Serena’s POV

I slipped into the underground bar, my eyes struggling to adjust to the perpetual twilight. The music, a relentless, primal beat, pounded against my eardrums like a physical assault. This place was reputed to be the most fluid hub of information, but the deafening din and the greasy stares that clung to me made me question the wisdom of my decision.

But I’d come this far. Turning back now would just mean another sleepless night, haunted by unanswered questions.

"Well hello, beautiful. Drinking alone tonight?" The bartender’s gaze traveled slowly, explicitly, up and down my body, lingering a little too long.

Ignoring his leering gaze, I pulled out my business card and placed it flat on the grimy bar counter.

"I need to speak with your boss," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the bass.

The bartender’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly, the moment his eyes landed on the card. His smarmy smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of wary respect.

"Ms. Serena? Follow me upstairs, please."

I nodded, a curt gesture, and trailed behind him up a narrow, dimly lit staircase. The second floor was blessedly quieter, the music below now just a muted, bass thrum. He led me to a private room that, to my surprise, was starkly clean compared to the grime downstairs.

"Wait here. The manager will be with you shortly," he said, turning to leave.

"I asked to see your boss, not a manager," I called after him, my voice sharp, my brow furrowed. This was certainly not the arrangement I’d secured through my contact.

He paused at the doorway. "Look, Ms. Serena, I understand your frustration, but the boss doesn’t meet with clients directly. Hell, even I’ve never seen him." He offered a wary, apologetic smile. "But I promise you this: whatever information you’re looking for, you’ll get it. We deliver. Guaranteed."

Before I could argue further, he slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Five minutes later—minutes that stretched into an eternity of growing paranoia—the door opened again. A middle-aged man in unremarkable casual clothes walked in, carrying a sleek tablet.

"Mrs. Lancaster," he greeted me, using my husband, Cedric Lancaster’s, surname. "Apologies for the wait. The boss informed me you’re seeking information. How can we help you?"

I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. "I need information about Ryan Blackwood," I stated. "Specifically, his relationship with Serena Blackwood."

The man’s eyes widened slightly, then he let out a short, incredulous chuckle. "Mrs. Lancaster, surely you’re joking? Do you understand who Mr. Blackwood is? The kind of power he wields, the reach he commands? And you want us to investigate him?"

I kept my expression neutral, my resolve unwavering. "I’m not interested in his business affairs. I want to know about his personal life—his relationship with his wife, his private matters, the things he keeps hidden."

I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping, imbued with a steely resolve. "And I don’t want the sanitized, public relations-approved version. I can find that myself. I came here because you supposedly have access to information others don’t. Cost is not a concern. I just need the truth."

The man’s amusement faded entirely, replaced by undeniable anxiety. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Mrs. Lancaster, it’s not that we don’t want your business. It’s just that when it comes to Mr. Blackwood, we have to be... exceedingly careful."

"I understand your concerns," I said quietly, leaning back slightly. "This is strictly for personal reasons. Whatever you tell me stays strictly between us. Your involvement will be completely untraceable."

He studied my face for a long, assessing moment before slowly standing up. "I’ll need to consult with the boss about this. It’s not a decision I can make alone."

"Fine. I’ll wait for your call." I rose from my seat, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere, the lingering scent of stale ambition and unspoken secrets.

Cedric’s POV

I couldn’t get into my black Mercedes fast enough after leaving that dingy underground bar. The lingering stench of cheap liquor and stale desperation still clung to my clothes as I slammed the door shut, sealing myself within the expensive quiet of the car.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t rattled. The moment she mentioned Ryan’s name, the air in that cramped room had thickened, practically humming with the manager’s sudden, palpable fear.

Everything, however, was proceeding exactly as planned.

When my phone buzzed, I answered through the car’s Bluetooth, my voice calm, controlled. "Lancaster speaking."

"Sir, Mrs. Serena just left the establishment," my security detail reported, his voice crisp. "The package has been delivered to the contact as instructed."

"Excellent," I replied, a wave of cold satisfaction washing over me. "And our friend at the bar? The ’manager’?"

"Took the bait completely, sir. He’ll deliver the documents to Mrs. Serena tomorrow, exactly as you orchestrated."

I allowed myself a small, almost imperceptible smile, a predatory curve of my lips. Serena had always been determined, fiercely intelligent, and remarkably resourceful—traits I’d always admired, always sought to harness. But in this particular case, her burgeoning curiosity would lead her precisely where I needed her to go.

"Keep monitoring the situation," I instructed, my voice sharp with underlying command. "I want to know the moment she receives those files. Every detail."

As I drove back toward my opulent London townhouse, my thoughts drifted, lingering on the earlier scene—on Serena’s gentle touch as she’d tended to my bruised jaw, the genuine concern in her eyes. It had been a performance, yes, but one steeped in a truth I still held dear.

My jaw still throbbed, a dull ache from Blackwood’s calculated attack, but I couldn’t have orchestrated a better outcome. Nothing quite reinforced the narrative I’d been meticulously crafting than a physical altercation, especially one that left me visibly wounded. And seeing the horror in Serena’s eyes when she realized who was responsible? That had been perfect. Her empathy, her distress, had been a crucial element.

The documents I’d arranged for Serena to receive tomorrow contained a carefully constructed blend of truths and strategic fabrications. Just enough authenticity to make the deceit utterly believable, with particular details highlighted, almost underlined, to paint Blackwood in the most damning light possible.

I pulled into my secluded driveway, nodding curtly to the alert security guard as the imposing gates swung open.

Blackwood had no idea what was truly coming. By the time he finally realized I was behind it all, Serena would be firmly by my side, her loyalty secured, and his carefully constructed empire would be irrevocably crumbling around him.

"Soon, Serena," I whispered, the words barely audible as I stepped out of my car into the cool night air. "Very soon."