Seacliff Heights.
The most exclusive seaside estate in Hong Kong.
At night, the entire district resembled a kingdom built for ghosts—vast villas standing silent behind iron gates, glass walls reflecting nothing but black ocean and darker sky.
In the master bedroom of one such villa, only a single floor lamp was lit.
Its amber glow washed over the enormous black bed at the center of the room.
And on that bed—
A woman lay motionless.
Her skin was pale against the dark sheets, almost luminous. Long black hair spread beneath her like ink spilled across silk. Her features were delicate, composed, impossibly calm.
She looked less like a captive.
More like something curated.
Across from her—
A man watched.
He sat on a black leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loosened slightly—as though this were merely the end of a long business day.
But the air around him carried something else.
Control.
Possession.
Patience sharpened into obsession.
Seven years.
He had searched for her for seven long years.
Across continents. Through shell companies. Through false identities. Through dead ends that cost him millions.
And now—
She was here.
Within reach.
On the low table beside him rested a bottle of red wine, already breathing. He hadn't touched it.
Next to it lay a silver angel mask.
It was old now. The edges slightly worn. No longer radiant.
But he would recognize it anywhere.
The room was quiet enough that the faint rhythm of her breathing could be heard.
He did not blink.
He had imagined this moment countless times.
Would she cry?
Beg?
Smile?
Lie?
After an indeterminate stretch of silence—
Her lashes trembled.
The smallest movement.
His lips curved slowly.
"Awake?"
His voice was low, smooth, almost conversational.
Emily Chu's eyes opened.
For a second, there was nothing in them but confusion.
Then awareness.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar.
The scent in the air—subtle cedarwood and something expensive—was not hers.
The sheets beneath her felt wrong.
Her body stiffened.
She pushed herself upright, a sharp throb pounding at her temples.
Memory returned in fragments.
The airport.
Landing in Hong Kong after years abroad.
A black car waiting at the curb.
Then—
Men.
Shadows closing in.
A blow.
Darkness.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
She wasn't dreaming.
She had been taken.
Slowly, she turned her head.
And saw him.
Her first instinct was immediate.
Danger.
He was strikingly handsome—almost unreal in symmetry. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. A pair of peach-blossom eyes that should have been warm—
But were not.
They were cold.
Watching.
Studying.
"You really don't remember me?" he asked.
His tone was casual.
But beneath it lay something far less patient.
Emily searched her mind.
She prided herself on her memory. Faces, voices, structural diagrams—she rarely forgot anything.
But this man?
Nothing.
"No," she said carefully. "Should I?"
He stood.
The movement was unhurried.
Yet the air seemed to tighten as he approached.
Each step was measured.
Deliberate.
"Seven years ago," he said quietly.
"Las Vegas."
The words seemed to hang in the air.
"Sherry."
The name landed heavier.
Her brows drew together.
"I've never been to Las Vegas."
Her voice did not shake.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down at her.
The way a judge might look at a defendant.
"Your acting hasn't changed."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
He reached for the silver mask.
Held it up between them.
"Put it on."
Emily instinctively leaned back.
Her pulse quickened.
"What do you want from me?"
He didn't answer.
In one swift motion, he stepped onto the bed.
His hand caught her wrist before she could react.
Pressed her down.
"Let go of me!"
She struggled, twisting, trying to wrench free.
But he was stronger.
Far stronger.
He controlled her movements with unsettling ease.
The mask hovered inches from her face.
Cold metal brushed her cheek.
And then—
Something fractured inside her mind.
Light.
Music.
A room spinning with gold and crystal.
Laughter echoing.
A balcony overlooking a neon skyline.
A man's voice—
Close to her ear.
Gone.
The memory vanished before she could grasp it.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
She gasped.
Her pupils tightened involuntarily.
He saw it.
The shift.
The microsecond flicker.
Not performance.
Not manipulation.
Recognition.
His grip loosened by the smallest fraction.
"You felt that," he murmured.
Her breathing was uneven.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His eyes darkened.
Still denying.
Or truly unaware?
He had spent years replaying that night.
The way she smiled beneath the mask.
The way she moved with effortless confidence.
The way she vanished before dawn—
Along with two hundred million dollars in proprietary code.
He had lost investors.
Influence.
His father's trust.
And three weeks later—
His father's health.
He leaned closer.
"Do you remember the suite at the Ardent Crown?"
She stared at him blankly.
"The balcony."
Nothing.
He reached down suddenly and tore at the collar of her shirt.
Fabric ripped.
The sound split the air.
Her breath caught in shock and fury.
"What are you doing?!"
His gaze locked onto her collarbone.
There should have been a tattoo.
A silver iris.
Delicate.
Hidden just enough to be intimate.
He remembered tracing it once with his thumb.
Moonlight touching silver ink.
But now—
Her skin was flawless.
Unmarked.
His heartbeat faltered.
Impossible.
He had never miscalculated a detail in his life.
She struck him before he could process further.
The slap echoed.
Sharp.
Clean.
He tasted copper at the corner of his mouth.
She glared at him, eyes blazing.
"You are insane."
For a moment—
Something almost like admiration flickered in his gaze.
"You still fight."
He straightened slowly.
She scrambled backward on the bed, putting distance between them.
"If this is about money, I don't have any worth kidnapping for."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"This was never about money."
The words were quiet.
But weighted.
He stepped off the bed.
"From today forward, you stay here."
Her stomach dropped.
"That's illegal."
He glanced at her over his shoulder.
"Try reporting it."
Footsteps shifted faintly outside the bedroom door.
She wasn't alone with him.
This was controlled.
Planned.
Strategic.
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the sea.
Waves churned violently in the darkness below.
Seven years.
He had dismantled corporations with less patience than this.
If she was pretending—
He would break through it.
If she truly didn't remember—
He would make her.
Either way—
She would not leave.
Not again.
Behind him, Emily pressed a trembling hand against her temple.
The flashes—
They hadn't been imagination.
There had been something there.
Something just beyond reach.
And somehow—
That terrified her more than the man in front of her.
Because if he was right—
Then who had she been seven years ago?
And what had she done?
The sea roared against the cliffs.
The silver mask lay abandoned on the bed.
Between them.
A relic.
A weapon.
A question.
He spoke without turning.
"This time, Sherry…"
His voice was calm.
Cold.
"You don't disappear."
Emily's heart skipped.
Because for a split second—
The name didn't feel entirely unfamiliar.