Billionaire’s Reckoning

The chandelier above glittered like a constellation of captured stars, casting shards of light across the penthouse ballroom. Lila Hart adjusted the borrowed waiter's uniform—black vest, crisp white shirt, too-tight pants—and balanced a tray of champagne flutes, weaving through the crowd of Manhattan's elite. The air smelled of money: oud cologne, vintage wine, and the faint tang of polished leather. She hated it. Every laugh, every clink of glass, was a reminder of why she was here: to burn it all down.Thorn Enterprises' annual gala was the kind of event that made headlines—billionaires, politicians, and influencers rubbing elbows atop a skyscraper that stabbed the skyline like a blade. Tonight, though, Lila wasn't here to gawk. She'd spent weeks chasing a tip: Caspian Thorn, the company's enigmatic CEO, was about to close a deal that would displace thousands from Brooklyn's last affordable housing block. Her source—a jittery ex-employee—had promised proof. A ledger, a recording, something concrete. All she had to do was find it.She scanned the room, tray steady despite the tremor in her gut. There he was, near the floor-to-ceiling windows: Caspian Thorn himself. Taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that hugged him like a second skin. His hair was dark, streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were a storm-gray that caught the light as he turned. He was mid-conversation with a senator, all easy smiles and calculated charm, but something about him felt… off. Too sharp, too still, like a wolf playing at being tame.Lila edged closer, ears straining. "—finalized by Monday," Caspian was saying, voice low and smooth, a rumble that made her skin prickle despite herself. "The permits are in place."Permits. Her pulse kicked up. That was her angle—rigged approvals, greased palms. She needed evidence, and his office was three floors up, a glass-walled kingdom she'd scoped on the building plans. The gala was her shot: security distracted, chaos as cover. She ditched the tray on a passing table, slipped through a service door, and hit the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time.The executive floor was a different beast—sleek, silent, all dark wood and steel. Her sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished floor as she darted past a reception desk, heart hammering. Caspian's office loomed ahead, a wall of glass revealing a desk the size of a small car, shelves of leather-bound books, and a view that could make you dizzy. The door was unlocked—arrogance or oversight, she didn't care. She was in.She rifled the desk first: pens, a crystal decanter, a stack of contracts too vague to use. "Come on," she muttered, shoving drawers open. Nothing. Her eyes flicked to a painting on the wall—a brutalist slash of red and black. Too obvious for a safe, but desperation made her bold. She tugged it aside, and there it was: a sleek metal panel, biometric lock glowing faintly. Fingerprint access. Shit.Footsteps echoed in the hall—sharp, deliberate. She froze, breath catching. The door swung open, and Caspian Thorn filled the frame, his presence sucking the air from the room. He didn't look surprised. He looked amused."Lost, are we?" His voice was velvet over steel, and he stepped inside, shutting the door with a click that felt final.Lila straightened, chin up, adrenaline spiking. "Just admiring the view."He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as they raked over her—uniform askew, no tray, no excuse. "You're not staff." It wasn't a question.She smirked, stalling. "Maybe I'm a multitasker."He crossed the room in three strides, close enough that she caught his scent—cedar and smoke, damn him—and leaned against the desk, arms folded. "You've got ten seconds to tell me who you are before I call security. Or worse."Her mind raced. Lie? Run? The window was fifty stories up, and the stairwell was too far. She went with the truth, or part of it. "Lila Hart. Journalist. I'm here because you're screwing over half of Brooklyn, and I'm not leaving without proof."His jaw tightened, just for a second, then smoothed into that infuriating calm. "Bold. Stupid, but bold." He straightened, looming over her now, and she hated how her pulse jumped—not all fear, either. "What makes you think I'd keep anything incriminating here?""Because men like you can't resist a trophy," she shot back, nodding at the safe. "What's in there, huh? Payoffs? Dirty little secrets?"He laughed, a low, dark sound that sent heat curling through her despite herself. "You're fishing. Badly." Then he moved—fast, faster than she'd expected—grabbing her wrist as she lunged for the painting again. She twisted, aiming a knee at his groin, but he sidestepped, pinning her against the desk with his body. Hard muscle, warm breath, and those eyes boring into hers."Let go," she snarled, shoving at him. He didn't budge."Not until you tell me who sent you." His grip tightened, not painful but firm, and his voice dropped. "You're not the first to try this, Lila Hart. You won't be the last."She glared up at him, chest heaving, caught between fury and something reckless. "I don't need anyone to send me. I'm here because you're a parasite, and I'm going to prove it."For a moment, he just stared, something unreadable flickering in his gaze—anger, maybe, or intrigue. Then he released her, stepping back, hands raised like a truce. "Go ahead, then. Search. You won't find what you're looking for."She rubbed her wrist, glaring. "You're bluffing.""Am I?" He smirked, gesturing to the safe. "Open it. If you can."It was a taunt, and she knew it. No way she could crack a biometric lock. But his confidence gnawed at her—too smug, too certain. She turned, pretending to study the safe, and palmed a flash drive from her pocket, slipping it into the desk's USB port. A long shot, but if his system was networked, she might snag something.The screen behind the desk flickered. Caspian's head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing. "Clever," he muttered, and then he was on her again, yanking the drive free and tossing it across the room. It skittered under a shelf as he grabbed her shoulders, spinning her to face him."Enough," he growled, and this time there was no amusement, just heat—raw and dangerous. "You want to play games? Fine. But you're in my world now."She shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing a wall. "Your world's about to crash, Thorn."He leaned in, lips brushing her ear, voice a whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "Then we'll burn together."The door burst open—security, two burly guys in suits—and Caspian stepped back, mask slipping into place. "Escort her out," he said, cool as ice. "She's done here."They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the hall. She twisted, locking eyes with him one last time. "This isn't over," she spat.He smiled, faint and lethal. "I'm counting on it."