---
Siena woke up to a warmth that didn't come from the sun slipping through the curtains. It came from the steady rhythm of Alexander's breath against her neck, his arm draped protectively around her waist. For a long, still moment, she didn't move. Her eyes remained open but unfocused, simply listening—feeling.
She had never known mornings like this. Never let herself.
Not until last night.
But life didn't freeze for tender moments.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging her out of the warmth and back into the chill of reality.
She reached over carefully, not wanting to stir him.
Waverly: Audit team found another shell under Caldwell. Need you at HQ in 2 hrs. Urgent.
Siena exhaled silently, thumb hovering over the screen.
Of course.
She sat up as gently as she could, but Alexander stirred anyway.
"You're leaving?" he murmured, voice rough from sleep.
She turned to look at him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His eyes were still fogged with sleep, but something in them—a softness—was wide awake.
"I have to meet the audit team," she said. "They found more. Caldwell's accounts again."
He propped himself on one elbow, hand trailing across her spine. "You want me to come?"
She paused, tempted, but shook her head. "No. Not this time. I need to go in alone. Besides, I'm pretty sure you've got fires of your own."
He didn't press. He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder instead. "Be careful."
"I always am," she replied with a small smile, but the heaviness in her chest had already returned.
---
Hartline HQ was running on caffeine and adrenaline.
Siena walked into the war room—a temporary name the team had taken to using—and was greeted by a flurry of file folders, red string, and blinking monitors. Carla didn't even look up.
"We've traced another laundering path," she said, tapping on a digital diagram. "Secondary shell account under Caldwell's name, routed through an inactive logistics firm—Redstone. On paper, it was dissolved in 2018."
Siena narrowed her eyes. "So why is it receiving deposits?"
"That's the thing. It isn't—not really. It's being used as a pass-through. Funds hit the account and bounce immediately to a hidden offshore vault registered under alias 'W.H.'"
Her heart hitched.
W.H.
She looked at Carla sharply. "You said W.H.?"
Carla nodded. "Yeah. Does it mean something?"
"I think it might. My father's old legal advisor—Harold Withers—he used those initials frequently in internal memos."
Carla stiffened. "You think he's involved?"
"I don't know. After my father's death, he quietly disappeared. Cited health issues, moved out of state. He wasn't part of the transition."
"But he had access to everything. Legal records. Memos. Financial archives."
Siena's throat tightened. "If this is him, then Trent wasn't the only one hiding things. Someone's been orchestrating this for years."
---
On the other side of the city, Alexander sat across from Detective Reeve once again. The detective tapped through surveillance footage, pausing at a grainy frame.
"There," he said. "That's Dael. Lexington Tower. 7:42 PM."
Dael walked into the lobby with determined strides, her crimson coat unmistakable.
Alexander leaned in. "And after that?"
Reeve clicked through. "Nothing. No record of her leaving. No elevator logs. No front desk alert. The floor she went to was under construction—no cameras, no listed access."
Alexander's jaw clenched. "That's not an oversight. That's a setup."
"Exactly. We believe she met someone there—our working theory is Dorian Gray. But without clear footage, we can't be sure."
Alexander rubbed his temples. "And the initials W.H.?"
Reeve nodded. "Keep popping up. They were tied to Gray's offshore holdings too. We believe whoever W.H. is, they're systematically erasing their tracks now that Gray is dead."
"And Dael?"
Reeve looked him straight in the eyes. "If she's alive, she's buried deep. If she's not…"
Alexander didn't let him finish.
---
That night, Siena stood on her balcony, staring at the skyline like it might rearrange itself into answers. She hadn't spoken to Alexander since she left that morning. Not because she didn't want to—but because there weren't any easy words for what she'd learned.
The knock came too softly for her to notice.
The door opened quietly.
Alexander stepped in, a manila envelope in his hand.
"I know you said not to come," he said, voice low.
She turned, exhausted. "And yet, here you are."
He held up the envelope. "Reeve found this. A draft memo from Hartline's archives. Withers wrote it six years ago. Proposed merger between Hartline and Blackwood."
Siena blinked. "Six years ago? That was before we even met."
"Exactly."
Her hand trembled slightly as she opened it. The language was precise, clean—too clean. It was a blueprint for something more than business. A silent takeover masked as collaboration.
"Why would my father agree to this?" she asked.
"Maybe he didn't," Alexander said. "Maybe someone else wrote it for him to sign. Or worse—used his death to fast-track it."
Siena's breath hitched. "Trent… he might've just been the front."
Alexander nodded. "And Withers, or whoever W.H. is—they've been orchestrating this from the shadows."
"We need to find Withers."
"Reeve's already on it. He vanished after your father's funeral. Not a single active address under his name since."
Siena stepped closer, her voice cracking. "This goes deeper than money, doesn't it?"
Alexander looked down at her. "I think it always did."
She nodded slowly, then leaned into his chest.
"I'm scared, Alex."
"So am I."
But they didn't move. They stayed there, not needing to promise anything.
The silence between them wasn't a retreat.
It was preparation.
---
By morning, the storm hit.
News outlets exploded with a single headline:
"Trent Caldwell, Former CFO of Hartline Industries, Arrested for Multi-Million Dollar Fraud Scheme."
A picture of Trent being escorted by federal agents accompanied the article.
Waverly ran into Siena's office like the walls were on fire. "It's out. The audit—everything. Someone leaked it."
Siena stood still, staring at the screen. "We didn't leak it."
"No. But someone wanted this public. And fast."
Siena turned to the window, fingers tightening on the curtain edge.
This wasn't over.
This wasn't exposure.
It was a move.
Someone had just fired the first real shot.
And the war? The real war?
It had only just begun.