The boardroom at Lancaster Holdings was an architectural marvel—floor-to-ceiling glass walls, Italian leather chairs, and a twenty-foot onyx table that gleamed like obsidian. But the temperature inside had nothing to do with design and everything to do with the man at its head.
Xavier Lancaster.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable as his top executives argued about quarterly losses. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his silence made grown men stammer.
"Sir," one of the younger VPs ventured, "if we renegotiate the Milan merger—"
"Then we hand leverage to a man who's stabbed us twice before," Xavier interrupted smoothly, his voice cold as frost. "We don't deal with liars. We erase them."
The room fell into a hushed compliance. No one questioned Xavier once his mind was made. He was known in international business circles as the man who never flinched—who bought, broke, and bled empires dry with frightening precision.
But today, something was different.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Sierra.
Last night, in her eyes, there had been something… off. A spark. A flicker of defiance he hadn't seen before. He had married her for appearance—quiet, polished, beautiful. A Lancaster wife who didn't speak out of turn. But that look she gave him—quietly poised, yet disarmingly sharp—unsettled him.
What was she hiding?
---
Later that evening, Sierra sat at the grand piano in the drawing room, her fingers ghosting over the ivory keys. She played softly, a haunting melody she'd once heard in an alleyway in Prague before a hit went south.
She didn't notice Xavier watching her from the staircase.
He had always regarded her beauty with the same detachment he gave art: something exquisite, worthy of display, but ultimately silent.
Tonight, though, she moved with purpose. Her fingers, her posture—it wasn't just music. It was memory. Controlled. Calculated.
Like a performance.
"You play like a woman with secrets," he said suddenly.
Sierra turned slowly, her expression unreadable.
"And you watch like a man who expects betrayal," she replied.
Their gazes locked.
Xavier descended the stairs, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass of bourbon. "Do you believe every man expects betrayal?"
"No," she said. "Just those who carry knives in their smiles."
A small smirk tugged at his lips, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Touché."
He stepped closer, invading her space, the air between them charged with something fragile and dangerous.
"You've changed," he said quietly.
"Have I?"
"You used to shrink from me."
"Maybe I'm done shrinking."
He studied her, his brows slightly lifted in intrigue. "Is that so?"
Sierra rose from the piano, her face composed. "Would it bother you if it were?"
"No," he said slowly. "But it would make me watch you more closely."
He stepped forward, his fingers brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear—gentle, but deliberate. It was an intimate gesture, but laced with subtle threat. His eyes searched hers, looking for the crack in her armor.
But Sierra had spent years training for this. She let her lips curl into a soft smile. "Then watch me all you want, Mr. Lancaster."
Before he could respond, her phone buzzed from the nearby table.
Sierra picked it up and read the message on the screen:
"He was spotted in Dubai. The ghost isn't a ghost anymore. We need Viper."
Her fingers tightened around the phone, but she quickly masked it with a graceful swipe and placed it face down. She could feel Xavier's gaze burning into her, but she didn't flinch.
"Bad news?" he asked casually, though his tone was laced with curiosity.
"Just an old friend," she lied effortlessly.
"Old friends tend to bring old messes," he said. "Be careful who you let in."
She met his eyes again and said with delicate precision, "The same could be said for you."
For the first time, Xavier smiled—darkly.
And in that moment, two predators circled each other, unaware that they were both dancing on the edge of a long-forgotten war.