Chapter 29 Caught Up
Elena’s POV
The storm outside my office had been building for hours, the sky bruised and heavy, rain streaking down the glass in uneven lines. I’d been watching it for so long that if someone had seen me, they'd think that I had everything under control but I didn't.
Jack had already left for a closed-door session with cybersecurity.
The bait had worked.
That fact should have brought satisfaction and a sense of victory but instead, it left a hollow ache in my chest.
Earlier that afternoon, the alert had pinged across Jack’s secure channel. The decoy folder—my decoy—had been accessed.
But it wasn’t the code that sealed it for me.
It was the drawer.
I could still see it if I closed my eyes—the faint smudge on the bottom handle of my desk drawer. There was a visible soft peach shimmer that caught the light at just the right angle, it was a lip gloss.
Mia’s lip gloss, my instincts were confirmed. I didn't confront her, in fact the way I acted around her didn't change.
In that moment, the truth settled into my bones—Mia was my father's mole, not necessarily Damien's but no one is ruling out the possibility.
I leaned back in my chair and realized that my heart wasn’t racing. That was the strangest part—my heart was slowing, like my body had already moved past shock and landed somewhere colder. I guess it was grief or resignation.
My father had always been there, looming just beyond the edges of my decisions. Even when he claimed to have stepped back all in the name of retirement.
Just like that, the dream and my mother's face became vivid in my mind. Fractured by fear she’d never let anyone else see.
Her voice echoed at the back of my mind:
‘You must never forget who your father is.’
I closed my eyes.
Back home at the penthouse, I sat curled into the far corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath me, the silk robe barely holding its shape around my body. It felt less like clothing and more like a fragile barrier—something soft between me and the weight of the day. The city lights outside the window blurred into muted streaks, distorted by the glass and by my own unfocused stare.
Jack stood in the kitchen, just a few steps away, but it felt like another room entirely. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, unmoving, the ice slowly dissolving as if time itself had decided to linger. He wasn’t drinking, just staring. Like there was something suspended in front of him that only he could see.
The air between us was still warm from earlier—close, charged, and intimate in a way that hadn’t asked permission despite the long day at the office. It lingered on my skin, in my chest, in the quiet places where doubt now began to creep in.
Something had shifted and it was enough to make me aware of it.
I drew in a slow breath, feeling the words rise before I could stop them.
“You ever get the feeling like you’re being moved?” I said, my voice cutting through the silence sharper than I intended. “Not walking—heck, not even running. Like just being moved by someone else. It feels like a hand on your back you can’t see.”
Jack turned toward me then. His brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening as if I’d just named something he’d been circling for days.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Lately I feel it every time I walk into that building.”
I lifted my eyes to him, searching his face. I didn’t ask him to go on, I didn’t have to.
“Security logs have been tampered with,” he continued, setting the glass down on the counter without looking at it. “Whole days wiped clean. At first, I thought it was Damien again. He’s reckless and loud. He somehow likes you to know he’s there.”
He shook his head. “But I bet this isn’t his style. It’s too subtle. Too… engraved.”
My gaze dropped to my hands, folded tightly in my lap. My fingers had gone white without me realizing it.
“It could be my father,” I said softly.
The words tasted bitter like something I’d known for a long time but had refused to name.
Jack exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “It feels like him,” he admitted. “But it also feels like someone else. Like someone who is younger, hungrier… it feels like someone trying to prove something.”
I didn’t respond right away. My thoughts collided, overlapping, spiraling too fast to grab hold of faces, memories and warnings dressed up as concern.
Jack crossed the room then and sat beside me on the couch. Not crowding me. Not demanding space. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of him. His hand brushed my thigh—accidental, maybe, but grounding all the same.
“Do you regret our intimacy?” he asked quietly.
The question startled me. I turned to look at him, really look at him.
“What?” I asked. “Why would you even think that?”
He held my gaze, steady but uncertain.
“Because things are complicated. Because lines got crossed. And because I don’t want to be another thing you resent when this gets worse.”
“No,” I said immediately, the word leaving me without hesitation. “I don’t regret it.”
Then, softer, more honest than I’d meant to be, “But I regret not knowing where we really stand.”
His expression shifted—something easing and settling.
“We will stand right here,” he said. “I’m not leaving you, ever. Not unless you tell me to.”
The tension in my chest loosened just enough to breathe again.
The next morning at the company, I crossed the lobby, that was when I saw a man.
He stood near the center of the lobby like he belonged there, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that looked expensive without screaming about it. Early thirties, maybe. Hair swept back neatly, not rigid, not casual. His posture was relaxed, but not loose.
He wasn’t checking his phone, he wasn’t waiting but surveying.
And when his gaze met mine, he smiled—not wide, not eager. It was soft and polite but it somehow punched my gut. And it was annoying because it felt like we’d already been introduced somewhere I didn’t remember.
He stepped forward before I could decide whether to slow or keep walking.
“Ms. Vale,” he said smoothly. “An honor. Mark Kessler.”
He extended his hand.
I took it. Firm grip. Confident, but not aggressive. His palm was warm. His eyes were steady.
“My team recently acquired a partnership stake in AetherTech,” he continued easily, “one of Vale’s smaller R&D subsidiaries.”
My smile stayed in place. My thoughts did not.
“I wasn’t made aware of any recent acquisition,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.
His expression didn’t flicker. That alone set off alarms.
“It went through last week,” he replied. “My firm—Kessler Strategies—offers security consulting for high-risk corporate transitions. We believe Vale is approaching such a period. I wanted to introduce myself personally.”
High-risk corporate transitions.
The phrase settled unpleasantly in my chest.
“I see,” I said, nodding once.
His gaze drifted—just briefly—toward the glass stairwell that led up to executive floors. The movement was subtle. Intentional.
“It must be difficult,” he said, looking back at me, “juggling expansion while protecting internal legacy. I admire your position.”
I tilted my head slightly. “Do you now?”
His smile deepened by a fraction. “More than you know.”
Before I could respond, a PR staffer approached him, murmuring something about schedules. Mark inclined his head toward me again.
“I look forward to working together,” he said, already stepping away. “I suspect we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”
And then he was gone—walking with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly how much space he was allowed to take.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Jack appeared at my side, his presence immediate, solid. Protective without being asked.
“Who the hell is that?” he muttered.
“Mark Kessler,” I said. “Apparently our new partner.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like him.”
I exhaled slowly. “Neither do I.”