(Vanessa's POV)
I arrive at the office at 6:42 a.m. minutes before the cleaning crew finishes and an hour before the other staff trickle in.
I drop my bag, power on the monitor, log in. The screen glows blue-white in the half-light. I sit, cross my legs, and stare at the blank wallpaper for a long moment.
He didn't come to the office yesterday.
After the 9:00 a.m. Singapore follow-up, he made me cancel every remaining meeting. I spent the afternoon fielding confused VPs and rescheduling irritated board members, feeding them the same line: "Mr. Kane had an urgent personal matter." They didn't believe it.
Neither did I.
Sebastian Kane doesn't do "personal matters" during business hours. He does boardroom executions, late-night acquisitions, and the occasional mistress in a hotel suite when the mood strikes. Home is where he sleeps, not where he spends daylight.
I called his driver at 3:17 p.m. yesterday.
"Mr. Kane asked me to take him straight home after the meeting, Ms. Hale."
"Straight home?"
"Yes, ma'am. No stops."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. He was quiet the whole ride."
"OK, thanks"
I quickly stepped into his office, crossed the room and got behind his desk. I leaned forward, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I know the password to his private terminal.
I've known it for years now, I watched him type it once when he thought I was looking at my phone. He never changed it.
I start looking for the security feed of the penthouse cameras. Yesterday's timestamp. Fast-forward through morning, staff movement, cleaning crew.
Then—7:48 p.m.
Dining room feed.
There they are.
Sebastian at the head of the table, posture perfect, glass of red in hand. Mara opposite him in black silk robe, hair damp, posture rigid like she's afraid the chair will bite. She stares at her plate like it's poisoned. He watches her.
Doesn't speak. Just watches.
Halfway through, she sets the fork down, says something, lips moving, no audio on this feed. He pauses, glass halfway to his mouth. Replies with two words. She flinches.
He finishes his wine and stands. Picks up his jacket. Strides past her without another glance. She flinches again at the sound of his chair.
The feed cuts to him leaving the penthouse. Alone.
I pause the footage on her face, eyes down, shoulders hunched, fork abandoned. She looks like someone who's been broken and is still being reshaped.
He stayed home yesterday.
He canceled everything.
He had dinner with her.
Not a hotel. Not Me. Not any of the others.
But Her.
I close the remote session. Wipe the access log with the admin override I've kept for emergencies. Shut down the terminal. The screen goes black.
I sit in the dark a moment longer, breathing slowly.
I hate that Mara bitch.
I stand, smooth my skirt, walk to my own desk. Power on my monitor. Open the day's schedule like nothing happened.
But inside, something cold and bright is uncoiling.
He didn't arrest her.
He didn't ruin her.
He kept her.
I'm already at my desk when the private elevator chimes at 8:17 a.m. Sebastian steps out in black suit. He doesn't glance toward my office. He never does in the mornings. But today I feel the shift in the air the second his shoes hit the marble.
He's calm.
I keep my eyes on my screen, fingers moving over the keyboard while fake typing, real watching. His stride is measured.
No phone in hand or assistant trailing. Just him.
He disappears into his suite. The door closes with that soft, expensive click.
I wait exactly ninety seconds—long enough for him to settle, short enough that he won't suspect surveillance.
Then I stand, smooth my skirt, and walk the short corridor to his door. I knock then push inside without waiting for the "enter."
He's at his desk, monitor already on, coffee steaming beside his right hand. He doesn't look up.
"Morning, Mr. Kane."
"Vanessa." Flat. Acknowledgment, not greeting.
I close the door behind me. Step closer—stop at the edge of his desk, hands clasped in front of me.
"The board meeting is rescheduled for 11:00. I've prepared the updated projections. And the board wants confirmation on the Q4 capital allocation by end of day."
He finally glances at me. Eyes dark, unreadable.
"Send the file."
I nod once, don't move.
He notices.
"Something else?"
"I noticed you canceled the rest of yesterday's schedule after the Singapore call." My voice stays even, professional. "Your driver mentioned you went straight home."
His pen pauses mid-signature. Only for a second. Then continues.
"Personal matter."
"Of course." I tilt my head slightly. "I just wanted to make sure everything was… handled."
He sets the pen down. Leans back in the chair and finally looks at me.
"Handled."
The word hangs between us.
"I also noticed Mara Reed hasn't been seen on the 14th floor since the audit. Cubicle empty. Access revoked. No termination paperwork filed through HR." I pause. "Should I start the exit process?"
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes sharpens.
"No."
One word but final.
I nod slowly.
"Understood."
I turn to leave.
I open a new encrypted note on my personal drive. Title it simply: Timeline.
I type:
Day 1: Audit flags $187k missing. Mara Reed primary access.
Day 2: Confrontation in his office. No arrest. No HR termination.
Day 3: No Mara on 14th floor. Cubicle cleared.
Day 3: He cancels all meetings post-9 a.m. Goes straight home.
Day 4 evening: Dining footage. Silent dinner.
I add one more line:
Next steps:
Pull full penthouse elevator logs (18:00–22:00 yesterday).
Investigate deep about Mara
Monitor his calendar for unexplained cancellations.
And wait for him to slip.
I save, encrypt, close.
I smile at the screen.
He thinks he's untouchable.
He thinks she's hidden.
He thinks I don't see.
But I see everything.
And soon, so will everyone else.
The board. The press. The mistresses he thinks he still controls.
Because if I can't have him, no one can.
Especially not her.