Eva

1

__________

The dress is a mistake.

Clingy, sequined, and a touch too bold for someone trying to blend in with a room full of tech elites. But it’s the only thing I own that whispers confident professional instead of divorced journalist barely holding it together. I smooth the hem nervously, glaring at the cracked mirror in my tiny apartment like it’s the dress’s fault.

“You’ve got this, ,” I mutter, testing a smile that doesn’t quite land. Confidence is half the battle, right?

My clutch sits on the counter, essentials meticulously packed: phone, press badge, recorder, and my well-worn notebook. Tonight’s gala is my shot to prove I’m still the journalist who breaks stories—not just the one defined by a failed marriage and career slump. Exposing the cracks in Dominic Kane’s tech empire could be my comeback.

If I can get close enough to him.

I glance once more at the mirror, brushing an errant curl from my face. The dingy reflection feels like a taunt, reminding me how far I’ve fallen. But tonight isn’t about the past—it’s about clawing my way back. One story. One chance.

The ballroom at The Meridian is dazzling. Crystal chandeliers bathe the room in a warm glow, their light refracting off polished floors and glittering gowns. The hum of laughter, the clink of glasses—it all blends into an elegant symphony of exclusivity. Every detail whispers power, money, and untouchable influence—the perfect backdrop for a man like Dominic Kane.

I pause just inside the entrance, scanning the crowd. Designer suits, diamonds that catch the light like tiny stars—this is a world I barely scrape the edges of, but tonight, I belong. Or at least, I’ll fake it.

Dominic Kane is a legend. A self-made billionaire who turned Kane Enterprises into a tech powerhouse. But behind the accolades lies a man who’s notoriously private. Shielded by layers of PR perfection, he’s impossible to pin down.

My pulse quickens as I weave through the room. Tonight, everything depends on getting close enough to him.

A waiter glides by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one, the cool glass steadying my hand. The bubbly liquid tickles my throat, but it does little to calm the flutter in my chest.

“ Stone!” A voice slices through my thoughts, and I turn to see Darren, a former colleague. His tuxedo looks slightly too loose, like he borrowed it last-minute, but his grin is genuine.

“Darren,” I say, forcing a smile. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Freelancing these days. Thought I’d try my luck covering this circus. What about you? Chasing a scoop?”

“Something like that.” I keep it vague. Darren’s a nice guy, but trust in this business is a luxury I can’t afford. Leads shared are leads stolen.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Any leads worth sharing?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Darren chuckles, but his attention shifts past me, and his expression changes. “There he is. Dominic Kane.”

I turn, and it feels like the air changes.

Dominic Kane commands the room without trying. Tall, striking, his tailored suit sharp enough to cut glass. He moves like someone who’s already decided who belongs in his orbit—and who doesn’t. His piercing blue eyes scan the crowd, assessing, dismissing. People part instinctively as he strides through, like water before a ship’s bow.

My grip tightens on the stem of my glass. This is the man I need to confront. The man whose empire might be crumbling under sabotage. If I can get him to talk, this could be the story that changes everything.

He takes the podium, and the emcee introduces him as the evening’s keynote speaker. Polished applause ripples through the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his deep voice cutting effortlessly through the noise. “Tonight, we celebrate innovation, progress, and the partnerships that make it possible.”

His words are practiced, impersonal. A crafted narrative designed to reveal nothing. I study him, searching for any crack in his armor, but he’s impenetrable. Control radiates off him like a shield.

When he finishes, the applause is thunderous. He steps off the stage, and a knot of reporters closes in. His sharp “No comment” cuts through them like a blade, his tone icy and final.

This is my moment.

I weave through the crowd, clutch in hand, but Darren grabs my arm as I pass. “, don’t. He’ll crush you.”

“Watch me,” I mutter, shaking him off.

I catch Dominic just as he’s about to exit the ballroom. “Mr. Kane!” My voice is steady, louder than I expect. It slices through the noise, and he pauses, turning to face me.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and assessing. “Who are you?” he asks, his tone clipped.

