Living in Cassian Wolfhart's estate was a masterclass in maintaining a double life. By day, I was Reyna Lancaster, the efficient, poised personal assistant, navigating his demanding schedule, attending meetings, and fielding calls with practiced ease. By night, I was Leona Vale, the investigative journalist, sifting through encrypted files, searching for the truth, and trying to reconcile the man I saw with the monster I knew him to be.
The proximity was a constant, low hum of tension. His suite was just through the adjoining door, a silent barrier that felt both flimsy and insurmountable. I heard him sometimes – the soft click of a door, the murmur of a late-night call, the occasional restless sigh. And I knew he could likely hear me too, every movement, every late-night rustle of papers as I worked on my real project. It was a psychological game, a constant awareness of the other's presence that frayed my nerves but also, I grudgingly admitted, created a strange, unsettling intimacy.
Working directly with Cassian gave me unprecedented access. I saw the inner workings of Wolfhart Dynamics, the ruthless ambition masked by philanthropic initiatives, the cold calculations behind every major decision. I also saw Cassian himself, not just the public persona, but the man who worked eighteen-hour days, who sometimes forgot to eat, whose eyes held a flicker of something guarded, something almost… haunted. It was a dangerous perspective, one that threatened to chip away at the solid foundation of my hatred.
But Maya's face, pale and still in the hospital bed, was my anchor. Her silence was a constant scream in my mind, a reminder of why I was here, why the charming smiles and fleeting moments of shared intensity with Cassian were just part of the act.
My primary objective remained the same: find concrete evidence linking Cassian directly to the cover-up that destroyed Maya. His personal assistant role gave me access to his private files, his emails, even his physical documents. I worked meticulously, late into the night after he retired to his suite, using the tools Lance had provided – miniature scanners, undetectable data extractors, encrypted software that left no trace.
Most of what I found was standard corporate data – contracts, financial reports, internal memos. But hidden within the layers of legitimate business, I started finding anomalies. Erased emails, files with corrupted timestamps, cross-referenced documents that led to dead ends. Someone had been very thorough in cleaning up a digital mess.
One rainy Tuesday night, while Cassian was out of town for a last-minute conference, I stayed up later than usual, delving into an old archive of his personal correspondence from the year Maya was an intern. It was tedious work, scrolling through thousands of emails, most of them mundane.
Then I found it.
An email chain, dated just weeks before Maya's incident. It wasn't directly to or from Cassian, but he was CC'd. The subject line was innocuous: "Personnel Review - Townsend." Richard Townsend, Maya's supervisor.
The first email was from Lillian Dart, the HR rep turned fixer I'd spotted at the gala. It detailed a "sensitive situation" regarding Townsend and an intern, recommending "immediate action to mitigate potential risk." The intern's name was redacted, but the date matched Maya's start date.
The response was from Vincent Creed. Cold, concise. "Handle it. Ensure discretion. Keep CW informed, but insulated."
And then, the email that made my blood run cold. A final message in the chain, sent from Cassian Wolfhart's personal account, addressed to both Dart and Creed. It was short, chillingly detached.
Subject: Re: Personnel Review - Townsend
Message: Agreed. Proceed as planned. Confirm containment.
Agreed. Proceed as planned. Confirm containment.
The words swam before my eyes. He knew. He wasn't just passively aware; he had given the order. He had greenlit the "containment" of the situation, the silencing of the intern, the protection of his executive. He had signed off on the destruction of Maya's life.
All the moments of doubt, the glimpses of a potentially complex man beneath the ruthless exterior, shattered like glass. He wasn't just responsible; he was complicit. He was the architect of the lie that had nearly killed my sister.
My hands trembled, gripping the edge of the desk. The luxurious study, the quiet hum of the house, the rain drumming softly against the windows – it all faded away, replaced by the image of Maya's bandaged wrist, her vacant eyes.
He had agreed. He had planned. He had contained.
And I had been living under his roof, sharing his space, almost allowing myself to believe there was more to him than the headlines suggested.
A cold, hard resolve settled deep within me, extinguishing the last embers of doubt. The game wasn't just dangerous; it was personal. More personal than ever.
I quickly saved the email chain, encrypting it and sending it to Lance's secure server. This was the proof I needed. The undeniable link.
As I shut down the computer and returned the study to its pristine state, I glanced towards the adjoining door that led to Cassian's suite. He was due back in the morning. Back to the close quarters, the shared tension, the dangerous dance we were performing.
But now, the dance had a new rhythm. A colder, more vengeful beat.
He thought he had brought me into his world, into his confidence. He thought he was controlling the game.
He was wrong.
He had just handed me the weapon I needed to bring his empire crashing down. And I wouldn't hesitate to use it.
The shadows of the past had just collided with the present, and the darkness they cast was absolute.
The email chain was burned into my memory. Agreed. Proceed as planned. Confirm containment. Cassian's words, cold and clinical, echoed in the quiet luxury of his estate. They were the undeniable proof I had sought, the final piece of the puzzle that confirmed his role in the destruction of Maya's life. He wasn't just a distant figurehead; he was the man who had signed off on her ruin.