LIACH POV ~
Getting the job wasn't hard , since I was a top graduate and all. My qualifications spoke for me, along with some other things that are added to my resume. Falsified internships for example—craft by our esteemed Dave—and some glowing recommendations
I'm dress in a navy-blue blouse buttoned to the collar, my hair in a soft, professional bun, and glasses with clear lenses that made my eyes look larger, and innocent.
The De Lunas might be powerful, but they are not invincible. Not from within. And I've come to crash his world.
The recruiter took one look at me and smile content with what I provide and how I look.
The final interview is handled personally by Sinveer's right-hand man—Marek. His eyes focuses on my hands, my face, and my posture.
"Why us?" he asks.
From the way he scrutinizes me, he's looking for an answer that will convince him, I'm as I appear. That I can do.
"I've trained diligently, Sir, preparing for a position that demands both sharp intellect and unwavering resolve. What attracts me here is the sheer scale of your operations, the impact this company commands. I'm not content with small victories; I want to be where decisions truly alter the landscape. I'm convinced I possess the necessary skills and hunger to be invaluable to your team, and I am ready to commit fully."
His eyes are sceptical, watching me, then he continues. "What if I tell you there may be situations where your life could be in danger, will you still work for us?
"My ambition demands to be at the center of influence, where decisions shape destinies, and profit is a testament to skill. Mr. Marek, fear is a luxury I cannot afford."
"Ambition?" He repeats. "What is this ambition you talk about? His chin resting on his palms, his elbows on the table, his body pressing forward.
"Money, Sir."
A chuckle escapes his lips as his phone rings.
"Excuse me, I need to take this call."
He speaks on the phone for a while then turns to me still on the call.
"Follow me, the CEO requests to see your files, personally."
Excellent!
This is better. I know he didn't trust me, but he trusts Sinveer's instincts more. Because Sinveer handpicked me. And that's why I'm here like this: Same hair and eyes only him will remember.
Which worked in my favor.
The moment we step into his office, I feel it—the weight of his presence before I even saw him.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble floors, the scent of sandalwood and something darker. Sinveer stood behind his desk, talking into a phone in a low, smooth voice that vibrates down my spine like an echo of that night. His back to me.
He turns the moment we enter. As if he felt me too.
When he hung up and finally turned to face me, it was like time stopped.
He looks different than before—he looks more refined.
His eyes drag over me slowly, methodically—like a puzzle he couldn't quite put together. His gaze fell on my feet, to my thighs trailing up to my waist, then to my face, lingering on my lips, finally settling on my eyes.
He's taking his time. Is he not going to say anything?
"Liach Brain, am I correct?" he asks, voice like smoke.
"Yes Sir."
"Summa cum laude. Trilingual. Background in strategy and behavioral economics." Flipping the papers, he says it all like it is a challenge. Like he expects me to flinch.
But I don't.
"I am, Sir." I reply, in a measured voice.
Another long pause. Stretching into eternity.
"Take your glasses off."
"Sorry?" I ask, a little bit confuse by his sudden request.
He doesn't repeat himself as he remains silent, waiting for me to take off the glasses.
I obey.
His eyes run over my body, from my feet to chest resting on my face — focusing more on the face.
"Tell me, have you been to Il Sogno club before?" He asks.
"No, Sir."
His memory was reaching for me like fingers through fog. That primal part of him was screaming you've met her before. But the rational side—the part that needs evidence—was losing the argument.
"Fine," he moves from where he stands back to his desk. "You start tomorrow. 7 A.M. sharp. Don't make me regret this."
"Yes, sir. You will definitely not regret this." I reply delightfully.
Quite the opposite I think. Sinveer De Luna.
"Hold on," he says. I stop in my tracks. "Do you have a residence around here because I could call you at any moment. Time is of the excess."
"Yes Sir, not that far from here."
"Good. You can leave now."
"Yes."
That night, I'm at my apartment, Elias is in his room since he's part of the mission.
I stand by the window, overlooking the city skyline. Below, the streets bled neon. Somewhere out there, people screams, lovers fucking while moaning loudly, and blood spilling in shadow alley. In my hands is my journal. My death ledger I call it. Written inside is a mission to be carried out.
Mission Report - From My Journal
Objective: Infiltrate Sinveer De Luna's inner circle. Gain access to all internal communications, plans, and security systems. Gather intel for the downfall of the De Luna empire.
Secondary Objective- Complete the unfinished job: Kill him.
Papa has made it clear, this was the final opportunity. My past failure had already humiliated him. With my life at stake. My life is not truly mine anymore. It never has been.
But what Papa doesn't understand—what he never would—is that I didn't want to kill Sinveer just for him.
I want to kill him because I want it.
I want to feel his blood on my hands again. I want to see his strong body crumple in disbelief. I want to watch the light go out of those green eyes the moment he realises she did it—the quiet girl in his office.
The one he let in.
There is no rush, the time will come.
THE NEXT MORNING – 7:00 A.M.
I arrived at the office before he did.
Coffee, files, the day's schedule—all laid out on his desk like clockwork. I make myself invisibly efficient. That's the key to manipulation, becoming indispensable.
Sinveer walks in, fifteen minutes late, eyes slightly bloodshot. No woman following him.
Interesting.
"Impressive," he mutters, noticing everything was already arranged.
I don't answer. I just give him the schedule, careful enough to brush my fingers with his.
Wanting to create a static. An awareness. An invisible string tugging between us.
"You remind me of someone," he says suddenly, eyes boring into me.
I tilt my head. "Should I be flattered or concerned, Sir?"
With a ghost of a smirk. He says.
"Both."
Still standing, I say nothing to his reply. Waiting for him to leave. Which earned me a while of him staring.