Two weeks later, Camille had spent endless hours drafting plans, analyzing routines, and conducting surveillance on her target. Kade Wilder was a man who left almost no trace. Every search led to dead ends. Every schedule seemed airtight, every interaction carefully monitored. It was infuriating, the way he seemed to exist in a world that left nothing for prying eyes. The more she watched, the more she realized how methodical he was. Every gesture, every meeting, every departure from one location to another was precise, intentional, controlled.
Then, by coincidence, or fate, she discovered a vacancy for a secretary within his organization. The application process was far from ordinary: rigorous background checks, psychological screening, and a live assessment panel that studied her as much as she studied them. Every glance, every question, every minor hesitation was measured. Yet she passed each stage with controlled precision, offering exactly what was expected while concealing the rest.
When the confirmation email arrived, she allowed herself a rare, restrained smile. She barely allowed herself that much. The thrill was quiet, professional, but undeniably there.
The next step was simple.
Show up and blend in.
The building itself was a fortress disguised as a corporate headquarters. Security cameras hung unobtrusively, scanners embedded in doors, reinforced steel panels, biometric access points. Every detail screamed one thing: control. Those who entered here were filtered, assessed, vetted. Few people ever got past it, fewer still without leaving a trace.
Camille stepped inside wearing a fitted black suit, the subtle lines accentuating her lean frame, and a thin red scarf tucked neatly at her collar. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her makeup was understated, designed to make her presentable but unremarkable. She did not look like a threat. That was the goal. No one could guess the agent underneath, not from the surface, not from a glance.
At the front desk, she offered the receptionist a polite smile.
"Hi. Camille De Luca. I'm here to resume today as Mr. Wilder's secretary."
The blonde woman blinked, then quickly straightened.
"Oh. Yes. You're on the list. You'll need an escort for the upper floors."
That alone told Camille everything she needed to know. The presence of an escort was more than security. It was a signal. She noted it without comment.
Moments later, a tall guard in dark tactical gear approached. Not standard security. Not just muscle. Something sharper. Something trained.
"Ms. De Luca?" he asked, voice low and neutral.
She inclined her head. "Yes."
The private elevator swallowed them whole. As the doors slid closed, Camille's eyes flicked around, cataloging details instinctively: a tiny camera in the corner, a biometric scanner beside the panel, the subtle seams in reinforced steel. Kade Wilder did not live carelessly. Nothing here was by chance.
"Not many people get cleared for his floor," the guard said quietly.
"Should I feel honoured?" she asked lightly, testing his reaction.
He gave a single glance, unreadable, then returned to his silent observation.
The elevator opened to black marble floors, glass walls, and a silence that felt almost engineered.
"Straight ahead," the guard said. "His office."
Camille walked alone the rest of the way, her heels clicking softly against the marble. She stopped before the large oak door, exhaled once, then knocked.
"Enter."
The voice that replied was calm, deep and familiar.
She took a deep breathe and opened the door.
Kade Wilder stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned, sunlight outlining his broad shoulders. Perfect posture. Stillness that radiated authority, a quiet command that seemed to fill the room even without words.
"You're late," he said without turning.
"By three minutes," Camille replied evenly, voice smooth.
He turned. And the world shifted.
The grainy photo Mr. Black had shown her had not prepared her for this. Not for the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the quiet command in his posture, or the way the sunlight seemed to crown him in unintentional authority. Not for the unsettling familiarity that hit her chest all at once.
Then she saw his eyes.
One blue. One green.
Her breath caught. The same eyes she had looked into weeks ago beneath soft lighting and careless laughter. The same eyes that had held hers across a crowded room. The same eyes she had dreamt about.
Her chest tightened before she could stop it.
He did not react. No flicker of recognition. No shift in expression. Just calm assessment, as though she were nothing more than another name on a file.
The realization stung. Briefly. Ridiculously.
He doesn't remember me.
She crushed the feeling immediately and forced her mind to work in a steady rhythm. This was a mission. Nothing else.
"You're staring," he said.
She straightened. "Just observing."
A beat passed.
"Good," he said. "You will need that skill here."
His indifference settled something cold in her chest. Good. This was better. Safer. Cleaner.
He moved toward the desk with unhurried steps, deliberate, almost predatory in the way he navigated the room.
"You're welcome, Miss Devile," he said. "I need my schedule updated. Confirm today's meetings. Cross-check all calls. Lunch should remain unchanged from last week. If anything is unclear, verify with the assistant downstairs."
"Yes, sir."
He slid a thin folder toward her. Their fingers brushed for half a second. She did not flinch.Training was a beautiful thing.
"Your office is directly outside mine," he added. "Close enough that I can reach you when necessary."
"Understood."
"You may go."
Camille nodded once, walking out with steady composure. Only when the door closed behind her did she allow herself a quiet breath.
He did not recognize her. Or he pretended not to. Either way, it changed nothing. This was still a mission. He was still the target. And she was already inside his world.
Her office was minimalist. Glass desk, secure system, direct line to his office. Everything was as controlled as him. She spent the next hour reviewing files, memorizing rhythms, absorbing the cadence of his schedule. Every detail mattered: the way he spoke on calls, the pauses between appointments, the way he adjusted seating arrangements, the subtle patterns of his day. Kade Wilder's world was structured, intentional, controlled to the point of obsession. Dangerous men always were.
A soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound as she flipped through digital files. Her eyes scanned every page, every spreadsheet, every note left by assistants she had never met. She cataloged names, cross-referenced numbers, noted anomalies.
The phone on her desk rang once. Internal line.
"Yes?" she answered calmly, sitting upright.
"Bring the folder," Kade's voice said. "Now."
Camille stood immediately, mind sharp. Pulse steady. Anticipation pricking her senses.
Game on.