Lingering in her mind, the ghost of his touch persisted. Elara rubbed her forearm, the spot where Rhys’s fingers had briefly pressed. His grip had been firm, yet unexpectedly gentle, catching her before she could hit the marble floor. That brief, unreadable flicker in his dark eyes, a flash of something akin to concern, had been a revelation. He had dropped her just as quickly, the moment shattered. But the impression remained. Hours later, back in her own apartment, the memory gnawed at her. Rhys Blackwood, the cold, impenetrable CEO, had shown a crack in his formidable facade. It was a fleeting glimpse, but enough to spark a dangerous curiosity. Ignoring her half-eaten dinner, Elara pulled her laptop closer. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She knew this was a terrible idea. Investigating her boss, the man who paid her exorbitant salary, was professional suicide. Yet, she couldn't stop herself. Usually, she avoided digging into personal lives. Information was power, but it could also be a trap. This felt different. Clicking open a browser, she started with general searches. “Rhys Blackwood,” she typed, her heart thrumming against her ribs. The results were predictable: Forbes articles, corporate mergers, charity galas featuring glossy, impersonal photos. No mention of family. No personal history. His public persona was meticulously curated, a flawless mask. Frustration tightened her shoulders. This wasn't going to be easy. Most billionaires had skeletons, but Rhys seemed to have an entire crypt guarded by a dragon. Remembering a secure, albeit somewhat illicit, online archive she'd used for a previous client's background check, Elara navigated to its hidden portal. It cost a small fortune to access, but if anyone could scrub their past clean, it was Rhys. Her fingers flew across the keys, inputting variations of his name, searching for any anomalies, any mentions before his meteoric rise. Years of practice made her efficient, spotting patterns and gaps in data. Minutes bled into an hour. Then two. Her eyes burned from the screen's glow, but she pushed on, driven by an almost desperate need to understand. That fleeting look in his eyes… it haunted her. He wasn't just a corporate shark. There was something buried beneath the surface, something raw. Old corporate reports surfaced, detailing the acquisition of smaller companies, each file dry and devoid of human element. No scandals. No public gaffes. Rhys Blackwood was a ghost in his own past. Growing weary, she almost gave up. Maybe there was nothing to find. Maybe his vulnerability had been a trick of the light, a figment of her overactive imagination. Then, a tiny, almost imperceptible blip appeared. A cross-reference from a decades-old financial journal, mentioning a “Blackwood Estate tragedy” and a subsequent “hostile takeover” of a small, unnamed art gallery chain. Intrigued, Elara clicked the link. It led to a digitized archive of an obscure local newspaper from twenty-five years ago. The page loaded slowly, pixel by agonizing pixel. Finally, an image resolved on the screen. It was grainy, yellowed, and barely legible. A headline screamed, though the specifics were lost in time. “Mysterious Fire Claims Blackwood Residence – Art Collection Destroyed.” Her breath hitched. A fire. An art collection. Destroyed. Scanning the blurred text beneath the headline, she pieced together fragments. “...local authorities suspect arson… no survivors reported… young Rhys Blackwood… sole heir… subsequently acquired…” The rest was a smudge, a jumble of faded ink and broken pixels. Sole heir. No survivors. The words echoed in her mind, chilling her to the bone. Rhys had lost his family. In a fire. Under suspicious circumstances. The article continued, or what she could discern of it, referencing a corporate entity, Sterling Holdings, swooping in to acquire the

Dangerous Curiosity