“ Stone, with The Daily Focus. ” I extend my hand. He doesn’t take it. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the recent security breaches at Kane Enterprises.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the temperature between us dropping. “I don’t discuss company matters with the press. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Is it because you have something to hide?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His jaw tightens. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “If you’re looking for a soundbite, Ms. Stone, you’re wasting your time. But let me give you some free advice—don’t dig where you don’t belong.”

His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it—a warning wrapped in steel. My heart pounds, but I don’t back down. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Kane.”

“And I’m doing mine.” With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me rooted to the spot, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The night air is crisp, grounding me as I step outside. My phone buzzes in my hand, and a new message flashes on the screen:

“Stay out of this, or you’ll regret it.”

My breath catches. I glance around, scanning the street for anyone watching. The valet stand is quiet except for an attendant on his phone. A couple in designer evening wear laugh as they climb into a black car. No one pays me any attention.

Who sent this? How do they even know what I’m digging into?

I screenshot the message before it disappears. My fingers tremble as I type a reply: “Who is this?”

No response.

The bus ride home feels endless, each jolt of the old transit system rattling my nerves. Dominic’s warning replays in my mind, layered now with the anonymous threat.

By the time I reach my apartment, the familiar sight of my walk-up soothes me—if only for a moment. I lock the door behind me, twisting the bolt harder than necessary, and pour myself a glass of wine.

The glow of my laptop screen feels harsh, but I don’t bother with the lamp. Darkness feels safer, like a shield from the weight of the evening’s events.

I type Dominic Kane into the search bar, my fingers trembling just slightly. The results flood the screen: glowing accolades, polished profiles, and PR-crafted statements lauding his brilliance. Innovator. Genius. Visionary.

But beneath the surface, there are cracks. Whispers of sabotage. Financial discrepancies. Leaked blueprints.

A buried forum thread catches my attention:

“This isn’t just about corporate sabotage. It’s personal.”

“The cracks are already there—you just have to look.”

I scribble notes, underlining personal three times. My phone buzzes again. A blocked number:

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Stone. Walk away while you still can.”

My breath catches, and I scribble the words down. Someone is watching me. Tracking me. And they’re not subtle.

But instead of stopping, I press forward. Because whoever this is, they’re scared. And that means I’m onto something.

The message glows on my phone screen like a taunt: “You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Stone. Walk away while you still can.”

My breath catches, but I force myself to exhale slowly, trying to steady the tremor in my hands. Whoever sent this isn’t bluffing, but I can’t afford to let fear take over. I press my phone against my chest, the sharp edge of the device grounding me.

What have I walked into?

The question loops in my mind as I stare at my notes scattered across the coffee table. Names, dates, suspicions—they form a chaotic web that only deepens the mystery. A puzzle with too many missing pieces. My gaze lingers on Martin Caldwell, the former senior engineer from Kane Enterprises. His sudden departure six months ago might be the key to understanding everything.

I click open his LinkedIn profile again. Sparse, outdated. It’s like he’s erased himself from existence. His last activity was a post about some charity event, but it’s tagged to a location downtown. I jot the address into my notebook—it’s not much, but it’s a thread I can tug on.

My laptop pings, breaking the silence. An alert from one of the forums I’ve been stalking. Someone has responded to a thread I bookmarked earlier:

“Caldwell knew too much. That’s why they pushed him out.”

The post is anonymous, like most of the chatter in these spaces, but it sends a chill down my spine. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type a cautious reply:

“What did he know?”

The screen refreshes, but there’s no response. I lean back, tension coiling in my shoulders. Whoever posted that knows something, and now, so do I: Martin Caldwell wasn’t just fired—he was silenced.

I glance at the time: 3:15 a.m. Sleep is out of the question. Instead, I grab my coat and bag, deciding that fresh air might clear my head.

The streets are quiet, bathed in the eerie glow of streetlights. My footsteps echo softly against the pavement as I head toward the small diner on the corner. It’s one of those places that never closes, a relic of the city’s late-night heartbeat.

Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and fried food greets me like an old friend. I slide into a booth near the window, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to my legs. The waitress barely glances at me as she places a chipped mug on the table and fills it with coffee.

The first sip is bitter and scalding, but it jolts me awake. I pull out my notebook, flipping through the pages until I find Caldwell’s name.

“ Stone,” a voice says, startling me.

