Chapter 5
642words
At the far end of the mahogany table, the board's pack of aging vultures droned on about acquisition details.
But Damon Sterling hadn't heard a single word.
He sat in the chairman's seat, long fingers absently touching his cut lip.
The small wound there still stung.
Two hours ago, in those ash-filled ruins, inflicted by that "cheap substitute."
That moment had felt like an electric current, burning from his lips straight to his brain.
It was too familiar.
That desperate, trembling kiss.
Even her scent—earth and blood—triggered memories of that nightmare three years ago.
"Damon?" The vice president nudged him carefully. "About the West Suburbs property..."
"Meeting adjourned."
Damon stood abruptly.
"We'll continue this tomorrow."
He couldn't bear another minute of this drivel.
His mind was consumed with thoughts of the woman called Vera.
The woman who'd eaten mud before a grave, yet dared to kiss him in the ruins.
The woman whose back was a map of burn scars.
"I'm going to my office."
"Now."
……
Meanwhile, in the CEO's office.
I perched in his massive leather chair, heart racing.
A secretary could walk by any second, and Damon could return at any moment.
But I had no choice.
I opened his personal computer.
The screen glowed to life, cursor blinking in the password field.
No fancy biometric security—just a simple text password.
This was so typical of Damon.
His arrogance made him believe no one but his "dead fiancée" could possibly solve his little puzzles.
I took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Memories flooded back like a breaking dam.
The university library, sophomore year, sunlight gilding his profile.
He'd pointed to that dog-eared Neruda collection, eyes bright as stars.
"Elena, if we ever need a code just for us, let's use this line."
"It's about desire, about spring, about everything I want to do with you."
I closed my eyes against the rising bitterness and typed quickly:
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees
Enter.
The screen flickered.
"Access Granted".
The green text mocked me, a bitter irony slapping me across the face.
Disgusting.
Truly disgusting.
Damon, you use our love vows as your password, while somehow being connected to the fire that nearly killed me.
Swallowing bile, I pulled the warm voice recorder from my bra.
I extracted the memory card and slid it into the computer.
Reading data.
Just one audio file.
Recorded: one week before the fire.
I slipped on headphones and hit play.
Through the static, a familiar, falsely gentle voice emerged:
"...Don't worry about that girl. Once she's gone, Damon will come around. He's a smart boy. Without love clouding his judgment, he'll naturally choose family..."
Marcus Sterling.
Damon's own uncle!
The man who'd wept the loudest at my funeral, hailed by the media as the "Guardian of the Sterling Family."
Despite my suspicions, hearing him pronounce my death sentence with my own ears made my hands shake uncontrollably.
But it wasn't enough.
With just a recording, his army of lawyers would claim fabrication in a heartbeat.
I needed concrete evidence.
Using Damon's highest access privileges, I dove straight into the corporation's financial database.
Search keywords: Marcus, Offshore Account, week of the fire.
Data streamed past at dizzying speed.
Found it!
The day after the recording, one of Marcus's shell companies transferred three million dollars to "Viper Security."
The memo field contained only encrypted gibberish.
But such a massive transfer at that precise moment, combined with the recording—this completed the murder-for-hire evidence chain!
So it was you.
Marcus, you destroyed my home, murdered my parents, and left me this scarred wreck!
Just as I reached for the memory card.
"Click."
The door lock turned.
I froze solid.
No knock, no footsteps.
Someone was entering.
