated.

“Same place, same hour,” Ethan said as he slid into the booth. “You nostalgic, or just fishing for déjà vu?”

Caleb chuckled. “A bit of both. Last time we were here, you came back from the dead. This time, I’m hoping for a quieter night.”

Ethan’s lips twitched. “Then don’t bring the ghosts.”

They watched each other for a moment. A cold war in tailored suits.

Caleb reached for his wine. “How’s Lauren?”

Ethan didn’t flinch. “She is well". He looked away, not willing to talk about Lauren with him.

Caleb nodded slowly. “And Blackspire? I hear you’re... branching out. Logistics now? Unexpected direction for a company best known for defense and rare earths.”

“We evolve,” Ethan said simply. “Predicting demand before it hits is what keeps us on top.”

Caleb leaned forward. “Still… impressive timing. The new cross-border contracts you secured in Europe? Fast work, for someone just re-entering the game.”

“You’d be surprised what happens when the right people get out of your way,” Ethan said, coolly.

Caleb gave a slow smile, but his fingers tapped faintly against his glass. “So this logistics surge... it’s just business?”

“Isn’t everything?” Ethan replied, tone unreadable.

Caleb studied him. “You know, Monroe Holdings made that move to corner the West Coast distribution channel for Geneva’s early framework. Blackspire’s pivot—well—your profit spike wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Ethan looked up, eyes calm and deep. “I was just as surprised.”

Caleb froze, ever so slightly.

“Funny,” he said with a small smirk. “Sometimes, the quiet players get the loudest wins.”

“Or maybe,” Ethan replied, rising to his feet, “they were never quiet to begin with.”

He slipped his phone into his blazer. “Duty calls. But let’s do this again sometime, Caleb.”

“Looking forward to it,” Caleb said, forcing a smile as Ethan walked off, composed and unreadable.

Caleb swirled his wine, gaze fixed on the untouched liquid.

Did Ethan really not know?

***

Lauren was ready.

They met at a quiet coffee shop in Beverly Hills.

Revenge wasn’t just a word—it was a plan.

And it started with Rachel Morgan.

She had hired the best, even if it meant emptying her savings. Rachel was worth every cent.

Together, they’d studied every detail about Madeline Carter’s empire—Madeline Collection—one of the top four skincare lines globally, with a fierce competitor based in South Korea.

Isitree.

Sleek, sophisticated, and nearly untouchable. Until now.

Lauren handed Rachel a stack of documents. “You’re going in as her new personal assistant. They’re short-staffed. You’ll apply and get the job. Once you’re in... I’ll give you your next move.”

Rachel gave a sharp grin. “I won’t disappoint you.”

She wouldn’t.

Rachel was a ghost. A professional spy with a flawless record across Europe. No identity trail. No fingerprints. No past.

In fact, “Rachel Morgan” probably wasn’t even her real name.

She shook Rachel’s hand.

And the game began.

***

Lauren returned to Ethan’s mansion and nearly tripped over the scene before her.

Seventeen staff members were bustling around—cleaners, decorators, caterers. Only three had been present the day she moved in. Now there were twenty.

“What’s going on?” she muttered, stepping inside.

Upstairs, Ethan lounged on his bed, tapping away at his laptop like it was just another quiet day.

She stormed into the room. “Why do you have twenty workers?”

He chuckled without looking up. “I’ve always had twenty. I only sent seventeen out for two days.”

“For what?”

“To clean up my new house,” he said smoothly. “The one in your neighborhood.”

She froze. “You bought that house?”

“I told you I’d be your neighbor that time I found out your life was in danger, remember? ” He looked up finally, eyes twinkling. “And then you moved in sooner than I thought you would . But it doesn’t matter. When you build that bigger fashion empire... I’ll hand it over to you.”

“I don’t want your money, Ethan.”

His smirk disappeared. “No? You don’t want my money—but you let Caleb pay Rachel Morgan to spy on Madeline for you?”

Her breath caught. Her blood ran cold.

“I guess that says everything,” he continued, quietly. “You trust him with your future. Me? You’d rather owe nothing so you can leave when Madeline’s gone.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. How the hell did he find out?

He reached behind the bed and tossed a small package at her. “Someone dropped this off earlier.”

It looked like a postal envelope. Who even sent letters anymore?

Hands trembling, she tore it open.

A single line in jagged ink:

“Should I tell Ethan who the father of your baby is?”

Her entire body froze. A cold wave of panic gripped her.

But before she could react, Ethan was suddenly beside her.

He snatched the letter from her hands,