chapter4

A single bottle was worth twenty thousand dollars. Thalassa knew that while the commission was tempting, the responsibility that came with such premium service was equally immense. She handled the crystal decanter with meticulous care, mindful of the expectations of the room.

“Excellent suggestion. Let’s see if the quality matches the reputation,” Alaric remarked, leaning back as he signaled for her to proceed.

Thalassa maintained her professional composure. “Are you certain, gentlemen? I want to ensure the service meets your exact preferences.”

“Proceed,” Alaric urged, his eyes narrowing with interest. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

Thalassa began with Richard, moving with a grace born of necessity. She leaned forward to pour, her focus entirely on the steady flow of the wine, unaware that the elegant cut of her uniform created a striking silhouette against the dim, amber lighting of the suite.

From his seat in the shadows, Lysander observed her. His expression remained unreadable, though a subtle frown creased his brow. He watched her move from guest to guest, her smile polite, her movements efficient.

“The ladies are impressed,” Alaric noted as the guests took their first sips. “But you’ve overlooked our guest of honor. Lysander is the reason we’re here tonight. You wouldn't want to neglect the man of the hour.”

Thalassa turned her attention to Lysander. As she leaned in to pour his glass, she finally met his gaze. His eyes were like twin abysses—dark, sharp, and filled with a piercing intensity that made her breath hitch. For a fleeting second, she wondered if she had inadvertently breached some unspoken protocol of the high-rollers' circle.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” she asked in a cautious whisper.

To Lysander, the sound of her voice was like a sudden, violent crack in a frozen lake. It carried a specific, melodic cadence—soft, slightly breathless, and hauntingly familiar. It was the exact frequency of the voice he had heard five years ago, during the most chaotic night of his life.

Five years ago, he had been a man on the edge, injured and fighting for survival after a helicopter intercept. He had encountered a woman in the darkness whose voice had been his only anchor before he was forced abroad for treatment. His subsequent investigation had led to a dead end, with reports claiming the woman had perished in a structural collapse.

Could the reports have been wrong? Or was this merely a cruel trick of auditory similarity?

Sensing the overwhelming intensity of his gaze, Thalassa instinctively tried to step back. But the combination of her high heels and a sudden numbness in her legs betrayed her. She lost her balance, stumbling forward directly into Lysander’s space.

The collision was sudden. She found herself supported by the hard, radiating warmth of his chest, her hands bracing against his shoulders. The scent of him—sea salt and expensive tobacco—swirled around her, making her heart race.

“Whoa, Lysander! It seems the service is getting personal,” Alaric teased, the other men joining in with boisterous laughter.

“Easy there,” Richard added, grinning. “I’ve never seen anyone take Lysander down so effectively.”

Thalassa scrambled to regain her footing, her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and genuine panic. “I am so sorry, sir. I slipped—it was entirely unintentional.”

But as she tried to pull away, her wrist was caught in a grip that was firm and unyielding. Lysander’s eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with a desperate, analytical heat.

“What is your name?” he demanded, his voice low and commanding.

The feel of her skin beneath his fingers, the subtle sweetness of her scent—it all matched the sensory imprint he had carried for half a decade. He hadn't seen her face clearly that night, but he had memorized the texture of her presence.

“I... I’m just a server,” Thalassa stammered, trying to reclaim her hand. “I didn't mean any disrespect. Please, I was just trying to do my job.”

“Your name,” he repeated, his grip tightening slightly as his emotions surged.

“Evelyn,” she answered, giving her mother’s name. It was the name she used for her employment records to ensure her earnings were directed straight to the family account.

Lysander’s expression shifted, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. The name didn't match the region where he had fallen five years ago. He slowly released her hand, his intensity receding into a cold, professional mask.

“You may go,” he said simply.

Thalassa didn't wait for a second dismissal. She bowed quickly, collected her tray, and hurried out of the suite. Fearing any further complications with the influential guests, she found her supervisor, finalized her commission, and left Sapphire Skyline immediately.

Inside Box V8, Alaric watched Lysander. “You seemed particularly interested in that one. Should I have her brought back?”

Lysander shot him a look that silenced the room. “If you’re looking for a new assignment, I have a project in the Antarctic that requires a very specific kind of isolation.”

“Message received,” Alaric muttered, raising his glass. “Just a joke, Lysander.”

Lysander didn't touch his wine. Instead, he stepped out onto the balcony and dialed his chief of security.

“The woman from five years ago,” Lysander said, his voice hard as steel. “Reopen the file. I want a forensic audit of the death certificate. Now.”