Chapter 2 - The Restricted Wing
Silas Montgomery’s study was a monument to his ego. The walls were lined with taxidermy—the heads of rare beasts he had hunted on private safaris, their glass eyes staring blankly into the opulent room. A massive desk carved from solid ebony sat in the center, dominating the space.
Lyra slipped inside, closing the heavy oak door with a soft click. She had exactly twelve minutes before the perimeter guards completed their rotation and walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.
She didn't reach for her cleaning supplies. Instead, she reached under the collar of her starched uniform, pulling out a microscopic, custom-built USB drive.
She approached the ebony desk. Silas was a dinosaur in many ways, but his wealth was protected by state-of-the-art encryption. However, every system had a physical vulnerability, and Silas's vulnerability was his arrogance. He left his primary terminal on, locked, but connected to the Manor's closed-network intranet.
Lyra crouched beneath the desk, her fingers flying with practiced precision as she bypassed the physical casing of the terminal tower. She inserted the drive. The malware she had spent two years developing with black-market coders in Eastern Europe began to quietly bleed into the Montgomery network. It wasn't designed to steal data—not yet. It was designed to map the network, find the hidden ledgers, and create a backdoor.
A sudden, heavy footstep echoed in the hallway.
Lyra froze. The doorknob began to turn.
She yanked the drive out, slapped the casing back into place, and dove toward the fireplace, instantly grabbing a brass ash shovel.
The door swung open. It wasn't Silas.
It was Julian Montgomery, the sole heir to the empire. He was twenty-five, impossibly handsome, and possessed the kind of cruel, bored cruelty that only infinite money could buy. He wore a loose silk shirt, a crystal glass of amber liquid dangling loosely from his fingers.
He stopped, his eyes landing on Lyra kneeling by the hearth.
"Well, well," Julian slurred slightly, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. "I don't recognize you. Did Vance finally fire the crying one?"
Lyra kept her head bowed. "I am new, sir. I was just finishing the fireplace."
Julian walked closer, his leather shoes silent on the Persian rug. He stopped right in front of her, the toe of his shoe inches from her knee. He smelled of expensive gin and arrogant entitlement.
"Look at me when I speak to you," he commanded softly.
Lyra slowly raised her head, forcing her expression into one of mild, terrified obedience. But as she met his gaze, Julian’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He expected a frightened mouse. But behind her carefully constructed mask, there was something sharp. Something dangerous.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice losing a bit of its drunken slur.
"Lyra, sir."
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"Lyra," he tasted the word, taking a sip of his gin. "Stay out of my father's desk, Lyra. He tends to remove the fingers of people who touch his things."
He turned and walked out, leaving the door open. Lyra let out a slow, controlled breath. Julian was perceptive. Too perceptive. She would have to factor him into her equation of destruction.
