Chapter 4: Breaching The Fortress

The master suite felt less like a bedroom and more like a minimalist prison. It was vast, silent, and entirely too cold. After an hour of frantic unpacking—which mostly involved hiding my small, worn photo of Lucas and my burner phone deep inside a decorative jewelry box—I was ready for the night’s debut.

I donned the evening gown his staff had laid out—a sophisticated, inoffensive midnight blue that made me look like an expensive, tailored shadow. Julian hated drawing unnecessary attention, and this dress screamed discreet wealth.

The real challenge wasn't the dress; it was the Rule Five lockdown.

The encrypted Thorne tablet sat on the bedside table, sleek and utterly secure. I picked it up, running a thumb over the cold glass. Julian had handed me a leash, not a tool. Every communication would be logged, analyzed, and categorized by his corporate security. I couldn't risk a single text to Mia or a call to check on Lucas.

I had to work blind.

My internal clock was screaming. Lucas would be finishing his dinner with Mia now. I needed to know he was safe, settled, and not asking too many heartbreaking questions about his missing mother.

I opened the tablet and, sure enough, it was a walled garden. Only approved Thorne communication apps and financial reports. But Julian had underestimated the mind he’d brought into his fortress. He saw a secretary; I saw an operating system.

I started probing. Not with brute force—that would trigger immediate alarms—but with quiet curiosity. I was looking for a logical weakness, an overlooked digital back door. The key to any system, no matter how powerful, is always human error.

The only way out was Rule Two: Maintain the image of the dutiful wife. Julian had to be relying on a remote, passive defense system while he was preoccupied with business.

Julian was waiting for me in the main lounge, sipping his drink. He didn't look up immediately.

"You look adequate," he commented, his gaze finally sweeping over me. It was the highest praise I expected to receive.

"Thank you, sir."

"Tonight is critical," he stated, walking toward me. His presence was overwhelming, sharp and dark. "You will be seen, not heard. The Sinclairs are old money, old guard. They will be looking for any sign of a flaw in my judgment regarding this marriage. Do not give them one."

He stopped close enough that I could feel the residual heat of his body. "If they ask about our 'meet-cute,' tell them we had a quiet, private affair that bloomed unexpectedly. Say nothing about your previous life or job. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Mr. Thorne."

As he spoke, my mind was still cycling through the tablet's architecture. My eyes drifted momentarily to a subtle, gold-plated access panel on the wall behind him—likely a physical access port for system diagnostics.

Julian noticed the movement. "Is there an issue, Evelyn?"

I snapped my gaze back to his. "No, sir. Just admiring the architecture. It's stunning." Lie.

He dismissed the lapse, grabbing my elbow with a firm, proprietary grip that felt more like a clamp. "Let's go. Don't disappoint me."

The dinner was a blur of polite contempt, heavy silverware, and endless corporate jargon. I sat next to Julian, functioning as his beautiful, silent accessory. I smiled when he smiled, laughed demurely at his terrible jokes, and avoided every single question directed at me by the Sinclair patriarch. I was the perfect Rule Two wife.

But while my face was frozen in placid loyalty, my mind was racing. Julian had checked his own phone during the dinner, using a different interface than the one he gave me. His was built for power; mine was built for surveillance.

Back in the penthouse, as the clock finally ticked toward 11:00 PM—my usual hacker time—I knew I had a small window. Julian was pouring two glasses of scotch at the bar. He would expect me to go to my room, or perhaps, for the sake of the heir-producing mandate, wait for him.

I approached him first. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice was smooth.

"Mr. Thorne, the Sinclair deal seems to have exhausted you," I murmured, placing my hand gently on his arm—a perfect, dutiful wife gesture. "Before I retire, I feel I should prepare your morning schedule."

His eyes narrowed, surprised by my initiative. "That can wait until the morning."

"I insist," I countered, leaning in slightly, forcing a breathy quality into my voice. "It eases my mind to know you are prepared."

He seemed to interpret this as devotion—or perhaps, simply an invitation. "Fine. Use the terminal in my office."

He gestured to a door across the lounge, the very door of his private study. It was a calculated risk on his part. He was giving me access to a Thorne computer, but it was in his territory, and he would be watching.

This was my chance.

His office was the operational heart of the penthouse. I sat at his massive desk, my fingers flying across the keyboard of the high-powered terminal. I didn't open his schedule. Instead, I bypassed the standard login and dove straight into the system diagnostics for the penthouse network—the one that governed the encrypted tablet.

Julian had secured the entry point, but he’d left a basic network administrator password—likely something historical, like a former company name or an acquisition date. A classic digital sin committed by men who trusted hardware more than intuition.

I ran a quick script that cycled through his most probable historical passwords—the names of three companies he’d famously liquidated.

Access granted.

I was in. I had less than sixty seconds before the access protocols registered my unauthorized elevation. I found the communication logs for the encrypted tablet, created a brief, encrypted shell script disguised as a system update, and injected it into the tablet's code. This script would momentarily spoof the security firewall, allowing one unmonitored communication outside the network.

I closed the window, killed the unauthorized session, and opened his calendar, all within 45 seconds. I took a deep breath, just as Julian’s voice sliced through the silence of the room.

"Time's up, Evelyn."

He stood in the doorway, his scotch forgotten, his gaze sharper than ever. He wasn't pleased. "I told you to prepare a schedule, not to conduct a full audit."

I stood quickly, turning with an innocent, slightly flushed look. "Forgive me, sir. I was ensuring all your internal security patches were current. It’s a habit. I noticed a small vulnerability in the local network permissions that your team missed."

His eyes widened, not with suspicion, but with genuine, cold assessment. He hadn't been expecting competence.

"You have remarkable attention to detail, Evelyn. A genuine asset," he said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Now retire. I need to work alone."

I had the permission I needed. I left the room, the scent of his power clinging to my skin. I went straight to my suite, grabbed the burner phone, and waited precisely five minutes.

Then, using the one-time, secured communication line I had just created, I sent Mia the only message that mattered:

> Evelyn: He’s safe. I’m safe. Tell Lucas I love him.

>

I smashed the burner phone against the marble floor, silencing the last piece of my old life. Julian thought he had contained me with his contract. He was wrong.

I was his prisoner, but I was also the ghost in his machine.

Hook Question: Julian seemed intrigued, not suspicious, by Evelyn's "vulnerability finding." Is he testing her true hacking skill, or is he already beginning to see her as more than just a contracted wife?