ART OF THE FIRST MOVE

The city gleamed like a jewel that morning—cold, flawless, and untouchable. The mirrored glass towers of downtown reflected the rising sun, scattering light across sleek black cars, steel, and ambition. To Isabella Voss, it looked exactly like the kind of battlefield she’d been born to conquer.

She stood outside the Moretti Global building—fifty-seven stories of arrogance dressed in Italian marble—and adjusted the diamond cuff at her wrist. The wind toyed with a strand of her dark hair, catching the faint scent of jasmine she wore like armor. She wasn’t nervous. She was prepared.

Isabella wasn’t here for a job. She was here for vengeance disguised as opportunity.

Her father had died three years ago—public scandal, bankruptcy, whispers of fraud that had shredded his reputation and left his company in ruins. And at the heart of that collapse was a single signature on a contract: Damian Moretti.

He’d called it business.

She called it bloodshed.

Now, destiny had handed her the perfect opening. Moretti Global was in trouble. The board wanted an external strategist to salvage the empire, and Isabella Voss—polished, brilliant, with a resume that read like a weapon—had been handpicked.

She smiled as she entered the building.

It was time to meet the devil she’d been dreaming of destroying.

The executive floor of Moretti Global was all power and silence—men in tailored suits, women in heels that clicked like threats, and walls lined with black glass. Isabella’s reflection followed her through the hallway until she stopped before the office at the end.

“Mr. Moretti will see you now,” said the assistant, voice trembling slightly.

Of course he will, Isabella thought.

He always sees the ones he intends to use.

The door opened on motion sensors, and the first thing she noticed was the smell—cedarwood, expensive ink, and something darker. Then she saw him.

Damian Moretti was leaning against his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the kind of man who made power look effortless. His eyes—storm gray, sharp as glass—studied her like a puzzle he intended to solve.

“Miss Voss,” he said, voice smooth, cultured, dangerous. “You’re either very confident or very naive to walk into my office looking like that.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like temptation I can’t afford.”

Her lips curved. “Then I suppose it’s good business that I’m not for sale.”

Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, interest, maybe even respect. He gestured for her to sit.

“You’ve read the reports,” Damian said, taking his seat behind the desk. “Tell me what you think of Moretti Global.”

She crossed her legs, perfectly composed. “You’ve built an empire on charm and ruthlessness. But charm doesn’t last forever, and ruthlessness has made you enemies. You’ve expanded too quickly, underestimated your competitors, and your leadership style is… reactive.”

His brow arched. “Reactive?”

“You destroy problems instead of solving them. Impressive short-term. Fatal long-term.”

A silence settled. Then Damian’s lips curved—slow, dangerous. “So what do you suggest, Miss Voss?”

She met his gaze. “That you let me rebuild what you’ve broken. I can make you untouchable again.”

The air between them thickened. For a moment, neither spoke. Damian leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “You don’t seem afraid of me.”

“I don’t believe in fear,” she said softly. “Only strategy.”

He smiled like a man who’d just found a worthy opponent. “Then we’ll get along perfectly.”

But Isabella knew better.

In her world, perfect was always a trap.

By the end of the meeting, she’d secured her position as Chief Strategic Officer, answerable only to him. The board had already approved the decision, and Damian himself had personally signed the contract.

When she extended her hand to seal it, he didn’t just shake it—he held it. Too long. Too deliberately.

“Welcome to Moretti Global,” he murmured. “You’ll find that loyalty is rewarded here… and betrayal is remembered.”

She smiled sweetly. “Then I suppose we’ll both have to be careful.”

That evening, Isabella moved into her temporary penthouse—one provided by the company. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, and the air smelled faintly of money and secrets. She poured herself a glass of wine and studied the folder she’d stolen from the archives before leaving the office.

Inside were contracts, merger reports… and a single document bearing her father’s signature.

The ink was smudged. The dates didn’t match. Someone had forged the final version.

Her pulse quickened.

This was the proof she needed—Damian Moretti had destroyed her family deliberately.

And yet… she couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had dropped when he said her name. The quiet confidence. The heat that had flickered behind those gray eyes.

No, she thought sharply.

This isn’t desire. It’s reconnaissance.

She shut the file and turned toward the balcony. Below, the city glittered with life. Somewhere in the tower opposite hers, a light flicked on—and there he was. Damian. Standing by his window, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking straight at her.

He raised the glass in silent acknowledgment.

A dangerous smile curved his lips.

Isabella’s breath caught.

It wasn’t coincidence. He knew she’d be here.

He was already watching her.

The next morning, she arrived at work to find chaos. Damian’s private secretary was gone—vanished overnight—and rumors spread like wildfire. Corporate espionage. Leaked accounts. A mole inside the company.

Damian called a board meeting, his expression colder than steel. “Until we find who’s responsible,” he said, “every transaction passes through one person.” His gaze locked on Isabella. “Her.”

The board erupted in murmurs.

Isabella froze. This wasn’t in her plan.

“You’ll have full access to my private network,” Damian continued. “And to me.”

The room went silent.

She forced a calm smile, though her pulse raced. “If that’s your strategy, Mr. Moretti, I hope you’re ready to trust me completely.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with something dark. “Trust isn’t something I give, Miss Voss. It’s something people earn—usually the hard way.”

His words were a promise. Or a threat.

That night, a storm swept across the city. Isabella stayed late, combing through encrypted files, searching for traces of the forged contracts. Lightning flashed, illuminating the glass walls.

When the elevator doors slid open behind her, she didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Still working?” Damian’s voice was smooth, low.

“Some of us don’t have empires to fall back on,” she replied, eyes fixed on the screen.

He stepped closer, until his reflection appeared beside hers in the glass. “You remind me of myself.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“No,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath brushing her ear. “You’re worse. You actually believe you can win.”

She turned then, facing him. The storm raged outside, thunder rolling like a heartbeat.

“Tell me, Miss Voss,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “What’s your real motive here?”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the tension between them was a live wire—dangerous, electric.

Then the power went out.

Total darkness.

A heartbeat later, the emergency lights flickered on—red, cold, and faint. On Isabella’s desk lay a small black envelope that hadn’t been there before. Her name was written across it in elegant handwriting.

Damian frowned. “What is that?”

She picked it up, opened it carefully… and froze.

Inside was a single photograph—of her father, shaking hands with a man who wasn’t Damian.

Below it, a line scrawled in red ink:

You’re targeting the wrong enemy.

Her blood ran cold.

When she looked up, Damian was watching her, his eyes unreadable.

“Something wrong?” he asked softly.

She forced a smile. “Nothing at all.”

But inside, her world tilted.

If Damian wasn’t the one who’d destroyed her family…

Then who had?

And why did someone want her to find out now?

The game had just changed.

And she wasn’t sure who was playing who anymore.