The meeting dragged on like a slow execution. I sat on that sofa, the silk of my dress feeling like sandpaper against my skin, while Kyle dismantled his directors' arguments with the cold precision of a butcher.
But I wasn't watching the spreadsheets. I was watching the younger director, the one Kyle called Marcus. He hadn't looked at a single graph. He kept glancing at the diamond collar around my neck, his jaw tight.
"Meeting adjourned," Kyle said, standing up. The sound of his voice was like a gavel. "Marcus, stay behind. We need to discuss the port in Naples."
The other directors scurried out like mice. I stood up, ready to bolt back to my room, but Kyle's hand caught my waist, pulling me back against his side.
"Stay," he commanded. It wasn't a request.
Marcus stood on the other side of the desk, his eyes flicking between Kyle's possessive grip and my face. "You're playing a dangerous game, Kyle. Bringing a straniera—a thief—into the inner circle? The board won't stand for it."
"The board will stand for whatever I tell them to," Kyle said, his voice dripping with arrogance. He pulled me closer, his thumb tracing the line of my hip through the thin fabric. "Valentina isn't a thief anymore. She's a Vanguard asset. I thought I made that clear."
Marcus stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a look that wasn't just professional—it was personal. "Does she even know? Or are you keeping her in the dark like the others?"
My "loud mouth" couldn't stay shut. "Know what? That your suits are as fake as your concern for this company?" I snapped, glinting a look at Marcus. "And don't talk about me like I'm not in the room. I've stolen things more valuable than your entire career in a single night."
Marcus let out a dry, sharp laugh. "She definitely has the mouth for it. But does she have the stomach?" He looked at me, his gaze dropping to the collar. "That piece around your neck, Valentina... it wasn't made by a jeweler. It was made by a man named Moretti. He only makes 'gifts' for people who aren't allowed to leave."
Kyle's grip on my waist turned bruising. "That's enough, Marcus."
"Is it?" Marcus pulled a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket and flicked it onto the desk. "Because someone left this at the front gate for you. Or maybe for her."
I reached for it, but Kyle snatched it away before I could even see the handwriting. His face didn't change, but I felt the sudden, icy tension in his muscles.
"Get out," Kyle said, his voice so quiet it was terrifying.
Macus bowed mockingly and turned to leave. As he passed me, he leaned in, his voice a bare whisper that only I could hear. "He isn't the only one watching you, ladra. Check the third drawer of the vanity."
He was gone before I could blink.
The room felt suffocating. Kyle was standing by the window now, staring at the paper Marcus had brought. He looked like he wanted to burn the world down.
"What was on that paper?" I asked, walking toward him, my heart hammering. "And who is Moretti?"
Kyle turned around, and for the first time, the arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, dark possessiveness that made my knees weak. He didn't answer. He just grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into a kiss that tasted like desperation and fire.
He broke away, his forehead resting against mine. "You're not leaving this penthouse, Val. Not for a gala, not for a walk, not for anything. The world just got a lot smaller for you."
"You can't do that!" I shouted, pushing at his chest. "I'm not a dog you can just lock in a kennel!"
"You're right," he rasped, his eyes locking onto mine. "Dogs are loyal. You're a fox. And I've just realized there's another hunter in the woods."
He walked out of the study, locking the door from the outside. I was trapped in his office.
I waited until I heard his footsteps fade, then I remembered Marcus's words. The third drawer. I scrambled to the large vanity in the corner of the study—the one Kyle used for his private files. I pulled open the third drawer.
Inside was a folder. I opened it, expecting to see bank statements or names of his marks.
Instead, I saw a photo of me. Not from tonight. Not from Milan. It was a photo of me from five years ago, in Rome, standing next to a man I thought was dead.
And across my face, someone had written in red ink: PROPERTY OF THE VANGUARD. DO NOT TOUCH.