Chapter 8

Elena stared at the unknown number again, the sharpness of Roman’s new words cutting across the screen.

If I find you before four, you’re dead. No one will save you.

The threat should have rattled her. Anyone else would have dropped their phone and gone running back home in a panic. But Elena wasn’t anyone else.

Her thumb tapped out a reply, slow and deliberate.

Deal. If you find me, I’ll be submissive. Promise.

She hit send, her smirk widening as she imagined his face when he read it.

Roman Thorne wasn’t the kind of man used to challenges. People bowed, obeyed, submitted without hesitation. But she? She dared him.

“Girl, you’re insane,” Jace muttered, snatching her phone to read the text. His eyes widened. “You just told the devil himself to hunt you.”

Elena stretched on the couch, the leather squeaking under her weight. “Exactly. Let’s see if he’s as powerful as everyone claims.”

Jace groaned. “I don’t know whether to call you brave or suicidal.”

Her laptop chimed. Notifications filled the screen, systems being probed, surveillance shifting across the city.

Roman’s men were already moving. She could almost see the empire unfolding, men in black suits combing through streets, GPS locators pinging, drones scouring rooftops, traffic cameras being hacked.

Roman was serious.

But so was she.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, rerouting signals, sending his men chasing shadows.

One minute, she made it look like she was in uptown luxury boutiques, the next, she fabricated heat signals in abandoned warehouses.

His men moved like clockwork, precise and efficient, yet always one step behind.

Jace leaned over, watching her work. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Of course I am.” Her grin was sharp. “He thinks I’m a spoiled little Sinclair brat. Let’s show him how spoiled I really am.”

Meanwhile, Roman sat in the back of his car, eyes glued to a live feed of his men.

His jaw was locked, one hand gripping a crystal glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched.

“Status,” he barked.

“Sir, we’ve tracked her to the northern district. Surveillance confirms movement...”

“Send me the footage.”

Roman’s screen flickered with live feeds, men sweeping alleys, checking rooftops, storming cafes.

Nothing.

Every time they reached a location, Elena was gone.

Not gone. Never there.

His chest tightened, a rare pressure he didn’t recognize, frustration. He was a man who built empires on precision. Cities bent to his will. Governments bowed when he snapped his fingers.

But one woman was making him chase air.

The image of her smirk at dinner flashed in his mind, the way her lips had curved like she knew him better than he knew himself.

Roman downed the whiskey in a single swallow. “Double the search grid. I want every block covered. No mistakes.”

“Yes, sir.”

But deep down, Roman knew, there had been mistakes.

Not by his men. By him.

He’d underestimated her.

By 2:30, the Sinclair estate was a nest of nerves. Mrs. Sinclair had called Elena twenty three times. Mr. Sinclair paced with a drink in hand, muttering excuses.

But Roman didn’t pace. He sat perfectly still in the estate’s private lounge, elbows on his knees, microphone in hand, his voice low and lethal as he spoke to his men.

He had come back in hopes of Elena rushing back home but no, she was still not back.

“Where. Is. She.”

Static answered first. Then a nervous voice crackled. “Sir… we lost the trail again. The last location pinged on the south side, but...”

“Trash,” Roman snapped, the word sharp enough to slice. “You’re all trash. You’re telling me an heiress with no backbone, no skills, has my entire network dancing like fools?”

Silence.

No one dared answer.

Roman’s teeth ground together.

He wanted to throw the glass in his hand, wanted to break something, someone. His empire had never failed him, not once. But now, with every passing minute, Elena Sinclair was laughing at him.

He could almost hear it.

His phone buzzed. A notification. She’d read his message. She knew he was hunting her. And she was taunting him.

At 3:00, his men reported false sightings in three different districts. At 3:15, drones lost connection. By 3:20, his trackers scrambled for updates, their voices crackling over the line with panic.

Roman’s grip on the microphone tightened until his knuckles whitened.

“She’s mocking us,” he hissed, voice trembling with fury. “Feeding us lies. She’s in the city right now, laughing. And you...” his voice boomed suddenly, roaring across the channels “...can’t even catch her shadow!”

The silence on the other end was thick with fear. No one dared breathe.

Roman’s vision blurred red. He’d built a legacy on dominance, control, fear. No one humiliated him.

No one. And yet here he was, the clock ticking toward four, the spoiled brat heiress slipping through his hands as if she were smoke.

At 3:30, Roman leaned back in his chair, exhaling through clenched teeth, his heart pounding with a cocktail of rage and something darker.

Something he didn’t want to name.

He was supposed to break her.

Supposed to teach her who ruled. But with every passing second, with every smirk he imagined on her lips...

She was breaking him.

The clock on the mantel ticked mercilessly. 3:45. Fifteen minutes until the deadline.

Roman’s entire network buzzed with chaos. Static hissed over the comms as his men stumbled over reports, excuses, useless theories.

He barely heard them. His mind was sharpened on one target alone, Elena Sinclair.

The phone in his hand vibrated. His gaze snapped to the screen.

A message. From her.

His jaw clenched as he opened it.

With all your power, all your men, you still can’t find me. I wonder why people fear you. Tsk.

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they did, and Roman almost saw red.

His pulse thundered, vision narrowing to the mocking curve of her words.

He could hear the smirk in her tone, see the tilt of her chin, the spark of those defiant eyes.

His thumb tightened around the phone, nearly cracking the glass.

How dare she.

For years, his name had been enough to silence boardrooms, crumble competitors, make enemies kneel.

He was Roman Thorne. Power incarnate. The shadow no one outran. And she, his bride to be, a supposed spoiled brat, was mocking him like a child toying with fire.

He lifted the mic to his lips, voice like steel. “She taunts us because we allow her to. If you don’t find her in the next fifteen minutes, every last one of you is finished.”

“Sir...”

“Silence.”