Chapter 6

I stand frozen in front of the confidential folder, my heart pounding. The slightly open pages taunt me, promising answers to my swirling questions: who is Cameron Black really? What shadows hide behind Black Industries? Part of me the curious, instinctive part urges me to flip through them, to glean even a clue to understand this trap I've fallen into. But reason wins out. Too risky. I could get caught at any moment  Cameron might burst in, or Elena, or any zealous employee. And then? Punishment? Worse? I shake my head, stepping back as if the folder were a time bomb. No, better to play it safe. I return to my desk, diving back into my mundane tasks: checking Excel sheets on Asian investments, drafting a memo on real estate market trends. Cold numbers, reassuring in their apparent normality.

And I'm right to be cautious. Barely five minutes later, the door opens silently. Elena enters, her impeccable grey suit as always, but her gaze is different this time suspicious, probing, as if she's received a quiet order to check up. She stares at me for a moment, eyes narrowed, before walking straight to Cameron's desk. Without a word, she picks up the folder she'd dropped off earlier, tucking it under her arm with clinical efficiency. Then she turns to me, one eyebrow raised.

— A problem?

My pulse quickens, but I force a neutral smile, hands still on my keyboard.

— No, none at all.

She nods, but her gaze lingers a little too long, as if assessing my answer. Then she leaves, taking the folder with her. The door clicks shut, and I exhale deeply, shoulders slumping. *Phew. That was close.* If I'd given in to temptation, if I'd turned even a single page… what would have happened? A confrontation? A punishment harsher than last night's "test"? Or worse, a quiet disappearance, like those "accidents" I'd overheard? The thought chills my blood. I force myself to refocus on my screen, typing frantically to chase away the anxiety. The hours pass in a fog of routine: filing reports, answering innocuous emails, ignoring the oppressive emptiness of the office without Cameron.

The morning stretches into oppressive monotony. I finish my reports, reply to trivial emails, ignore the hunger gnawing at me. Around noon, my personal phone buzzes  a call from my mother. I glance at the door, hesitate, then answer in a low voice.

— Mum?

— Amanda, sweetheart! So good to hear your voice.

Her voice is warm, but tinged with the loneliness she always tries to hide. I'm an only child, her only pillar since my father disappeared three years ago. She was left alone in that tiny house in Yorkshire, with her memories and her grief. I've done everything to support her: daily calls at first, regular visits. But since I moved to London a month ago for this "incredible opportunity" that turned out to be a poisoned trap, the distances have grown.

— I miss you, you know. The house is so quiet… too quiet. She sighs. Without you, and without your father…

The mention of him tightens my heart. My father: that strong, positive man, always ready to encourage me, to tell me about his business trips with a smile. And then, overnight, nothing. A frantic call to my mother, incoherent words about "dangers," and silence. I've tried everything: police reports, private detectives, sleepless nights scouring forums. Nothing. Deep down, I refuse to believe it. He's not dead. He's somewhere, on the run perhaps. I still hope.

— I know, Mum. I miss you too. Listen, this weekend, I'll come see you. I'll even buy a kitten beforehand a little ball of soft fur, like we talked about. To keep you company, to fill the emptiness a bit.

She laughs softly, moved.

— Oh, sweetheart… that would be wonderful. Thank you.

We talk for a few more minutes about this and that, avoiding painful subjects. When I hang up, an even greater emptiness washes over me. I'm alone here, truly alone, in this tower that seems to swallow the light.

Around 12:30 p.m., as I'm packing up to go eat, the door bursts open. Not Elena this time. Cameron.

He strides in, tense but controlled. His temple is neatly bandaged, his knuckles still red, but he's changed clothes: impeccable black shirt, jacket over his shoulder. He fixes his eyes on me immediately, crossing the room in a few strides.

— Grab your things, Amanda. The day is over for today.

I frown, surprised by his direct tone.

— Already? But… where are we going?

He steps closer, too close, until I feel the heat of his body and his familiar cologne  dark wood, musk, danger. His green eyes plunge into mine, and for the first time, there's something new in them: genuine concern, almost gentle, softening the hard lines of his face.

— Follow me. I need to take you somewhere.

— Why? I insist, my voice trembling despite myself. What's going on?

He places a light hand on my arm  a firm but not brutal gesture, almost protective. He leans slightly, his voice dropping to a low, almost tender murmur.

— Trust me, Amanda. It's for your own good. I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for your own good.

Those words freeze me. *Him* the cold, ruthless man who talks about tests and obedience contracts… worried? Gentle? The concern in his eyes seems real, as if he's hiding a fear he shows no one else. My instincts scream at me to ask more questions, to resist. But something in his gaze  that fleeting vulnerability  disarms me. I stop asking questions. Not now.

I grab my bag, my coat, and follow him without another word. He opens the door, scans the empty hallway, then guides me toward the private elevator. The descent is silent, but his presence beside me feels different: protective, almost reassuring despite everything.

Where is he taking me? And why now?