Siena didn't go back to her apartment that night.
She drove aimlessly for an hour, heart pounding, eyes darting to every rearview glance like she expected a shadow to lunge from the corners of the city. She couldn't go home, not to that space, not after reading that message—"Next time, I won't leave quietly."
It wasn't just a threat.
It was a declaration.
She wasn't safe. Not anymore.
When she finally pulled into the secure penthouse Alexander had chosen as their hideout, her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped her keys twice trying to unlock the door.
Alexander was still awake. He stood from the couch the moment she walked in, eyes instantly scanning her face. "What happened?"
Siena closed the door behind her and leaned against it, struggling to find words.
"I think someone was in my apartment."
He was at her side in three strides. "What?"
"I don't think—they didn't steal anything. But... things were moved. Slightly. Just enough to know they wanted me to notice. And then—" She took her phone out and handed it to him, the screen still showing the text.
Alexander read the message, his expression darkening.
"Jesus." He looked at her. "You didn't touch anything else?"
"No. I walked out the second I realized."
He nodded. "Good. You did the right thing."
She sat down on the edge of the couch, her legs finally giving way. "I thought this was just a battle in the boardroom. Now it's turning into something else."
"It always was," he said. "We just hadn't seen it yet."
---
The next morning, Alexander doubled their security. Cameras. Encrypted communication. Firewalls layered like skin. But it didn't take away the chill Siena felt in her bones.
Every time she looked over her shoulder, she wondered if someone was watching.
If Harold knew they were closing in.
Or worse—if he was already ahead of them.
---
At Hartline headquarters, things weren't any quieter.
The boardroom had shifted.
Harold's seat remained empty, though his influence dripped from the walls like unseen mold. No one said his name out loud, but everyone knew—Harold was preparing his move.
And so was Alexander.
Siena sat beside him in the board meeting as he presented "operational efficiency reports," coded language for: We're watching everything now. You can't hide.
There were no outbursts, no obvious resistance.
But eyes flickered. Browse tensed. And Siena saw it in the smallest details—the way Marcus, a long-time ally of Harold, avoided eye contact. The way another board member, Denise, took a call immediately after the meeting and disappeared down the hall without a word.
"Loyalty," Alexander muttered to Siena as they walked out, "is starting to look like a luxury."
---
Later that day, Siena met with Jace again—this time in a private co-working space downtown.
Jace had spent the last two days analyzing the files.
"You weren't exaggerating," she said, dropping a folder on the table. "This is a bloody goldmine of corruption. If we release it all, Hartline's stock will crash, and Harold might just catch a plane before he gets a pair of cuffs."
Siena leaned in. "So what do we do?"
Jace smiled faintly. "We control the burn."
She opened the folder and spread out three pathways.
"One—slow leaks to trusted financial outlets. Enough to expose the rot without burning the tree down. Two—internal pressure. Get the board to move first, and publicly force Harold to step down before law enforcement hits. And three—legal strike."
"Which do you recommend?"
"A blend of all three," Jace said. "You create noise in the media while putting internal pressure on the board. When they realize Harold is a sinking ship, they'll jump to protect themselves."
Siena nodded slowly. "And the legal option?"
Jace's expression hardened. "We file a sealed motion with the Financial Crimes Bureau. Anonymous whistleblower report. That buys us time before Harold sees it coming."
Siena took a deep breath. "Let's do it."
---
That night, Alexander invited Siena to the rooftop of the penthouse.
It was late. The stars weren't visible—too much city light—but the wind was cool and calming.
"I had a conversation with my father once," he said, leaning against the edge. "Years ago. I asked him if he thought legacy was worth losing your soul for."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'There's no legacy if there's no soul left to tell the story.'"
Siena exhaled. "Your father sounds like he was smarter than mine."
Alexander looked at her. "Your father wasn't stupid. He trusted the wrong man. That doesn't make him a fool. It makes Harold a traitor."
Silence fell between them for a while. But it wasn't empty—it was reflective.
"Do you think people like Harold ever stop to feel guilt?" Siena asked finally.
Alexander shook his head. "No. People like him don't feel guilt. They feel fear when they lose control. And that's what we're doing—taking the wheel."
---
The next morning, the first leak dropped.
A small, seemingly harmless article in a finance blog.
"Anonymous Source Suggests Hartline Resources Involved in Questionable Offshore Deals"
It barely made a dent.
But Siena watched the company Slack channels buzz.
Watched the board members whisper.
Watched the legal team send quiet emails behind locked doors.
Two more articles followed that afternoon.
"Shell Corporations Tied to Hartline's Subsidiaries Spark Investor Concern"
And…
"Former CFO Gregory Shaw Allegedly Possessed Files on Hartline Transfers"
Alexander stood at the head of the operations table as the executive team debated damage control. His voice cut through the room like ice.
"Until we've reviewed all our divisions, there will be a freeze on major international transfers. I'm not risking this company over secrets that should've been cleaned up years ago."
No one disagreed.
Because no one wanted to be seen siding with the ghost of Harold.
---
That night, Siena returned to the penthouse, exhausted. Her body ached from tension, and her mind spun with strategy, timelines, and fear.
She entered the bedroom—and froze.
There, on the bed, was a small envelope.
Plain. Unmarked.
Alexander stepped out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his shoulder. "What's that?"
Siena picked it up carefully, hands trembling.
Inside, one photograph.
A blurry image of her and Alexander on the rooftop two nights ago.
On the back, a handwritten message:
"Loyalty comes at a price. Yours is overdue."
She sat down slowly.
"They were watching us... even here."
Alexander's face darkened. "Then it's time we stop waiting."