The voice on the phone didn't just speak; it crawled under Eva's skin like a cold sweat. She stood frozen in the center of the reconstructed study, the blue light from the monitors casting long, skeletal shadows across her face. Her breathing became shallow—a fragile, rhythmic gasping that echoed the panic rising in her chest.
"Who is this?" she whispered, her eyes darting toward the heavy oak door. She felt a sudden, suffocating claustrophobia. The room that felt like a sanctuary seconds ago now felt like a high-tech coffin.
"A friend who knows that Alexander Vanderbilt didn't just survive," the distorted voice hissed. "He changed. Look at the monitors, Eva. Look at the camera labeled 'Vault 12'."
Driven by a compulsive, terrifying curiosity, Eva's fingers flew across the keyboard. The screen flickered to a dark, underground bunker. In the center of the frame, Alexander was visible. He was no longer the man in the alley. He was standing before a wall covered in photos—not just of Marcus, but of her. Photos of her sleeping, photos of her at her parents' grave, photos of her even before they met.
She felt a visceral wave of betrayal. It wasn't just protection; it was a decades-long map of her life drawn by a man who had orchestrated every move she ever made. A nauseating sensation of being hunted replaced the warmth she had felt in the alley. Was she his wife, or his most prized possession?
Outside the hotel, Alexander was moving through the Paris streets with a frenetic, desperate speed. He had seen the breach in the hotel's secure line on his handheld device. His face was a mask of raw, unadulterated panic. He didn't care about the police or Marcus's remaining men; his only thought was the look of horror he knew would be on Eva's face if she saw the "Black Files."
He burst through the lobby of Le Méridien, his blood-stained shirt hidden beneath his coat, his eyes burning with a lethal, manic focus. Every person he passed felt the cold wake of his presence—a man who had nothing left to lose but the woman who didn't even know who he really was.
Back in Room 402, the door handle turned. Slow. Deliberate.
Eva grabbed a heavy glass decanter from the desk, her knuckles white, her body coiled in a hysterical defensive stance. The door creaked open, and Alexander stepped in. He was breathless, his chest heaving, his silhouette framed by the dim hallway light.
"Eva, don't listen to the phone," he rasped, his voice cracking with an agonizing vulnerability. He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched, trembling.
"Stay back!" she screamed, her voice breaking. She pointed at the monitors. "You've been watching me for years, Alexander. Long before the crash. You didn't just save me—you've been controlling the very air I breathe! Who are you?"
Alexander stopped. The mask of the "Ghost" finally shattered, leaving behind a man who looked profoundly broken and dangerously ashamed. He didn't deny it. Instead, he looked at her with a possessive, mournful love that was more terrifying than his silence.
"I am the man who kept you alive when the world wanted you dead," he said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating growl. "And I will be the monster that keeps you, even if you hate me for it."
Before she could react, a red light began to flash on the master console. A countdown.
The voice on the phone laughed one last time. "If I can't have the Vanderbilt empire, Alexander... you can't have your prize. Goodbye, Room 402."
The smell of ozone filled the air. The electronic locks hissed shut. They were trapped.