Paris had a different pulse at dawn—quieter, almost fragile. But this morning, the fragile quiet would not last.
Camille stood on her balcony as the first pale light filtered over the city. Below, the streets still lay in shadow, but she could feel it—something had shifted. The air was tighter. Every instinct sharpened.
The encrypted phone buzzed softly in her palm.
Damien.
Incident. Your presence required. No delay.
No signature. No pleasantries.
She was dressed and moving within minutes.
---
Laurent Tower's sublevels were nothing like the sleek corporate floors above. No polished glass or designer art here—just cold steel, reinforced walls, security protocols humming beneath the surface.
Damien met her outside the secured chamber, flanked by two of his private operatives—silent, grim-eyed.
Without a word, he led her inside.
The footage played on a wall of monitors—grainy, shot from a distant rooftop camera.
A black SUV pulled alongside Camille's car two nights ago. Not an accident. Not coincidence.
"Surveillance," Damien said. "Testing our defenses."
He switched to another feed—closer, sharper.
A masked figure planting a thin black device beneath her rear axle.
Camille's blood chilled.
"Tracking beacon," she murmured.
"Worse," Damien said. "Pulse disruptor. Timed detonation—failsafe design."
A beat of silence.
"They meant to send a message," he added. "Or silence you entirely."
Camille's hands curled into fists, nails biting her palms.
"And Renault?"
"No name. But the technology is his network's signature."
Damien turned to her then, voice low.
"This is no longer indirect. You are a target."
Camille met his gaze, steady.
"I was always a target."
---
They spent the next hours in controlled fury.
Camille dissected surveillance patterns, traced shell companies through encrypted leads. Damien coordinated countermeasures, his private intelligence network moving with surgical precision.
A portrait of the enemy emerged—layered, ruthless, closing in.
And at its center, Renault.
A ghost of old alliances. The man Camille had seen across that ballroom floor—smiling thinly, eyes cold.
Now, the mask had slipped.
He wanted her out of the way.
---
By late afternoon, the first strike came.
A breach attempt on one of Camille's former legal accounts—a Trojan buried in a contract file, designed to expose her private archives.
She caught it barely in time.
Damien's team locked down her systems, swept every device, but the message was clear.
There would be no safe ground now.
"You need protection," Damien said.
"I need the truth," Camille countered.
He did not argue. But his gaze darkened.
"You will have both."
---
Night again.
The city below gleamed indifferent, uncaring.
Camille stood alone in the penthouse study, a file spread across the desk—one of Damien's deeper intelligence briefs.
In it, she found another thread—a former Renault associate, name buried in a subsidiary linked to Mateo's last project.
Her breath caught.
Closer. The truth was closer than ever.
But so was the danger.
---
The door opened quietly.
Damien entered, dressed in black, movements tense.
"You've been at this for hours."
"I'm close," Camille said, voice low.
He moved to her side, glancing at the file.
"You are also reckless."
"I'm not stopping now."
Their eyes met—clash of wills, of unspoken need.
A pause, the air thick between them.
Then, with unexpected softness, Damien reached out—fingers grazing her cheek.
"You are too valuable to lose," he said, voice rough.
Camille's breath hitched.
"And yet," she murmured, "you keep drawing me deeper."
A faint, wry smile touched his mouth. "Perhaps because you can withstand it."
Another pause—longer now. The current between them undeniable.
Damien's hand lingered. Camille's heart pounded.
Then the distance broke.
His mouth found hers—no pretense, no calculation. A collision of need, of fury held too long.
Camille answered, matching his fire.
For a moment, the war outside vanished—only heat, breath, hunger remained.
But then—too soon—Damien pulled back, breath unsteady.
"This is... dangerous," he said.
Her voice was soft but fierce.
"So is everything else."
Another beat. Another breath.
Then Damien's mouth captured hers again—deeper, harder.
This time, neither pulled away.
---
When they finally parted, the city had darkened beyond the windows.
Camille stood in his arms, head against his chest.
The lines between pretense and truth had blurred—and neither spoke of it.
Not yet.
But both knew.
Everything had changed.