Marcus hadn't moved for a long time as the footage on the screen played again and again.
On screen, was showing Alexa stepping out through the side gate under the shroud of night, her face was half-hidden by her hood, her movements were sharp, and deliberate. She was not the quiet caretaker she pretended to be.
Not the gentle woman Aaron adored.
Something in his chest twisted.
He dragged a hand through his hair, and leaned back in his chair.
The study, which was his usual sanctuary, now felt suffocating tonight.
The shelves loomed over him. They were lined with books and ledgers that suddenly seemed irrelevant — because every number, every deal, every meticulously built wall of order couldn't explain the mess now boiling inside him.
"Who are you really, Alexa?" he muttered under his breath.
The words hit the air, heavy and raw. He had asked them before, but this time they felt different — more desperate.
Nina's voice still lingered in his ears, they were sweet and venomous: "You trust her too easily, Marcus. Haven't you noticed how attacks, accidents — chaos — follow her like a shadow?"
He had brushed her off then, or at least pretended to.
But now, after seeing this footage, her insinuations clawed at him even more.
And yet — every time he remembered Alexa's eyes when she talked to Aaron, every time he caught that flicker of fierce protectiveness… something inside him refused to believe she was just another manipulator.
Marcus stood and walked toward the tall windows, as the moonlight spilled silver across the floor. The reflection that met him in the glass looked tired — colder than usual.
"You're losing your mind," he whispered, almost laughing under his breath.
He tried to focus on logic. On evidence, even.
Because apparently, that's what he was good at — calculating risk, eliminating threats. But the problem was… Alexa didn't fit neatly into any category. She wasn't a threat. She wasn't harmless either. She was — inconveniently — human.
He remembered her expression the night they argued — the crack in her voice when she said, "I can't replace your dead wife, Marcus."
That sentence had carved something out of him. He wanted to stay angry, maybe to hold on to it — because at this point, anger was easier than whatever this ache was.
But even now, the guilt troubled.
He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "Rosalina…" The name left his lips like a ghost.
His late wife's memory hovered always just out of reach — perfect, untouchable, untarnished. And maybe that's why Alexa unsettled him so much. Because she wasn't perfect. She was messy, infuriating, alive.
And he… he had started to feel again because of her.
The phone on his desk buzzed. He hesitated before picking it up. A message from one of his men blinked on the screen:
"Dante confirmed dead. Cause of death — homicide. We found the knife."
Marcus's fingers tightened around the phone. Dante — a dangerous man, but also a connection. Someone who knew too much. His death wasn't random.
And the timing…
His eyes drifted toward the paused frame of Alexa on the security footage — slipping out of the mansion the same night Dante was killed.
Coincidence?
He wanted to believe it was.
But for the first time, doubt was louder than reason.
Marcus sank back into his chair; eyes locked on the screen. "Don't make me choose, Alexa," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't make me turn against you."
Because if she truly was hiding something — if she really was tied to Dante's death — then he'd have to make a choice he wasn't ready to make.
And for a man like Marcus, emotion had always been a weakness.
But this… this woman was turning weakness into something far more dangerous — uncertainty.
Scene 2
Chapter 30 — Scene 2
Alexa sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop open, and the faint glow of code illuminating her face in the dim light.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, as they tapped into the mansion's internal network — a maze of encrypted systems Marcus had no idea she could navigate.
Lines of data flickered by, and security logs, archived footage flashing on the screen. She had bypassed two firewalls already; her focus was razor-sharp.
"There has to be something here," she whispered, her eyes scanning through weeks of recordings.
Her pulse quickened as she found restricted folders — old files that Marcus must've locked away himself. One of them bore a name she hadn't seen in years: "Rosalina_Incident."
Her stomach twisted. Her parents had worked with people tied to Marcus's world — that much she knew.
But what she didn't understand was how it all fit together — her parents' deaths, her training as an assassin, Marcus's late wife's mysterious end.
"This can't all be coincidence," she muttered, her voice trembled with determination. "There's a link here… and I'm going to find it."
The cursor blinked back at her like a taunt, as she typed in a password guess — one wrong, then another. The system kicked back a warning: Access denied. Attempt limit: 1 remaining.
She leaned back, rubbing her temple. "Of course it's never easy."
Before she could try again, her phone buzzed. Nina.
Her tone was falsely sweet, and was dripping through the line. "Dinner's ready. Mr. Marcus asked for everyone to be present. And please—" a short pause "—don't be late."
Alexa could almost hear the smirk behind the words. "I'll be down in a minute," she said flatly, closing the laptop.
By the time she reached the dining room, the atmosphere was already thick, with Aaron sat swinging his legs, clearly waiting for her, while Marcus was absorbed in thought, his expression unreadable.
Nina hovered by his side, her posture stiff — like a sentinel who had just spotted a threat.
Alexa quietly moved toward her new seat, which was the one Marcus had reassigned after their argument — distant, separated. She didn't protest. She wasn't here for comfort, well so she thought.
But then Marcus's voice cut through the air, calm but firm. "Alexa. Sit here."
The words made her freeze mid-step.
He gestured to the empty seat beside him — Rosalina's seat.
Nina blinked, her composure cracking. "Marcus," she started, her voice a thin veneer of politeness, "that's—"
But before she could continue, Aaron spoke up. "Yeah, Daddy! Alexa should sit next to you. That's her spot!"
Marcus didn't correct him. His gaze remained steady, giving no room for argument. "Nina," he said quietly, the kind of quiet that carried warning, "you were saying?"
Nina's lips pressed together, as she sat down, fuming, the knuckles of her hands whitening around her fork.
Alexa, unsure of what to make of it, slid into the chair beside Marcus. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through glass.
Dinner proceeded with the soft clinking of utensils — no one daring to speak first. Alexa kept her eyes on her plate, refusing to look his way, even though she could feel his gaze lingering occasionally.
Nina forced conversation that died as quickly as it began. Aaron tried to lighten the mood, chatting about his fortress game, but even he sensed the unspoken tension.
Then, as Alexa reached for the pepper bowl, Marcus reached for it at the same moment.
Their hands met halfway.
Her fingers brushed against his first — cold at the touch — and before she could withdraw, his hand settled on top of hers.
Time stilled.
Neither of them moved. The faint hum of the chandelier, the clatter of Nina's fork against her plate — everything faded into background noise.
It was just that fleeting contact — electric, confusing, and heavy with everything they weren't saying.
Marcus's hand lingered a second longer than it should have before he pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat, resuming his meal as though nothing happened.
But for Alexa, the warmth of that moment — the contradiction of his coldness and quiet pull — stayed burning on her skin.
And for Marcus, it was another reminder of the battle he was losing — not against her, but against himself.