My blood runs cold. “And the email to Marchand?”
“Same deal. Spoofed. Sent from an external server, not her machine. Whoever did this knew her account was vulnerable—probably because of the password resets. They hacked her, sent the emails, and made it look like she was colluding.”
I grip the edge of my desk, the wood biting into my palms. “Reynolds.”
Desai nods, his face grim. “He had access to the email system. Not impossible that he could’ve pulled it off without leaving a trail. Especially if someone told him how to do it.”
The pieces snap into place, a brutal mosaic of betrayal—not hers, but mine. She’d been set up, framed to look like the traitor, and I’d swallowed it whole. Walt’s paranoia, Reynolds’s lies, my own fucking ego—they’d built a cage around her, and I’d locked the door.
“How the fuck did I miss this?” My voice is a low growl, more to myself than Desai.
He shifts uncomfortably. “It was sophisticated. Hidden in plain sight. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
I wave him out, my mind reeling. The door clicks shut, and I’m alone again, the silence suffocating. I see her face—pale, shattered, her voice breaking as she begged me to believe her. “I sent the truth.” She had. She’d always been the truth, the only one in this snake pit who’d never lied to me.
And I’d thrown her away.
My chest aches, an exposed, painful wound. I’d let my pride, my fear, my need to control everything blind me to her loyalty. To her love. Because that’s what it was—love. The way she’d looked at me, fought for me, given herself to me. And I’d repaid her with betrayal.
I stand, pacing the office, the skyline blurring through the glass. I have to fix this. I have to find her. But how? She’s gone. According to Celeste, her apartment is empty. Tasha, the property acquisitions expert, notified us that we can cancel the lease if we’d like. There’d be a penalty, but it’s less expensive than having it sit there vacant.
Seraphina’s out there, jobless, wounded, because of me.
Blackwell is crumbling, but it’s nothing compared to the ruin in my chest. I need her back—not just as my assistant, not just as my lover, but as my everything. My wife, my partner, my truth.
But first, I have to beg for her forgiveness. And I have no fucking idea where to start or what to do
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Xavier
My pulse hammers in my throat, a relentless drumbeat drowning out the hum of Houston’s skyline beyond the Sterling Downtown’s ballroom. The Houston Business Summit swirls around me—suits and sequins, clinking glasses, the low buzz of corporate egos chasing deals. I’m the keynote speaker, the predator king they’ve come to see, but tonight, I’m not here to conquer. I’m here to beg.
The stage lights sear my skin, exposing every fracture in my carefully crafted armor.
I grip the lectern, the wood biting into my palms, grounding me as I stare into the ocean of faces—industry titans, reporters, Scandalicious paparazzi with their long-range cameras poised to capture my fall.
Let them.
Even though the acquisition was a disaster and I’m hemorrhaging cash, that’s not the nightmare that keeps me awake.
It’s her.
Seraphina.
I fucked up, allowed Walt’s paranoia and Reynolds’s lies to torch the only thing that ever mattered, and now I’m choking on the ashes of my own stupidity.
I clear my throat, the sound amplified, slicing through the room’s chatter. “Three years ago,” I begin, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest, “I made a mistake that cost an innocent woman her future.”
The crowd stills, their eyes sharp, hungry. “Seraphina Hollis, a brilliant intern at Blackwell Enterprises, uncovered financial discrepancies that could’ve saved my company. I let her take the fall. I let the world brand her a traitor.”
Murmurs ripple through the room, a wave of shock and greed for gossip. My gut twists, but I push on, the weight of her absence a knife between my ribs. “For a second time, I’ve failed her. She warned me about the Lockhart acquisition—a deal built on lies, inflated assets, and hidden cash-flow disasters. She saw what my team missed, what I refused to see. And I accused her of betrayal.” My voice fractures, exposing the hollow ache that’s been eating me alive since she ran from my office, her silhouette blurring through the glass. “She was the only one telling me the truth.”
The room is silent now, a tomb of anticipation. I grip the podium harder, my knuckles white. “Elliot Reynolds, my former analyst, falsified reports and emails to frame her, to push a deal that’s now bleeding my company dry. Seraphina Hollis tried to save Blackwell Enterprises, and I repaid her with distrust.”
My chest burns, the memory of her pale face, her trembling lips, a wound I can’t staunch. “I’m here to set the record straight. She’s a hero. And to ensure her legacy, I’m funding a scholarship in her name at her alma mater for women in financial analytics. Because she deserves to be celebrated for her brilliance, not vilified for mistakes that are entirely my own.”
A gasp ripples through the crowd, cameras flashing, phones raised. Scandalicious will have their headline—PREDATOR KING CONFESSES: HEROIC INTERN VINDICATED—but it’s not enough.
