Mag-log inHarper's Point Of ViewThe corridor is quiet, almost painfully so. Every footstep I take along the polished marble floor echoes sharply, slicing through the dense silence of the secluded wing. Heavy curtains hang along the tall windows, trapping shadows in the corners, cutting moonlight into angular slivers that scatter across the walls. The masked girl watches from the low window ledge, her dark attire blending into the shadows. She tilts her head slightly as I enter, the faint sound of measured breathing the only indicator of her presence. I stop at the doorway, glancing around with a practiced, evaluating eye. No staff. No security. Only the two of us and the cold, calculating weight of the estate pressing in from every side.My gaze flicks to the girl in the black mask, scanning her posture, the subtle tension in her shoulders, and the way her fingers rest lightly on her thigh as though ready to spring into action. Every detail is noted, assessed, and cataloged. She holds herself
Eva's Point Of ViewThe grand ballroom of the Vale estate glimmers under a canopy of crystal chandeliers. Their light fractures across polished marble floors, scattering patterns that dance over velvet gowns and tuxedos. Guests chatter and clink champagne flutes, their laughter a smooth veneer over the undercurrent of ambition, gossip, and unspoken alliances. I move through the crowd, heels clicking softly, my eyes scanning, alert. The opulence doesn’t calm me. It never does. Something in the air feels charged, anticipatory, like the estate itself is holding its breath.My attention flickers to the edge of the room—a figure, small against the glittering backdrop, draped in black. A mask conceals her features, but her presence is unmistakable, deliberate. She doesn’t mingle, doesn’t laugh. She simply observes. A shiver runs down my spine, not entirely rational, and I tighten my grip on my clutch. Something tells me she’s not here for the champagne.I pass the marble staircase, pretendi
Eva Point Of ViewI wake to the faintest creak, a whisper of movement threading through the guest bedroom of the Vale estate. My eyes snap open. The room is dark, shadows pooling in corners like liquid, swallowing the edges of the ornate furniture. I lie still, listening. The sound comes again, deliberate—soft footsteps pressing into old wood, deliberate and slow. Nothing mechanical. Nothing ordinary.I force my breathing to slow, counting each inhale and exhale. The silence that follows is heavier than the noise itself, as though the house holds its breath in anticipation. Something is here. Something is moving. I sit up slowly, letting my bare feet touch the cool floorboards, every nerve taut.The air has changed. It feels denser, colder, and oppressive even. Moonlight filters through the tall windows, creating fractured beams that scatter across the floor. The shadows along the ceiling twist and stretch unnaturally. I think I see movement—a flicker at the edge of vision—but when I
Eva,'s Point Of ViewI am waiting for when Cassian comes home.The estate settles around me in its usual way—old wood sighing, distant pipes ticking, the hush of a place that remembers more than it reveals. I sit in the private study just off the main hall, where the lights are dimmed low and the air smells faintly of leather, dust, and something older I can’t name. The locked wing is down the corridor. I can feel it from here, like a sealed wound beneath skin.I don’t move when the front door opens.Cassian’s footsteps carry through the house with measured precision, the sound of a man who believes he still owns every inch of space he walks through. There is the soft drop of keys and the muted shrug of a coat. Then—stillness.He knows.The study door opens, and for the first time since I arrived at this estate, Cassian Vale hesitates on the threshold. His silhouette fills the doorway, tall and controlled, but something in his posture fractures when his eyes find me seated in the low
Eva's Point Of viewThe corridor stretches before me like a shadowed artery of the Vale estate, dim light pooling unevenly across the worn wooden floors. My fingers graze the smooth banister as I move silently, every step measured, conscious of echo. The heavy oak door at the end of the hall calls to me—its tarnished brass handle dulled by age, the metal cold under my palm even before I touch it. This is the forbidden wing, the one Cassian Vale never allows anyone to enter. Something about it hums with a quiet insistence, a draft curling faintly under the door that smells faintly of dust and old varnish.I pause. I listen. Footsteps elsewhere—soft, distant—belong to the night staff or perhaps the house itself settling. Nothing closer. My heart beats steadily, though adrenaline prickles along my spine. Curiosity has taken root and refuses to let go.I kneel slightly to examine the door, inspecting the lock, the frame, and the edges for anything unusual. There’s no sign of forced entry,
"Third Point Of View''I closed the door behind me, the familiar click echoing like a punctuation mark in the otherwise quiet ValeCorp headquarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one side of my office, framing the city skyline—a patchwork of steel and light that offered an illusion of control. Dark mahogany dominated the furniture, gleaming under the soft, calculated illumination from the overhead panels. Every surface was exacting and precise. Every detail was a reflection of the order I expected.I removed my tailored coat and placed it over the back of my chair, each movement deliberate and controlled. Sitting, I opened my leather-bound notebook labeled ValeCorp Audit—Confidential, flipping to a blank page where I had begun mapping anomalies the previous week. Today, I would follow the thread to its end.Encrypted USB drives lined the edge of my desk like soldiers awaiting orders. One by one, I inserted them into my laptop. The multiple screens flickered to life, display







