CRIMSON WEAVE

The quiet streets of Paris glowed under the soft light of the streetlamps, their reflections rippling across the Seine. Azalea strolled with an air of confidence, her crimson handbag dangling elegantly from her arm. But beneath her poised exterior, her instincts were on high alert.

Her assistant, Lily, had insisted on extra security after a string of veiled threats, but Azalea had dismissed the idea. She trusted herself more than anyone else. As she turned onto a quieter street, the shadows seemed to deepen.

A faint sound—a rustle in an alley—pricked her ears. She didn't stop, though her fingers brushed against the hidden compartment in her handbag.

Then it happened. A black van screeched to a halt just ahead of her, the doors flinging open to reveal four masked men.

"Ms. Laurent," one of them called, his tone calm but menacing. "You're coming with us."

Azalea's lips curled into a smirk. "Oh, I don't think so."

With practiced ease, she slid a compact pistol from her handbag. The men hesitated, their brief moment of uncertainty giving her the upper hand.

Azalea ducked behind a parked car, firing precise shots that kept the men at bay. But she knew she was outnumbered. The situation was slipping.

Then, the roar of an engine echoed down the narrow street. A sleek black car skidded to a halt, and from it emerged Ambrose. Gone was his usual polished charm; his expression was steely, his movements deliberate.

"Get in!" he barked, flinging open the passenger door.

Azalea hesitated for a fraction of a second before making a calculated dash to the car. Ambrose covered her with unexpected skill, his shots precise enough to disable two of the attackers.

Once she was inside, he gunned the engine, leaving their pursuers scrambling in the chaos.

The car sped through the streets, Ambrose maneuvering with the confidence of someone who had handled high-pressure situations before. Azalea watched him carefully, her sharp mind piecing together inconsistencies.

"You're full of surprises, Mr. Ambrose," she remarked, her tone deceptively light.

He glanced at her briefly, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. "It's Paris. You don't get far in business here without learning to handle yourself."

Azalea raised an eyebrow. "Business involves dodging bullets now?"

He smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It does when you're as successful as I am. Competitors can get... aggressive."

She didn't press further, but the seed of doubt was firmly planted.

Ambrose's penthouse was as immaculate as she remembered—modern, luxurious, and tailored to his taste. He locked the door behind them and gestured for her to sit, but Azalea remained standing, her arms crossed.

"What just happened out there?" she demanded.

"Someone has it out for you," Ambrose replied, pouring two glasses of whiskey. He handed her one, his movements calm. "Any idea who?"

Azalea studied him, her expression unreadable. "Plenty. But I'm more interested in how you knew where to find me."

Ambrose hesitated, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing his face. "I had a meeting nearby. Saw the van and recognized you. Lucky timing."

"Lucky indeed," Azalea said, taking a slow sip of her drink.

Ambrose leaned against the edge of a marble countertop, watching her carefully. "You're not exactly an open book, Azalea, but I'm guessing this isn't the first time you've been targeted."

"And you're not just a charming billionaire," she retorted. "But I'll let that slide for now."

He chuckled, the tension in the room easing slightly. "Fair enough. Though I should say, if this is how you live, it's a miracle you manage to look so composed."

Azalea tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Composure is an art form."

"So is survival," Ambrose countered, his tone softer now. "Whatever you're involved in, you don't have to face it alone."

Her smile faltered, the weight of his words stirring something she wasn't ready to confront. "I've done fine on my own so far."

"I don't doubt that," he said. "But even the strongest need allies."

Their conversation was interrupted by the buzz of Ambrose's phone. He frowned as he read the message.

"What is it?" Azalea asked.

"Security footage," he said, showing her the screen. It displayed the van parked a few blocks from his building.

"They're persistent," Azalea muttered.

Ambrose straightened. "Persistent and dangerous. We need to deal with this now."

"We?" Azalea raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not leaving you to handle this alone," Ambrose said firmly. "If they're this bold, they'll come again."

Minutes later, they devised a plan. Azalea would create a diversion while Ambrose secured their escape.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" Azalea asked, her tone edged with skepticism.

Ambrose grinned. "You're not the only one who's resourceful."

Azalea rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

As they exited the building, the attackers moved in. Azalea led them into a trap, using her agility and quick thinking to disorient them. Ambrose provided support, disabling their vehicle with a calculated strike that left them stranded.

The attackers retreated, but not before leaving a chilling message scrawled on the side of the van: You can't outrun the past.

Back in the penthouse, Ambrose and Azalea debriefed.

"Whoever they are, they're not amateurs," Ambrose said, pouring another round of drinks.

"No," Azalea agreed, her mind racing. "And they'll be back."

Ambrose hesitated before saying, "You're welcome to stay here. At least until we figure this out."

Azalea looked at him, her defenses momentarily faltering. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll be fine."

He stepped closer, his gaze steady. "You don't have to face this alone, Azalea. Let me help."

For a moment, she considered it. But trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.

"I'll think about it," she said, her voice softer than she intended.

As she left the penthouse, Azalea couldn't shake the feeling that Ambrose was hiding something. But for now, she would focus on the immediate threat.

Secrets, after all, were something she understood all too well.