The Hunt Begins

Damien sat in his study, the whiskey on his desk untouched, the glass reflecting the dim light as his fingers tapped anxiously against the polished surface. He was in a mental replay of the previous night... like a movie stuck on a pivotal scene.

Jessica's injury had been a mere scratch, but the incident? That left a mark deeper than any bruise.

A motorbike zooming by? Sure, that could happen in a crowded city. But this one had been different. It had come barreling down the street with alarming precision, aimed directly at her, not him, not anyone else.

"Just a coincidental accident," they would say. "These things happen." But Damien didn't buy it. Coincidences were for the naive.

If someone was watching over Jessica, lurking in the shadows with malicious intent, then he needed to get to the bottom of it. Fast.

His phone buzzed, cutting into his dark musings. He glanced at the screen but didn't need to check the caller ID. He knew who it was... Samuel, his right-hand man and occasional source of unsolicited sarcasm.

"Find anything?" Damien managed to keep his voice steady, even though a tempest brewed beneath the surface.

Samuel's voice was smooth, with a hint of that ever-present amusement. "Nice to hear from you too, boss. How's the whiskey? Still interested in it, or just your usual existential dread?"

Damien bit back a grin. "Focus, Samuel."

"Alright, focus it is," Samuel said, sobering up. "I checked the traffic cams near the gala. The motorbike wasn't just a bad driver, it was lurking there for nearly ten minutes before you left. And guess what?"

Damien's grip on the glass tightened, the ice clinking ominously.

"It wasn't random," Samuel pressed on. "This guy circled the block twice before revving up and heading straight for her."

Deliberate. Targeted.

Damien's face remained a stoic mask, but inside, a storm was brewing. Someone was after Jessica, and that didn't sit well with him at all.

Thirty minutes later, Damien found himself in one of his hidden offices, a secret lair that was a cross between a high-stakes poker room and a detective's den, quite the decor for a corporate CEO. He'd only invited a handful of trusted allies here, Samuel being one of the top contenders.

A large screen displayed grainy security footage that felt more like a bad detective movie than real life. Damien watched the loop again, scrutinizing every moment. The motorbike rider's face was obscured by a helmet, but their movements screamed "calculated."

Samuel leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. "So, what's your educated guess? Someone's got a personal vendetta against your girl?"

Damien remained silent, not wanting to give Samuel any more material for his playful jabs.

"Oh, come on," Samuel said, a smirk creeping onto his face. "The fact that you're here, pulling a Sherlock, means she's more than just another night out for you."

Damien's jaw twitched, irritation mingling with an undeniable truth. "She doesn't mean anything to me," he lied, though it felt more like a poorly ricocheting ping-pong ball of denial.

Samuel raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Mhm, right."

Ignoring the comment, Damien focused. "We need to trace that bike. Rental records, black-market deals, stolen vehicles, whatever it takes."

"On it," Samuel replied, ready to dive into his not-so-legal detective work.

As Damien turned from the screen, his mind was already calculating possible suspects. If someone wanted Jessica gone, there had to be a backstory. But he was confident he'd find out the who's and why's.

And when he did, those responsible would wish they'd never crossed paths with her.

Back at his penthouse, Damien found Jessica still asleep in the guest room. She looked impossibly peaceful, her brow slightly furrowed as if she was caught in an innocent dream.

He watched her for a moment, a twinge of protectiveness swelling in his chest. She had no idea about the whirlwind outside, and he was determined to keep it that way. Ignorance was bliss, after all, especially when bliss was that adorable.

His phone vibrated, pulling him from his thoughts.

Samuel's message lit up the screen: 'Bike was dumped in the river. Clean job. No fingerprints. This wasn't an amateur.'

Damien stared at the message, an unamused smirk brushing his lips.

Then, without replying, he slid his phone back into his pocket. Whoever did this clearly had skills, but they'd made one critical mistake: they'd involved her.

And for that, they would pay.

With interest.