Page 111 of Damsel in Disguise

I know what he means.

Still, something hot and defiant flares in me. “Stop talking like my dad.”

“Then you better stop being a brat.”

An ill-timed knock cuts through the tension. The door opens before either of us can push further.

Clara steps in.

“Sir,” she begins, composed but urgent, “we’ve a situation in the Singapore branch. An internal breach has been flagged within the neural systems division. The security team is requesting immediate authorization before containment protocols escalate.”

Adrian changes instantly.

It’s almost terrifying—how fast the irritation disappears, replaced by that cold, precise composure of a CEO. Not my overprotective cousin anymore.

“Source?”

“Unknown. But it’s targeting restricted datasets.”

He doesn’t react. Just look at me. “You’re still taking my jet—”

“Apologies for the interruption, sir,” Clara interjects carefully, “but I’m afraid immediate travel to Singapore is strongly advised.”

“Book a commercial flight, goddamnit,” Adrian snaps, the harshness in his tone making her flinch despite herself.

“We don’t have much time…” she replies, quieter now, bracing for another outburst.

He exhales aloud through his mouth. “You and your brother…” his forefinger and thumb rub his temples, “You’re both a pain in my ass.”

His gaze flicks back to me. “Stay here. I’ll be back in five. Let me see what I can do.”

“I told you I’m leaving,” I say with a mocking pout, grounding each word with quiet finality.

If I hesitate now, I won’t fly back to England at all, but rather go back to hide in my Rapunzel’s Tower like the sheltered little princess I’ve always been.

I hate being back to that shit.

I really thought I’d surprise Asher, though. My parents too. Just show up like nothing’s wrong, like I’m still the same version of me they last saw.

But they’d see right through it.

Obviously not everything, but enough to know something is seriously off. That I’m not just chasing a whim anymore, but something much darker. Something I don’t fully understand myself yet.

His jaw tightens, tension ticking beneath his skin. “Fine,” he grits out before turning to Clara. “Lock down the division. No external communication until I’m physically present.”

“Understood, sir.”

He moves fast after that—rounding his desk, shutting down his system, grabbing his coat and phone in one fluid sequence within thirty seconds. Or maybe less.

I follow him out.

He calls Strad on the way. “Can you drop Ariella at the airport?”

A pause.

“Good,” he ends the call without another word.

The three of us descend the escalator on the executive floor. East wing.