The Cold Heir and the Hacked Heart

The party was all satin gowns, sparkling champagne, and curated laughter. A birthday soirée for one of Rose Laurier's oldest acquaintances—Nadia Vellor, heiress to a fragrance empire and known for her obsession with themed events. This one was no different: a garden masquerade under twilight skies.

Olivia entered fashionably late, donning a simple black mask lined with silver trim and a backless emerald green dress that had once graced magazine covers. She didn't smile. Not really. Her lips curled where they needed to, her posture was perfect, but her heart was elsewhere.

The party spilled across a sprawling estate garden draped in ivy chandeliers and dancing lanterns. Musicians played a classical medley in a corner gazebo, while camera flashes punctuated the evening like fireflies.

She drifted along the edge of the celebration, occasionally responding to air-kisses and light conversation. But her steps always led her away—from people, from lights, from the cloying scent of forced celebration.

A waiter offered her a glass of something floral and expensive. She took it, mostly for show, then retreated to a quiet marble bench near a cluster of hydrangeas.

That's when she saw him.

Anthony Whitmore.

He stood near the bar, a glass in hand, laughing at something a fellow heir whispered in his ear. Sharp suit. Perfect hair. An aura of arrogance so strong it seemed to perfume the air around him.

Olivia's body stiffened involuntarily. Her hands tightened around the stem of her glass.

His eyes didn't meet hers, but they lingered on her shape once. Just once.

She could feel the discomfort rise, like bile. Her mind knew she was Olivia now, but Rose's trauma still clung to this body like a bruise.

He smiled at another girl, then said something quietly that made her laugh. A girl who didn't know what lay beneath that polished exterior.

"Stay far away from me," Olivia whispered under her breath, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.

She stayed seated, absorbing the chatter and laughter from afar until the evening bled into starlight. When the thank-you speeches began, she slipped away without being noticed.

Back in the penthouse, she shed the party persona like dead skin. Gown dropped to the floor. Mask tossed onto a table. She wiped off the shimmer from her cheekbones and tied her hair in a messy bun.

Barefoot, wearing only a hoodie, Olivia returned to her world—the one where she had full control.

Her workstation welcomed her with blinking monitors and the soft hum of fans. She checked her queue. Nothing urgent.

She wasn't tired. Not really.

So she let curiosity lead.

With a wry smile and a whisper of challenge in her veins, she opened a protected shell and rerouted through her usual firewall labyrinth. Her target? Quinn Corp. Again.

But this time, she wasn't working. She was testing.

She poked into the same subdirectory where the previous ping had come from. This time slower, more cautious. Just enough activity to trigger attention, but not enough to trip alarms.

She left behind a breadcrumb. Not sloppy—intentional. An echo of her code signature.

Then she waited.

Three minutes passed.

Then her secure messaging board blinked.

Unknown Protocol [Direct Request]

Message:

Who are you?

Her eyes widened slightly.

Another message came seconds later:

We should talk. I might need your services.

Her lips curved.

This wasn't corporate protocol. This was a personal message routed through ghost lines. It bypassed Quinn Corp's traditional network.

Someone had sent it directly.

Damien Quinn.

She didn't need proof. She knew.

She considered replying. But instead, she simply typed:

Maybe. But you'll have to ask nicely.

Then she closed the window.

Let him wonder.

Let him chase.

She leaned back in her chair, a thrill running down her spine.

The game had officially begun.