Chapter 13 A Name That Shouldn't Exist
The rain started late, the kind that doesn’t announce itself with thunder but creeps in quietly, streaking the city in silver lines and blurred reflections.
From the penthouse windows, the world below looked distant and unreal, like something happening to someone else. I stood there longer than I meant to, forehead resting lightly against the glass, watching headlights smear into glowing ribbons as Layla’s words replayed over and over in my head.
Damien Sinclair.
I hated how the name sounded. Too smooth. Too deliberate. As if Daniel had taken his old skin, shed it, and stepped back into the world dressed in something grander. A name with weight. A name designed to command rooms and make people listen.
It made my stomach twist, knowing he had chosen it so carefully, knowing that even in hiding, he had always thought of himself as royalty.
Behind me, Jack paced the length of the living room with a burner phone pressed to his ear. I could hear the tension in the silence between his footsteps, the way his movements were too controlled, too measured. He only moved like that when something mattered. When something was dangerous.
When the call ended, he didn’t speak right away. He stood there for a moment, phone still in his hand, jaw set. I turned from the window because I already knew what he was going to say. I liked that he was efficient, more so that he was in this with me.
“She’s telling the truth,” he said finally.
“Damien Sinclair is Daniel Smith. Registered alias. Forged identity, clean paper trail, shell companies layered through offshore accounts. Whoever built this did it professionally.”
The room felt suddenly smaller. “So he didn’t just disappear,” I said slowly. “He was preparing.”
“For years,” Jack replied. “You told me he vanished for two years after everything fell apart. That wasn’t running. That was construction. He built a ghost empire and waited for the right moment to step back into your life.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, the silk of my robe doing nothing to keep the chill away. “Layla said he asked about company vulnerabilities,” I murmured.
“That means this isn’t just about me. He’s not here for closure or revenge. He wants the company, he wants Vale Corp.”
Jack nodded. “And he’s not working alone.”
The words landed heavily. “What do you mean?”
He crossed to the table and pulled up the surveillance logs again, his fingers moving quickly, confidently. “There were no forced entries. No alarms. The package on the balcony shouldn’t have been possible. Someone disabled the system temporarily. That level of access isn’t random.”
My chest tightened. “You think someone inside the company is helping him.”
“Or someone close to you,” Jack said quietly.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. I stared at the floor, my thoughts spiraling faster than I could control them. Every familiar face suddenly felt suspicious. Every shared smile, every reassuring word now carried a shadow.
“There’s a mole?” I whispered.
“Or worse,” Jack said. “A traitor.”
The word cut deeper than I expected. He moved closer and knelt in front of me as I sank onto the edge of the couch, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. “We have to change how we move,” he continued gently. “No open communication. No company devices. You don’t meet anyone alone.”
“Not even Layla?” I asked, hating myself for how small my voice sounded.
Jack hesitated, just for a second.
“She’s been with my family for ten years,” I said quickly. “She helped raise me.” I wanted to add that she was more like a mother to me but I didn't.
“And that’s exactly why she’s vulnerable if he has leverage,” Jack replied. “This isn’t about loyalty anymore. It’s about pressure points.”
My mouth went dry. I nodded because arguing wouldn’t change the truth. “So what do we do?”
My head was spiraling, this war won't be easy.
Jack reached into his jacket and unfolded a sheet of paper, handing it to me. “We build our own trap. This is everyone who’s had access to sensitive company systems. Schedules. Security protocols. Internal audits. We start here. You stay visible. Calm. Untouchable. He’s watching for cracks.”
I scanned the list slowly, my heart beating louder with every name. Friends. Colleagues. Family. And then I saw it.
Marcus Vale.
My cousin. My father’s nephew. The man in charge of internal audits.
My throat tightened. “You think Marcus…”
“He fits,” Jack said evenly. “Access. Motive. Opportunity. If you fall, he stands to gain everything.”
A memory surfaced uninvited—a dinner three months ago, Marcus laughing over wine, joking about succession, about how my father never trusted women with legacy empires. I had brushed it off then. A bad joke. A harmless comment.
Now it felt like a warning I’d ignored.
“Then we flush him out,” I said, straightening my spine.
Jack studied me. “You have something in mind?”
“If Daniel wants a game,” I said slowly, “we give him one. We leak a vulnerability. Something false. Something only a mole would pass along.”
A faint smile tugged at Jack’s lips. “You’re thinking like a queen.”
“No,” I said. “I’m becoming the board.”
The next morning, I walked into Vale Corp dressed in stark ivory, the kind of color that dared people to stain it. Rumors swirled like vultures, but I kept my head high, flanked by two men Jack had assigned to me. They weren’t corporate security. They were military-trained, silent, and terrifyingly efficient.
Marcus arrived when I summoned him, wearing his usual confidence like armor.
His smile faltered the moment he saw my expression.
“Cousin,” he greeted. “Rough week.”
“Sit,” I said coolly.
I slid the tablet across the desk. “Effective immediately, access to tier-two audit data is restricted. Me. Jack Roman. And three external consultants.”
His brows knit together. “That’s… drastic.”
“Only if you have something to hide.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes this time.
“I want to believe in loyalty,” I said softly, leaning forward. “Don’t make me regret it.”
He left without another word. Jack appeared moments later. “He looks shaken.”
“Good,” I replied, even as my hands trembled beneath the desk.
That night, another call came in. Limestone dust. Construction residue. Jack connected the dots before I did.
“The Sinclair Foundation building,” I said slowly. “He funded it years ago.”
Jack nodded. “He’s hiding behind his own legacy.”
Later, a package arrived by courier. Inside was a single typed page.
Ready for your next move?
And beneath it, in handwriting I would never forget:
—D.
I dropped the letter onto the table and looked at Jack.
“What now?” he asked.
I met his gaze, my fear sharpening into something colder, harder.
“Now,” I said, “we burn the board.”