"Open the door, Amara."
Zane's voice was calm, but it held that razor-edge authority that made my pulse spike. I swept the silk duvet over the hidden wall panel just as the magnetic lock hissed open.
He stood in the doorway, already dressed in a midnight-blue tuxedo. He looked like the sun—blinding, powerful, and capable of burning anything that got too close.
"I was changing," I said, my voice barely a whisper. I kept my hand—the one with the glowing red ink—hidden in the folds of my robe.
Zane stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space with the precision of a hawk. He stopped just inches from me, the scent of sandalwood and expensive steel surrounding me. "The car is downstairs. The elite of Nigeria are waiting to see if the rumors are true. If you can't play the part of a woman in love, Amara, the mill closes by midnight."
"I know the stakes, Zane," I snapped, finding my courage. "But a designer knows that the fit has to be perfect. You want a wife? I'll give you a masterpiece."
I turned my back to him, pointing to the zipper of the dress laid out on the bed—a deep emerald green silk that I had designed myself. "Zip me up."
I felt his cold fingers touch the skin of my back. A shiver that wasn't just fear raced down my spine. For a second, the "Contract" felt dangerously real.
"You're trembling," he whispered near my ear.
"It's cold in this house, Zane. Or maybe it's just the company."
He zipped the dress with a sharp, decisive snap. "Wear the emeralds. They hide the tension in your throat."
The Eko Hotel ballroom was a sea of gold, diamonds, and forced smiles. This was the Charity Gala for the "Children of the Future" foundation—a front for the very people Zane was trying to outmaneuver.
As we walked in, the cameras flashed like a storm of lightning. Zane's arm was around my waist, his grip firm, claiming me before the world.
"Smile, Amara," he murmured through a fixed grin. "Every camera is a judge."
I smiled, but my mind was elsewhere. I had managed to wrap a thin layer of copper thread—salvaged from a decorative lamp in my room—around my palm under my silk gloves. If Sloane's message was right, the copper would act as a Faraday cage, temporarily scrambling the tracker in the ink.
"Mr. Alexander! And the lovely Miss Amara!" A man with a predatory smile and a champagne glass approached us. "Chief Balogun. I heard you finally found a woman who could handle your... temperament."
"She does more than handle it, Chief," Zane said, his voice dropping an octave. "She directs it."
As they spoke about oil blocks and mergers, I felt a vibration in my gloved hand. Not the tracker—my phone.
I excused myself to the powder room. I ducked into a private stall and pulled out the burner phone.
Unknown: The tracker isn't just for location. It's a pulse-monitor. If your heart rate stays above 100 for more than five minutes, Zane gets an 'Adrenaline Alert.' He knows you're scared, Amara. He's using your fear to map your lies.
I leaned against the marble wall, forcing myself to breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Patterns. Everything is a pattern.
I looked at the emerald ring on my finger. In the reflection of the stone, I saw a woman standing by the sinks. She was wearing a server's uniform, her face partially obscured by a stray lock of hair.
She caught my eye in the mirror. She didn't move, but she held up a small, silver drafting square—the Architect's symbol.
"The basement," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "The server room is under the kitchen. You have ten minutes before Zane comes looking for his investment."
She vanished before I could speak.
I didn't think. I couldn't. I slipped out of the powder room, not toward the ballroom, but toward the service stairs. My emerald dress trailed behind me like a ghost.
I reached the basement level. The air was thick with the smell of industrial cleaners and heat. I found the door marked "SYSTEM CONTROL."
I pressed my hand against the biometric scanner.
[ACCESS DENIED: GUEST PROTOCOL]
I looked at the ink on my hand. If it was a tracker, it was also an ID. I stripped off the glove and pressed the red-tinted skin against the scanner.
[ACCESS GRANTED: PROPERTY OF ZANE ALEXANDER]
The door slid open. The room was filled with humming black towers of data. In the center was a single glass pedestal holding a drive that looked exactly like the one Sloane had thrown into the river in Chapter 14.
But this one was different. It was labeled: PROJECT VINCULA: PHASE 2 - THE DESIGNER.
"You always were too smart for your own good, Amara."
I spun around. Zane was standing in the doorway, his tuxedo jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. He wasn't looking at me with anger. He was looking at me with a terrifying, dark pride.
"Did you really think I didn't know you'd find the backdoor?" he asked, walking toward me. "I didn't choose you for your dress, Amara. I chose you because you're the only one who can fix the corrupted files Sloane left behind."
"You used my family to bait me," I whispered, backing into the cold metal of the servers.
"I saved your family," Zane corrected. "Now, save me. Fix the code, or I let the Chief know that his 'new favorite designer' is actually a corporate spy. Choose, Amara. The Mill, or the Master?"
Outside, the gala music swelled, but in the basement, the only sound was the hum of the machine waiting for my touch.