Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Glass Room
By 11:15 AM, the thirty-eighth floor felt less like a high-end consulting firm and more like a gilded cage.
Rumors spread through whispered Slack messages and encrypted Signal groups faster than the firm’s IT department could scrub them. Some thought the SEC was raiding the building; others believed an activist investor had staged an unannounced coup. But whenever anyone looked at Sloane, the consensus was clear: they thought her mortifying confession about Declan Voss had triggered an executive meltdown of historic proportions.
Sloane sat at her cubicle, pretending to clean out her desk drawer to maintain the illusion. Beside her, Nadia leaned against the partition, chewing on a thumbnail.
"Sloane, seriously," Nadia muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the elevator banks. "Two blacked-out SUVs just pulled into the freight alley. Men in suits who definitely don't work for Voss & Crane just went up the emergency stairwell. If Declan is having you escorted out by private security, you need to call a lawyer right now."
"They're not here for me, Nadia," Sloane replied calmly, carefully placing a stapler into a cardboard box.
"Then who are they here for?"
Before Sloane could answer, the soft chime of her internal messenger sounded. A single notification popped up on her private tablet:
*Conference Room A. Now. Bring nothing.*
Sloane stood up. She smoothed down the fabric of her pencil skirt, ignored the pitying stares of the junior associates, and walked down the long corridor toward Conference Room A—the firm’s soundproof, SCIF-grade boardroom designed for multi-billion-dollar mergers.
When she pushed the heavy acoustic door open, the room was dimly lit.
Declan Voss sat at the head of the twenty-seat glass table. His jacket was off, draped over the back of the leather chair, his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo that curled around his left wrist—something resembling an old-world crest that certainly didn't come from Harvard Business School.
Beside him sat two monitors glowing in the dark, projecting the decrypted contents of Marcus Sterling’s hard drive.
"Sit," Declan commanded.
Sloane closed the heavy door until the magnetic seal engaged with a dull thud. She took the seat to his immediate right. "Did you find it?"
"We found more than we bargained for," Declan said, his tone dark and lethal. He turned the primary display toward her. "Marcus wasn't acting alone. He wasn't just selling the Harrington files to Alderman Capital. He was acting as a proxy for an offshore shell syndicate called the Vane Group."
Sloane frowned, leaning closer to the illuminated screen. "Vane Group? I’ve never heard of them in our sector."
"You wouldn't have," Declan said, his jaw tightening. "They don't operate on Wall Street. They operate in the shadows of maritime logistics, private debt enforcement, and political extortion. They’re run by a man named Victor Vane. A man who has spent the last ten years trying to take everything my family built."
Sloane froze, her analytical mind immediately piecing together the anomalies she had observed over two years working for Declan Voss. The intense security protocols. The armored fleet in the basement. The whispers that Voss & Crane wasn't just a consultancy, but an empire built on old-world European wealth and ruthless enforcement.
"The rumors about you," she said, looking straight into his striking eyes. "The whispers that you have ties to the syndicate... they aren't rumors, are they?"
Declan leaned forward, his face inches from hers in the blue glow of the monitors. The intensity in his gaze was suffocating, terrifying, and undeniably magnetic.
"My grandfather ran the ports of Genoa and Boston, Sloane. When I took over this firm, I brought our business into the light. I built legitimate wealth. But when dogs like Victor Vane try to tear down what I protect, I don't use lawyers. I use leverage." He paused, his gaze tracing the outline of her lips before snapping back to her eyes. "Does that frighten you, Miss Rafferty? Does it make me seem... dangerously attractive?"
Sloane felt her breath catch in her throat, but she refused to back down. "What frightens me is amateur execution, Mr. Voss. And right now, Marcus is still sitting out there with access to an external line."
Declan let out a low, rough chuckle—a sound so rare and genuine it sent a spike of warmth through her chest. "Smart girl." He tapped the keyboard. "Look at this log. Marcus has a scheduled meeting at midnight tonight. A drop-off of the final encryption keys. Location: The abandoned foundry on Pier 42."
"Who is he meeting?"
"Victor Vane’s right-hand man," Declan replied, his voice turning deadly cold. "And Marcus needs a cover story to leave this building tonight without raising alarms. He thinks he’s going to use you."
"Me?" Sloane’s brow furrowed.
"He just filed an emergency HR complaint against you," Declan explained, showing her a draft document on the secondary monitor. "Claiming you assaulted him, stole confidential files from his office, and fled the premises. He’s going to use the chaos to walk out with his briefcase while security is hunting for you."
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Sloane’s eyes flared with anger. "That arrogant, backstabbing snake."
"Don't worry," Declan murmured, his hand reaching out across the table, his warm, calloused fingers briefly covering hers. The touch sent an electric shock straight through her veins. "He wants you to be the distraction. So we’re going to give him one. But tonight, you aren't the victim, Sloane. You’re the bait."
