Damien's POV
My phone exploded with notifications before I even reached my office building.
Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three emails. Every single one marked urgent.
Mr. Zhao! My CFO Rachel intercepted me the moment the elevator doors opened. Her face was white. We have a serious problem.
What kind of problem? I kept walking toward my office, scanning emails on my phone. Investment withdrawal notices. Contract cancellations. Stock alerts.
The kind that's costing us millions every minute you're not in the boardroom. Rachel matched my pace, her heels clicking frantically. Nakamoto Industries pulled their funding at 6 AM. Jensen Ventures followed at 6:15. By 7 AM, we'd lost four major investors.
I stopped walking. Four investors don't just pull out simultaneously without warning.
That's not the worst part. Rachel pulled up her tablet, showing me Zhao Technologies' stock chart. The line dropped like a cliff. We're down eight percent since market open. Trading volume is triple normal levels. Something's triggering massive automated sell-offs.
Eight percent. Exactly what ARTEMIS had predicted last night.
No. Impossible.
I pushed into the boardroom where my executive team waited, all looking like they'd been awake for days.
Talk, I commanded, taking my seat at the head of the table.
Marcus sat to my right, looking concerned but calm. Too calm for a man watching his investment burn.
It's algorithmic, my Chief Technology Officer stammered. Someone's manipulating our data streams. Making our financials look unstable to the AI systems that drive institutional investment decisions.
Explain that in English.
Computers decide where billions of dollars get invested based on data patterns. Someone's making our patterns look dangerous. The computers are pulling money out automatically.
I leaned forward. Can you stop it?
We've tried. But whoever's doing this— He pulled up lines of code on the main screen. They're incredibly sophisticated. The attack is surgical, targeted, almost... academic in its precision.
Academic.
The word triggered something. A memory of Sienna hunched over her laptop, building legal briefs with methodical perfection. The way she organized evidence, created airtight arguments, thought three steps ahead of everyone else.
Sir? My security chief stood. We traced the digital signature. It's unusual.
How unusual?
It follows patterns consistent with someone who has legal training. The code structure mimics legal argument frameworks—thesis, supporting evidence, conclusion. Whoever wrote this thinks like a prosecutor building a case.
The room tilted.
Legal training. Prosecutor's mind. Methodical precision.
Sienna.
No. Sienna was dead. I'd watched her coffin lowered into the ground. I'd mourned her for months.
But Selene Park moved like Sienna. Tilted her head like Sienna. Had eyes that burned with the same intelligence.
Damien? Marcus's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. Are you alright?
I forced myself to focus. Do we know who's behind this?
We're still investigating, my security chief said. But the timing is suspicious. Last night at the gala, you met Selene Park. This morning, her firm Prometheus Capital made a massive public investment in our biggest competitor.
How massive?
Two hundred million dollars. And she gave an interview to TechCrunch that just went live.
Rachel pulled up the video on the main screen.
Selene Park sat in a sleek office, looking polished and deadly in a black suit. The interviewer asked why she'd invested so heavily in Zhao Technologies' competitor.
The market leader has structural weaknesses, Selene said, her voice smooth as poison. My analysis suggests Zhao Technologies has built impressive growth on unstable foundations. Smart investors are already moving their money to more reliable alternatives.
That's a serious accusation, the interviewer said. Are you suggesting fraud?
Selene smiled—that knife-sharp smile I'd seen last night. I'm suggesting that empires built too quickly often collapse spectacularly. I prefer to invest in companies with staying power.
The interview continued, each word carefully chosen to make investors panic without actually accusing us of crimes. It was brilliant. Devastating.
And it sounded exactly like something Sienna would do—destroy someone using perfectly legal means, never crossing the line into slander.
She's killing us, Rachel whispered. This interview is everywhere. Every major tech outlet is running it. Our stock's going to drop another five percent before lunch.
Marcus leaned back, studying the screen. Interesting woman. Very aggressive approach.
She met Damien last night, one of the board members said. Asked very specific questions about our subsidiary structures. Almost like she already knew the answers.
Everyone looked at me.
What did you tell her? Rachel asked.
Nothing. We barely spoke. But that wasn't true. We'd talked for maybe three minutes, and in that time, she'd learned everything she needed. Because she already knew everything—she'd lived it when she was my wife.
If she was my wife.
No. Impossible. Sienna died three years ago.
Didn't she?
We need to respond, Marcus said. Issue a statement. Reassure investors.
A statement won't fix algorithmic selling, my CTO said. We need to find whoever's manipulating our data and stop them.
Then find them! I stood abruptly. I want a full security audit. I want to know who's attacking us and how. I want—
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
A photo loaded: Sienna and me on our wedding day. Her smile radiant. My arm around her waist.
Below it, one line of text:
Did you really think I'd stay buried? -Phoenix
My hands went numb.
Phoenix. Sienna's signature. The name she'd used on personal notes. The codename from her last case before she died.
Damien? Marcus's voice seemed to come from very far away. What's wrong? You're pale.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
I'd killed her. Locked her in the yacht and let her burn. Mourned at her funeral. Married Victoria six months later.
But what if she'd survived?
What if Selene Park was—
Sir! My assistant burst into the boardroom. You need to see this. Now.
She turned on the wall-mounted TV. A news broadcast showed footage from last night's gala—Selene Park walking in, the crowd parting around her like she was royalty.
