Nara slid the glass slate onto his desk, the image of Misha illuminated on the dark mahogany. “The message… ‘We know.’ It came with this. They’re using him.” Her voice cracked, not entirely feigned. “They want me out of the show. They want me to fail. They want the Kertesz name dragged through the mud.” She omitted the part about the funds for Misha’s therapy, framing it as a threat to her position and the family name. He pulled up the message header, lines of raw code reflecting across his pupils. “This isn’t amateur. The encryption, the routing… it’s designed to obscure, to mislead.” He looked up, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “I believe you, Nara. Not because I trust your story of a past, but because I’ve watched you. And because,” he paused, a flicker of something raw entering his voice, “I saw the real Kertesz heiress last. A moment before she vanished. I promised Matriarch Otylia I would find out what happened. My loyalty, my purpose, is to her and to the truth.” Nara recognized the posture. His stoicism wasn’t detachment, but a shield for a deeply held commitment. “So you’ll help me find them?” “We’ll find them,” he corrected, looking back to the screen. “They want to sabotage the show. To destabilize the family. This isn't just about you, Nara. It’s about the Kertesz legacy.” He began typing on a nearby console, his movements swift and economical. “The message’s point of origin is masked, but the packet size and latency point to a local carrier in Varaz. The device used to send it was a high-end, untraceable burner. However, burner hardware still requires a handshake to register with a tower.” Minutes later, a sprawling signal grid expanded across the primary monitor. Red lines traced through a labyrinth of proxies and VPNs, eventually converging on a single, unexpected node. A secure server owned by the Kertesz holdings, but accessed through a private, unlisted backdoor. “This account,” Kazimir murmured, his brow furrowing, “is registered to a shell corporation. But the funding stream… it’s linked to an offshore holding company that recently acquired significant shares in several competing media outlets. And that holding company,” he spun the display to face Nara, “is directly tied to Iulian Rado’s personal investment portfolio.” Nara stared at the screen, the implications sinking in like cold stones. Iulian. The charismatic media mogul, always so smooth, so eager for the spotlight. “He’s trying to crash the Kertesz stock, isn’t he?” she whispered. “Sabotage the show, devalue the assets, and then buy them out for a fraction of their worth.” The puzzle pieces clicked into place, forming an ugly picture of corporate greed and ruthless ambition. The blackmailer wasn't just after her; they were after the entire Kertesz empire. And Iulian, the suitor, was a predator in disguise. “It would explain the motive,” Kazimir confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion, “and the resources. He has access to Kertesz servers through his bid for the media partnership.” He pulled up another series of logs. “The server activity matches the time the protestor appeared at the premiere. And the ‘technical glitch’ that almost exposed the show’s production secret? Likely Iulian testing perimeter security under the cover of a glitch.” Nara remembered the hidden listening device she’d found weeks ago, tucked into a floral arrangement. “There’s more,” she said, her voice tight. “A microphone. A sophisticated one, hidden in my room. It wasn’t Kertesz security, I checked.” Kazimir's gaze sharpened. “The microphone could be the missing link. A physical infiltration, distinct from the digital one, but serving the same master. Do you have it?” She retrieved the small, almost invisible device from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard in her suite. Kazimir examined it with a practiced eye. “Bespoke build. No visible serial. But the circuitry, the housing… I’ve seen this before. A boutique electronics firm, Vancroft & Son, based in the Old Quarter, specializes in these discreet communication tools. They cater to a very… specific clientele.” “We can’t just walk in and ask about it,” Nara stated, thinking of the ever-present cameras and the risk of exposure. “They’ll know who I am, if not what I am.” “Then we won’t,” Kazimir replied, already moving towards the security room’s private exit. “We’ll be a couple looking for a specialized device for a private family dispute.” The Vancroft & Son establishment was less a store and more a hushed, art gallery of technology. Pristine display cases showcased sleek, minimalist devices. A young clerk, all pressed linen and polished manners, greeted them. “Good afternoon,” Kazimir began, his arm settling around Nara’s waist with surprising naturalness. “My wife and I have a… peculiar issue.” Nara bristled at the ‘wife’ but played along, leaning into him with an exasperated sigh. “He thinks our neighbor is spying on his prize-winning orchids. I think he’s paranoid.” She nudged his ribs playfully, a gesture she’d never imagined making towards him. The proximity was startling. He smelled of cold steel and something subtly herbaceous. Kazimir offered a tight, long-suffering smile. “Her sister, actually. She has a way of knowing things she shouldn’t. We require something… discreet. To ensure our privacy.” He revealed the microphone on his palm, angled so the clerk caught the dull sheen of its casing. The clerk’s brows twitched. “Ah, a Vancroft 4S, bespoke casing. An older model, but reliable. We can check the records. Do you carry a purchase receipt?” Nara rolled her eyes, her act feeling disturbingly authentic. “He bought it years ago, thinking it was a ‘gift’ for my birthday. I found it in the attic last week. Now he’s convinced it’s a sign.” She pinched Kazimir’s arm, a flash of genuine annoyance mixing with the charade. “We just want to know if it’s still functional. And perhaps who else might have purchased one recently. For… comparative purposes.” Kazimir winced, but his grip on her waist tightened, a silent signal. He met her gaze, a spark of something unreadable in his eyes, a silent challenge. Their performance was flawless, the bickering couple, so utterly believable in their petty squabbles, that Nara almost forgot they were acting. It was unnerving how easily the words came, how naturally they fell into a rhythm of gentle friction. The ease of it grated against her nerves. The clerk, accustomed to eccentric demands from Varaz’s elite, nodded. “One moment. I can access our sales ledger for the 4S models within the last quarter. You’d be surprised how many seek ‘comparative purposes’ for family matters.” He disappeared into a back room. Nara glanced at Kazimir, a question in her eyes. He merely gave a slight shake of his head, urging silence. The clerk returned with a slate in hand. “The 4S, tailored variant, has a limited distribution. Only three sales in the last six months. One to a private investigator, another to a collector of vintage tech, and this one…” He tapped the screen. “Purchased six weeks ago. Cash transaction. No name given, but the surveillance footage from the entryway shows the individual collecting the package.” He turned the screen to reveal a surveillance capture of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat leaving the curb with a black paper bag. Nara recognized the sharp tilt of the jaw beneath the brim. It was Iulian Rado’s executive secretary, Katiya.

Unlikely Allies