I look up to see Darren, his tuxedo slightly rumpled, holding a coffee cup of his own. “Can’t sleep either?” he asks, sliding into the booth across from me.

“No rest for the weary,” I mutter, closing my notebook.

He nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’ve got that look,” he says after a moment.

“What look?”

“The one you get when you’re onto something big.”

I lean back, studying him. Darren and I worked together for years, chasing stories that didn’t want to be found. He knows my instincts better than most.

“Why are you really here, Darren?” I ask, my tone sharper than intended.

He shrugs, his grin fading. “Just wanted to check on you. That scene with Kane earlier? Bold move, but dangerous. Guys like him don’t play fair.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you don’t care,” he says quietly.

His words hit a little too close to home. I glance out the window, watching a car glide past, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

“Look,” Darren says, lowering his voice. “If you’re chasing something, be careful. Kane has resources. He could bury you without breaking a sweat.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I say dryly, draining the rest of my coffee.

Darren doesn’t push further, but his presence lingers even after he leaves the diner. His warning rattles around my head, a subtle echo of Dominic Kane’s words: Don’t dig where you don’t belong.

By the time I return to my apartment, the sky is starting to lighten. Exhaustion pulls at me, but determination pushes harder. I throw myself onto the couch, opening my laptop to dive deeper into the trail of breadcrumbs left by Caldwell.

A few obscure industry blogs mention his name in connection with a failed project at Kane Enterprises—something to do with encryption software. It’s technical, dense, but the timeline matches up with when the security breaches began. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I search for anything linking Caldwell to the sabotage rumors.

Buried in a comment thread on a cybersecurity forum, I find it:

“Caldwell wasn’t just working on encryption. He was developing something bigger—something Kane didn’t want getting out.”

The comment is vague, but it’s enough to send a thrill through me. What could be so dangerous that even Kane, with all his resources, would want to suppress it?

Before I can dig further, my phone buzzes again. Another message.

“You’re persistent. That’s going to get you hurt.”

The words freeze me in place.

My mind races, replaying every moment of the gala. Did someone follow me? Were they watching me at the diner? A wave of paranoia sweeps over me as I glance around my apartment. Everything looks normal, untouched, but the sense of being watched is suffocating.

I type a reply with shaking hands:

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The response is almost immediate:

“Stop asking questions, and you’ll stay safe.”

Safe? The word feels like a mockery. If they think threats will stop me, they don’t know me at all.

Hours later, the city is fully awake, and so am I. I toss on a blazer and scarf, grab my bag, and head to the address I found tied to Caldwell’s last known appearance.

The building is nondescript, sandwiched between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore. Its facade is faded, the kind of place people overlook.

Inside, the air smells faintly of mildew. I climb the stairs to the second floor, my footsteps muffled by threadbare carpet. Apartment 2B is at the end of the hall. I knock twice, my pulse pounding in my ears.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, shuffling from the other side.

The door cracks open, and a man peers out—a man who matches the grainy photos I found online. Caldwell. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, but he doesn’t open the door further.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice low and cautious.

“ Stone. I’m a journalist.”

His face hardens. “I don’t talk to reporters.”

“I’m not just any reporter,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m the one who knows why you left Kane Enterprises.”

That gets his attention. He glances down the hall, then opens the door enough for me to step inside.

The apartment is sparse, almost sterile. A single chair, a folding table covered in papers, and a laptop that looks like it’s seen better days.

“What do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“The truth,” I say simply.

Caldwell snorts. “The truth gets people killed.”

“I’m not scared,” I lie.

He studies me for a long moment, then shakes his head. “You should be.”

The conversation that follows is stilted, full of half-answers and evasions. But one thing becomes clear: Caldwell knows something big. Something that terrifies him enough to live like a ghost.

He hints at a project called Aegis, something revolutionary in the tech world—but refuses to elaborate.

“I’ve already said too much,” he mutters, pacing the small space.

Before I can press further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Caldwell freezes, his eyes darting to me.

“Were you followed?” he hisses.

I shake my head, but my stomach twists.

The knock comes again, louder this time. Caldwell grabs my arm, his grip firm. “You need to leave. Now.”