Chapter 5

NOVA'S POV

I didn't sleep that night... I just lay in my bed and kept l staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation over and over.

The way he'd asked about the dream, The intensity in his voice...The question that had felt less like curiosity and more like he was searching for something specific.

Around two in the morning, I did something I'd been avoiding since Friday. I opened my laptop and searched "Rochefort family history."

The results were extensive. Corporate accolades. Philanthropic initiatives. Press releases about acquisitions and mergers. But there was also historical information...genealogies and family trees that stretched back centuries. I scrolled through generations of Rochefort CEOs, each one marked by dates and accomplishments.

And then I found it. A historical section about the family's origins, and a portrait labeled "Rochefort CEO, 1847: Marcus Rochefort."

The portrait showed a man with silver-grey eyes and dark hair swept back from a sharp-featured face. The resemblance to Myles was so pronounced that my breath caught in my throat.

But that wasn't what made my hands start trembling.

Below the portrait was an inscription: Marcus Rochefort, cursed by love. Betrayed by a Harlow Bride. His obsession became the family legacy.

I clicked on the link, and it took me to a historical account of a woman named Helena Harlow, So beautiful, privileged, promised to the Rochefort family through arrangement. The article described her as an independent spirit who'd rejected the betrothal and run away with a man from a lower social class.

Marcus Rochefort had never recovered from the rejection.

I stared at the screen, my mind spinning. The article described Helena's relationship ending in tragedy, her lover had been killed in what was officially ruled an accident but was privately suspected to be revenge. Helena had disappeared from historical records after that, and Marcus had died five years later, his death attributed to complications from a mysterious illness.

Some versions of the story suggested it was heartbreak.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Stop researching. You're looking for answers you're not ready for yet.

I stared at the message, my heart hammering in my chest.

There was only one person who could have sent that message. Only one person who would know what I was doing.

Only one person who was apparently willing to violate my privacy to send it.

I typed back with shaking fingers: How did you get this number?

The response came almost immediately: I have access to everything, Nova. That's what you need to understand. Now stop and go to sleep. You'll need your rest for what's coming.

The orientation room occupied the entire thirty-second floor of the Rochefort building, floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the city sprawling beneath us like a conquered kingdom. There were approximately thirty new employees seated in rows of ergonomic chairs, all wearing the particular expression of people trying very hard to appear competent while internally terrified.

I had arrived early, a habit born from years of scholarship life where punctuality was like a currency. The orientation packet in my lap detailed corporate policies, benefits structures, and confidentiality agreements that seemed to grow more ominous with each page. Somewhere between the section on workplace conduct and the non-disclosure clause that threatened legal action for any breach of corporate information, I'd realized I was essentially signing away my right to discuss anything that happened within these walls.

The woman leading the orientation, a stern-looking HR director named Patricia…was speaking about workplace culture and expectations when the temperature in the room seemed to shift.

I didn't see him enter. I felt him.

It was the sudden silence, first. The way the murmur of conversation died as if someone had simply removed the sound. Then the subtle straightening of spines, the careful repositioning of bodies. Even Patricia, mid-sentence about sexual harassment policies, faltered and turned.

Myles Rochefort stood in the doorway like he'd materialized there specifically to disrupt the morning. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, and his expression suggested he found the entire concept of orientation mildly distasteful.

"Mr. Rochefort," Patricia said, her voice taking on a higher pitch. "We didn't expect…"

"I know." He moved into the room with that same fluid grace, his grey eyes scanning the assembled employees with the clinical precision of someone assessing inventory. "I wanted to welcome the new staff personally."

It was a lie. Everyone in the room knew it was a lie. CEOs didn't attend orientations. CEOs certainly didn't make personal welcomes. But no one was going to contradict him, so Patricia simply gestured toward an empty chair.

But He didn't sit.