The world seemed to hold its breath. Alexander’s question, low and sharp, hung in the air between them, a hunter’s snare thrown with lethal precision. "What's your real name?"
Evelyn’s heart seized, a violent, painful clench. For a fraction of a second, the cool, composed mask of Nyx shattered, and she was that nineteen-year-old girl again, cornered and terrified. But five years of relentless discipline slammed back into place. She had prepared for this moment. She had rehearsed it a thousand times in the lonely darkness of the night.
She did not flinch. Instead, she let a slow, enigmatic smile grace her lips, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She tilted her head, her expression one of amused curiosity.
"My real name?" she repeated, her voice a low, melodic purr. "Nyx is as real as I need it to be. But if you’re asking for the name on my passport, it's Hélène Dubois." She paused, taking a deliberate, slow sip of her champagne, her gaze locked with his over the rim of the glass. "Now, it's my turn, Mr. Sterling. Why does a man like you, a man who commands empires, seem so intensely interested in the identity of a humble writer?"
She had turned the interrogation back on him, deftly shifting the spotlight.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed. It was the perfect answer—a direct response that revealed nothing, wrapped in a challenge that stroked his ego. He had expected fear, denial, a flicker of panic. He had not expected this cool, collected audacity. It was intoxicating. And it only served to deepen his suspicion.
"Humility is the last word I would use to describe you, Nyx," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "You command worlds with your words. I find that… fascinating."
"Then I suggest you buy my next book," Evelyn replied, her smile unwavering. She placed her empty champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray with a graceful nod. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Sterling. I find these events dreadfully draining."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked away. She didn't hurry. Her exit was a masterpiece of calculated indifference, each step fluid and unhurried as she moved through the crowd, melting back into the glittering throng.
Alexander didn't follow. He simply stood there, watching her retreat, a storm of frustration and burgeoning obsession swirling in his chest. He watched until she disappeared from view, the shimmer of her midnight-blue gown the last thing he saw. He was no longer suspicious. He was certain. The way she’d flinched at his touch, the defiant fire in her eyes that was so achingly familiar… it was her. The ghost had a face. And a new name.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Nathan's contact. The initial investigation had been a search for a ghost. This was different. This was a hunt for a queen.
He sent a single, encrypted text.
Scrap everything on Hélène Dubois. I want to know who she was before she was born. I want her school records, her medical history, her financial transactions—I want to know what she ate for breakfast five years and one day ago. Use any means necessary. I want the truth.
As Evelyn settled into the back of her town car, the cool composure finally crumbled. Her hands were trembling, her heart a wild drum against her ribs. She had survived. She had passed the first test. But she knew this was not the end. It was the beginning of a far more dangerous game. She had looked the devil in the eye, and he had recognized her soul.
Back in his penthouse, Alexander stared at the preliminary report that flashed on his screen at 3 a.m. Hélène Dubois. Orphaned. Modest inheritance. No records prior to five years ago. It was a perfect, seamless identity. A work of art.
Too perfect.
His eyes narrowed on a single detail. Her first manuscript, the one that had launched her career, had been submitted to a publisher exactly three months after "Hélène Dubois" had officially come into existence. No one, not even a genius, creates a masterpiece of that complexity from a vacuum in three months. It was the work of someone who had been writing, thinking, and bleeding onto the page for much longer.
The timeline was the flaw in her masterpiece of a lie.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He wouldn't expose her. Not yet. That was too crude. He wouldn't just corner her; he would build a cage around her, a beautiful, gilded cage, and wait for her to walk into it herself. He picked up his phone and dialed his head of legal.
"Find a way to sue the author Nyx for plagiarism," he commanded, his voice devoid of all emotions. "I don't care how. Fabricate a claimant. Buy a manuscript. Make it look airtight. I want her career, her reputation, and her fortune hanging by a thread. A thread that only I can cut."
The gambit had been made. Now, it was time to spring the trap.