Amara's POV
Back in my room, my face went cold as stone when I thought about that figure I'd caught in my peripheral vision.
Ding.
My phone buzzed with a new text.
[Boss, got the intel.] [Dominic claims he's in his mid-twenties but he's actually younger. Father's some big shot in a Aethelgard military unit, mother passed away early, older brother serves in the air force.]
[Enlisted as a teenager, did warehouse duty in logistics for a while, then ditched. Currently unemployed...]
The intel was decent, but it wasn't what I was after.
I hesitated, then typed back: [Where was he between last fall and winter?]
The response came quick. [Claims he was studying in Oakhaven, but there's zero proof he was actually there. Academic records look fake. That entire period, he basically vanished off the grid.]
I stared down at the cast wrapped around my right hand, something dark and lethal flickering in my gaze. I didn't bother replying.
The Hopper sisters' meltdown had completely destroyed the welcome party, regardless of who started it. By late night, everyone had cleared out.
I got summoned to Winston's office.
Winston flashed me one of his sickeningly sweet smiles, his eyes going all soft and paternal. "Amara, your hand—"
"Cut the crap," I snapped.
Since Winston wasn't genuinely concerned anyway, he dropped it. "Listen, Morgana and Seraphine run their mouths, but it's all bark and no bite. Don't let it get under your skin, Amara."
I dragged a chair over and planted myself across from him, my voice turning arctic. "Right, because this mess is all on you."
Winston looked confused. "W-What?"
I leaned in, my stare cutting through him like a knife. "You want me out of here, but you're too gutless to say it yourself. So you let your wife and daughter be the villains while you keep your image spotless."
"Amara, you've got it all wrong—"
My eyes bore into his, ice-cold. "Stop the act. You know exactly what's going on. You're a sleazy, opportunistic snake who doesn't deserve the cushy life you're living.
"I'm only keeping you around because you're convenient—for now. But if you can't even manage the simple stuff, you'll find yourself back in whatever gutter you crawled out of."
Winston's expression shifted, his polite mask starting to slip.
He was somebody important in Merida Metro, and I was ripping him apart. I could see the fury building behind his eyes, even as he visibly struggled for self-control.
But then he remembered all the leverage I had on him.
Choking down his rage, he forced himself to stay calm.
Years back, he'd worked as my father's right-hand man.
Decades ago, my parents—major players in pharmaceuticals—abruptly shut down their projects, sold their business, and disappeared with their newborn son to live quietly in some small Blackwood town.
Winston had swooped in, stealing their research to build his own fortune. Then came the Blackwood Estate Massacre that shocked the entire nation.
Winston had been thrilled when his former boss died, thinking his secrets were buried forever.
Until I showed up years ago.
I could see the anger written all over his face, but I couldn't care less.
Instead, I switched topics. "Send me the buyer's banking information for the NX-5 Serum."
Winston looked uncertain. "Didn't they already arrest the guy? Why keep digging?"
"Wrong person," I said flatly.
"What?"
I wasn't about to elaborate. "Just get me those account details."
Winston hesitated. "It was a cryptocurrency transaction. Probably untraceable."
I didn't say anything, just fixed him with that no-bullshit stare.
"Fine, fine!" Winston stammered.
I got up to leave.
"Hold on, Amara," Winston called out. "Someone dropped off a note for you."
I frowned as I took the piece of paper from his hand.
It was the back of some store receipt, with terrible handwriting scrawled across it: [Hey gorgeous, want to follow me on INS? —Dominic Vancourts]
His username was written below in equally awful chicken scratch.
The handwriting looked like a drunk toddler had attacked the paper.
"Dominic Vancourts?" I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
Assuming I was clueless, Winston jumped in. "Dominic's the second son of the Vancourts family. The Global are power players in Merida Metro, and their influence reaches far beyond that."
My mouth twisted into a smirk—part amused, part contemptuous.
But the next second, I crumpled up the note and shot it into the trash can with perfect aim.
"Jackass," I muttered.
Winston didn't hear me. "Excuse me?"
I ignored him and walked out.
The moment I stepped out of the office, a loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by the sound of things being destroyed.
My face darkened, and I sprinted up the stairs with Winston trailing behind me.
When we got to the attic, my bedroom door was wide open.
My organized easels, brushes, sculptures, and 3D-printed prototypes were destroyed, scattered across the floor.
Even my wall paintings had been torn to pieces.
The room looked like a war zone.
Several maids stood nearby, looking nervous but too intimidated to interfere.
"Seraphine, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" Winston charged in before I could speak, grabbing Seraphine's arm and dragging her toward the exit.
Seraphine seemed shocked that her father was the one stopping her, and her last bit of composure evaporated. "Dad! Why did you bring her into our home? You already have daughters—why bring in some stranger? Is she your illegitimate child or something?
"What am I to you? What's Mom to you? We don't want her here!"
Tears poured down her face.
Winston glanced at me, catching the sardonic gleam in my eyes.
Fear shot through him, and without thinking, he backhanded Seraphine across the face. "Shut up!"
"Dad?" Seraphine stared in shock, seeing zero remorse in his expression.
Her face twisted with what looked like humiliation and fury, and she fled, sobbing and holding her cheek.
Winston's face showed conflicting emotions, but he took a deep breath. "Amara, Seraphine didn't mean anything by it. She wrecked your things, but I'll replace everything, I promise."
I stood in the doorway, blocking the maids from entering to clean up.
My voice was eerily calm. "You don't need to resort to these pathetic, amateur tactics. Once this job is finished, I'm out of here."
"I—" Before Winston could say another word, I slammed the door in his face.
Inside my room, I looked at the broken sculptures covering the floor. I stepped around them without emotion.
This wasn't a bedroom—it was my lab.
Day after day, I reconstructed the killer's face from my memories. Even if they'd changed their name, their appearance, their entire identity.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared at my phone, fury building like a storm in my chest.
Then ping—a Facebook friend request appeared, breaking my concentration.
The name was simply Dominic Vancourts.
The message was brief, cryptic, and completely bizarre: [That's me in the pic.]