“Knightwell’s pivot into cybersecurity was bold,” the interviewer muses, flipping through his notes, pen tapping against the leather-bound portfolio. “But the Monarch deal — that was something else. AI fraud detection, global rollout, market confidence overnight. You’ve saved them billions inexposure risk. Some are calling it the smartest tech play since Zenturion’s risk engines.”
I let him talk. Let him fill the room with his own voice. The headline’s already written—scrawled hastily in the margin of his notepad:From the Beast of Brooklyn to Wall Street’s Kingmaker.
After the Monarch launch, Knightwell’s stock didn’t just climb — it detonated. Every financial institution worth its boardroom wanted a piece of what we’d built. Even Austen and I hadn’t predicted the scale of it. Knightwell isn’t just a player anymore. We’re the market’s new kingmaker.
But it came at a cost.
I wonder what he’d say if he knew the truth. That I’d tear up the deal in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her.
Because she’s gone. Disappeared. Like she never existed.
Over and over, I replay the last time I saw her. I should’ve handled it differently. I was angry. I wanted answers — fast. I never gave her a chance.
I’ve built an empire on instinct. Trusted it more than I’ve ever trusted people. But this time, something doesn’t sit right. Even when the evidence was stacked high, some part of me refuses to believe it.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking.
Or maybe — it’s the only thing I’ve been right about all along.
I went looking for her. Even went to her apartment. Another dead end. Someone else lives there now. No forwarding address. No trace. If it wasn’t for her name still sitting in my contacts, I might believe she was nothing more than a dream.
Desperation had me asking Seb if he knew where she was.
His mouth said,I don’t know.
But his eyes told the truth.
A silent fuck you, aimed squarely at me. I’m sure he knows exactly where she is. And judging by his reaction, Violet doesn’t want to be found, at least not by me.
And yeah, a part of me wanted to throw him against the wall and tear the truth out of him. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because buried beneath the anger was something else — respect.
People underestimate Seb. He likes it that way. Plays the clown, wears the smirk, but I’ve always known better. The man’s one of MIT’s brightest, but more importantly, he’s the kind of person who would never sell their friend out for any cost.
The interviewer keeps droning, filling the room with projections and bullshit I stopped caring about weeks ago. I’m one second from cutting him off when my phone vibrates across the desk.
A name lights up my screen: Millie Fause.
Doesn’t register at first.
Then I scan the message. One word stops me cold. Violet.
MILLIE FAUSE
I heard from Seb you’ve been asking about Violet. I might have some information. If you want to talk, I’ll be at Leonti’s tonight at eight o’clock.
That’s when it clicks, Millie — Violet’s friend.
I reread the message slower the second time, like the words might vanish if I blink.
For weeks I’ve been living inside four walls, staring at ceilings that don’t give a damn, dragging myself through meetings that should’ve meant everything. Nothing has. Not until now.
My fingers flex, typing before I can think.
ME
I’ll be there.
For the first time in a long time, I feel it. A pulse of adrenaline. A heartbeat. Like I’ve risen from the dead.
