Chapter 25 Eleanor's POV
The rest of the party was a haze of scents of perfumes, polite conversation, and nervous silence. I smiled and nodded. I spoke of art auctions and the rising market. My voice was calm. My heart was ice. Every time I caught a glimpse of Ollie, my guts turned somersaults. He stood near the back, alert but distant, playing his part. The pain in his eyes before he shut it away cut deeper than any blade. He was caught in a trap I’d helped build.
Alec moved through the crowd as if he owned it—charming one guest, warning another with a single look. He never once glanced at Ollie, as if the man were just another piece of furniture. To Alec, Ollie wasn’t a friend. He was a tool. A safeguard.
The car ride back was silent. I stared out the window at the city’s glittering skyline—beautiful, cold, and utterly indifferent. My hands clenched the fabric of my dress as it could steady me.
“You lied,” I finally said.
“I updated my plan,” Alec replied, eyes on his phone. The screen glowed against his face in the dark. “Ollie knows how you think. That’s useless in London. Here, it’s an asset. His presence helps me understand your state of mind.”
“He’s a leash,” I said, voice low and sharp. “You’re using him to control me.”
He put the phone down and turned to me. In the dim light, his eyes looked endless. “Control isn’t real, Eleanor. I’m showing you consequences. You brought Ollie into your world with secrets. Now you see the cost.”
It hurt because it was true. I’d used his kindness, and now Alec was using it against me.
“If anything happens to him—”
“Then you’ve failed,” he cut in, voice firm. “Your value is your mind. Your drive is vengeance—and loyalty. Ollie is part of that now. Keep him safe by being useful. By being precise.”
The car pulled into the garage. He got out without waiting. I followed, the elegant blue dress suddenly feeling like a costume I couldn’t take off.
Back in my apartment, I unpinned my hair and stood before the window. My reflection looked like a stranger—sharp, tired, wrapped in silk like a weapon in disguise.
I couldn’t focus. Code, financial trails, shell companies—they all blurred together. All I could see was Ollie’s face. I had to warn him. But every message, every call, every keystroke was watched.
Unless I went completely off the grid.
I spotted the chessboard in the corner—left over from a solo game. Alec’s black queen sat alone.
I opened my secure laptop, not for work, but to pull up the building’s floor plans. The security system was designed to monitor digital activity and block external threats. But it wasn’t designed to catch something physical—a note, left by hand.
There was a service elevator. A custodial locker room on Sub-Level Two. Shift change at 4 a.m.
At 3:45 a.m., I slipped out in black pants and a sweater. Cameras saw me, but a late-night walk wasn’t suspicious enough to raise alarms. I took the main elevator down, nodded to the night guard, ducked into the restroom, and waited.
At 3:58, I slipped out, turned away from the desk, and pushed through the MAINTENANCE door.
Concrete stairs. Flickering lights. The smell of bleach and wet floors. Voices from the break room down the hall.
Ollie’s locker: #247.
I scanned the room—rows of metal lockers, a bench in the centre. My heart pounded. This was risky, but I had to try.
I tried his birthday. No luck. Then his football team’s championship year. Still locked.
Then I remembered: his grandfather, his hero, came home from the war in 1945.
I turned the dial: 1-9-4-5.
Click.
Inside, a spare uniform, deodorant, a worn paperback—and a company-issued phone. Useless. It was definitely bugged.
But tucked between the book’s pages: a blank index card. A tiny pencil.
Hands shaking, I wrote:
> O – I’m sorry. This is bigger and worse than you know. You’re here because of me. He’s using you to make me cooperate. Do your job. Be the perfect guard. Trust nothing. Say nothing. I will get you out. – E
I folded it small, slipped it into the hollow base of the deodorant stick—somewhere only he’d check—and closed the locker.
Back in my room by 4:15, I stood under the shower, trying to wash away the feeling of being a rat in a maze.
Two days passed. The “Kingmaker” trail stayed cold. Pax Terra was a clue, not a breakthrough. I worked on autopilot, the golden maze around me growing tighter.
On the third morning, Alec called me to the strategy room.
Ollie was there.
Eyes forward. Posture stiff. A guard.
He’d gotten my message. Now he was playing his role perfectly.
Alec stood at the front of the table. A map of the Caribbean glowed on the screen.
“The Pax Terra lead,” he said. “The fake environmental report. The New Jersey prosecutor won’t move—the Senator’s influence runs that deep.” He looked at me. “We need something louder.”
“The Cayman trust’s real owner might be traced through an old notarized document, fifteen years back,” I said. “It could be forged, but it’s a thread.” I pointed to the name on the screen.
GIDEON VAIN
“Vain,” Alec repeated.
“You know him?” I asked.
“A ghost story,” David said tightly. “A financier who vanished after the 2008 crash. Linked to half a dozen massive frauds. If he’s Kingmaker…”
“Then he’s not just stealing money,” I said. “He’s breaking systems to take what’s left. Carthage. Bolivia. Cyprus. These weren’t accidents; they were planned collapses.”
Alec’s gaze hardened. “Find him. Every whisper. Every shell company and any hidden link.”
I nodded, already mapping paths in my mind.
Alec stood. “David, contact our Cayman contacts quietly. Eleanor, you have forty-eight hours. Give me a location, a habit, a weakness.” He turned to leave, then paused.
“Reid. Stay with her. Her safety is your only duty. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” Ollie said, voice steady.
They left. The room was empty—except for us.
I didn’t look at him. I opened my laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. Silence thick with everything we couldn’t say.
After a long moment, I heard leather shift—his holster.
“The deodorant,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Clever.”
I kept my eyes on the screen. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” he said, sharp and final. “Just get the job done and get us both out of this.”
He went still again.
I stared at the name glowing on the screen: GIDEON VAIN.
A ghost is hunting a ghost.
The game had changed.
We weren’t chasing a senator anymore.
We were chasing a legend, and the king had tied my fate to a hostage to make sure I wouldn’t run.
I began to type.
The only sounds: keys clicking, and the quiet rhythm of two breaths in a room full of secrets.