Mystery investor Selene Park has taken the tech world by storm, the anchor said. But who is she really? Our investigation has uncovered something disturbing: before eighteen months ago, Selene Park didn't exist.
My heart stopped.
The broadcast continued: No employment history. No social media presence before 2023. No college records. It's as if Selene Park appeared fully formed eighteen months ago—coincidentally, the exact amount of time since—
The anchor paused dramatically.
—since former prosecutor Sienna Chen Zhao died in a yacht explosion. Sources suggest the woman now known as Selene Park underwent extensive reconstructive surgery during that time period. Could the mystery investor actually be—
Marcus grabbed the remote and shut off the TV.
Ridiculous, he said firmly. Conspiracy theories. Ignore it.
But his hand shook slightly when he put down the remote.
The boardroom erupted in chaos. Everyone talking at once. Some laughing at the absurdity. Others looking at me with growing horror.
I stood frozen, staring at the blank TV screen.
Eighteen months ago. Reconstructive surgery. Phoenix.
My phone buzzed again.
Another text: Watch the next investor pull out in three... two... one...
Rachel's phone rang. She answered, listened, and her face went gray.
Wellington Capital just withdrew their entire stake. Two hundred fifty million dollars. They're citing the TechCrunch interview and 'concerns about leadership stability.'
Exactly as the text predicted.
I looked up at the boardroom window. Across the street, in a building with a clear view of our office, I saw a figure standing at a window.
Too far to see features. But somehow, I knew.
She was watching. Watching her revenge unfold in real time.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
Damien, where are you going? Marcus called. We need to manage this crisis!
I need to see someone.
Who?
I paused at the door, my hand shaking on the handle.
A ghost.
I drove to the building across the street, took the elevator to the floor where I'd seen the figure. The receptionist told me Prometheus Capital had rented the space last month.
The office door was unlocked.
Inside, a woman sat at a desk covered in monitors showing Zhao Technologies' collapsing stock price. She didn't turn when I entered.
Hello, Damien, Selene Park said. Still not facing me. Took you longer than I expected. You used to be smarter.
Sienna?
She finally turned.
Even with the different face, I saw her in the eyes. In the way she looked at me like I was a puzzle to solve. In the small scar above her eyebrow—the only mark that survived the reconstruction.
A scar I'd given her years ago when we were playfully wrestling and she'd bumped her head on our coffee table.
No, she said softly. Sienna died three years ago. You made sure of that.
I thought—the body was too burned—I didn't know—
Know what? That I survived? She stood, moving toward me. That I spent six months learning to walk again? That I had to watch my own funeral on a hospital TV while doctors rebuilt my face?
Tears burned my eyes. Sienna, I'm so sorry. Marcus said you'd destroy us both. He convinced me there was no other way—
Stop. Her voice cracked like a whip. Don't you dare blame Marcus. You locked that door. You walked away while I burned. That was your choice.
I know. God, I know, and I've regretted it every single day since—
Not enough to confess. Not enough to turn yourself in. She smiled coldly. But enough to marry my replacement within six months. Tell me, does Victoria know she's sleeping with a murderer?
Victoria. My pregnant wife.
Leave her out of this.
She's already in it. Marcus placed her with you, the same way he placed six women before her. She's Asset Number Seven, Damien. And you're too stupid to see the pattern.
My stomach dropped. What?
Selene pulled up files on her computer. Photos of six dead women. All beautiful. All connected to Marcus's business partners. All dead in accidents.
Victoria's next, Selene said. Marcus will wait until after the baby's born. Then she'll have a tragic accident, and you'll grieve appropriately while Marcus uses your son to control you. Just like he's been controlling you since your parents died.
I couldn't breathe. No. Victoria's different. I love her—
You loved me too. Look how that ended.
Fair point.
Why are you telling me this? I asked. Why not just let Marcus kill her and destroy me completely?
Selene's expression flickered—something almost human beneath the ice.
Because Victoria came to me. She knows she's number seven. She knows about the other women. And she's carrying a child who doesn't deserve to grow up an orphan just because his father's an idiot and his grandfather's a monster.
What do you want?
Everything. She pulled up more screens. Financial records. Emails. Evidence. I want every dirty secret you and Marcus have buried. I want full cooperation in destroying him. And I want you to feel every bit of pain you caused me.
And if I refuse?
She smiled. Then tomorrow, the FBI gets an anonymous tip about Zhao Technologies' espionage operations. You'll go to prison for twenty years. Victoria will still die. And I'll raise your son to know exactly what kind of monster his father was.
The threat hung between us.
How do I know you won't destroy me anyway?
You don't. But right now, I'm the only thing standing between Victoria and a grave. She turned back to her monitors. You have twenty-four hours to decide: help me destroy Marcus, or watch everyone you love die.
I need to talk to Victoria.
She's at the penthouse. I'd hurry—Marcus is having her followed.
I headed for the door, then stopped.
Sienna—Selene—whoever you are now. I really am sorry.
She didn't turn around.
Sorry doesn't bring back the dead, Damien. But maybe it can save the living. We'll see.
I left her there, surrounded by monitors showing my empire crumbling, and drove home to my pregnant wife who I'd never realized was Marcus's prisoner.
My phone buzzed one final time.
A text from Selene: By the way—ARTEMIS predicts your stock drops another twelve percent tomorrow. Sweet dreams.