His Number Was Nine

Chapter 1

Elise Hartman.

The wine glass feels cold against my palm. Ice cold. A perfect counterpoint to the heat rising in my chest. Across the table, Kaelen Sterling smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. His grin is a weapon, sharp and precise, aimed directly at me.

“A bold move, Hartman,” he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the restaurant’s polite murmur. “Acquiring Aerocorp right from under my nose. Your father would be proud. Or horrified. It’s a coin toss, really.”

I take a slow sip of Chardonnay, letting the insult hang in the air between us. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Beside me, Julian shifts in his seat, his hand landing on my thigh in a gesture that’s meant to look supportive. It feels possessive. Proprietary.

“Don’t listen to him, darling,” Julian murmurs, his voice smooth as silk. He leans in, his cologne filling my senses. “He’s just bitter he lost. You played it perfectly. We played it perfectly.”

We. As if he was the one who spent three sleepless nights running projections and leveraging a forgotten clause in a decade old contract. He was the one who told me it was too risky. I look at Julian, my perfect, doting boyfriend, the handsome face of my company’s executive board, and I force a smile.

“Kaelen is just being Kaelen,” I say, my voice steady. I turn my gaze back to my rival. “It wasn’t personal, Sterling. It was just good business. You of all people should understand that.”

“Oh, I understand it,” Kaelen leans forward, his dark eyes intense. “What I don’t understand is why you’d trust this lapdog with the details.” He flicks his gaze to Julian, a flicker of pure contempt in his expression. “I heard he almost fumbled the final wire transfer.”

Julian’s grip on my leg tightens. “Now listen here, Sterling…”

I place my hand over Julian’s, a silent command to stand down. “The transfer went through. The company is mine. Those are the only details that matter.”

This is my life. A constant chess match played on a global scale. Hartman Industries was my father’s legacy, a respectable but stagnant tech firm. I inherited it and turned it into an empire. I made it breathe fire. And in doing so, I painted a target on my back for men like Kaelen Sterling, CEO of Sterling Dynamics, the only man whose ambition matches my own. He’s been a thorn in my side for five years, always pushing, always challenging. I hate him for it. I also know he’s made me sharper than I ever thought I could be.

Julian, on the other hand, is supposed to be my safe harbor. My partner. The one who understands the pressure. But lately, his reassurances feel like platitudes, his compliments like carefully constructed lines designed to manage me.

“Well, a toast then,” Kaelen says, raising his glass. “To Elise Hartman. The queen of a kingdom she didn’t build, but one she will certainly burn to the ground.”

“That’s enough,” Julian says, his voice rising. He stands up abruptly, the chair scraping against the polished floor. “We’re leaving.”

He pulls me up by the arm, his grip surprisingly firm. He throws a few bills on the table and steers me towards the exit without a backward glance. I look over my shoulder one last time. Kaelen hasn’t moved. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, and lifts his glass in a silent, mocking salute.

The drive back to my penthouse is thick with a tense silence. The city lights blur into long streaks of color as Julian navigates the late night traffic. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know why you let him talk to you like that,” he finally says, his jaw tight.

“I can handle Kaelen Sterling.”

“It’s not about handling him, Elise. It’s about respect. He disrespects you. He disrespects us.” He glances at me, his handsome face a mask of concern. “It makes you look weak.”

My blood runs cold. “Weak? I just closed the biggest acquisition in my company’s history. There is nothing weak about me, Julian.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, instantly backtracking. He reaches over, stroking my hair. “I just worry about you. The stress. The pressure. You carry this whole empire on your shoulders. You don’t have to, you know. I’m here to help you carry it.”

His words are perfect. Exactly what a supportive partner would say. But they feel hollow. Rehearsed. Sometimes, in the quiet of my sprawling, empty apartment, I feel a loneliness so profound it physically hurts. I thought Julian filled that void, but more and more, I feel like I’m just playing a part. The powerful CEO with the perfect life and the perfect boyfriend.

“I know,” I say, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window. “I appreciate it.”

He seems satisfied with that answer, turning his attention back to the road and pulling out his phone. He starts tapping out a message with one thumb, the car weaving slightly in the lane.

“Julian, watch the road.”

“It’s fine, darling. It’s just a quick message to the board, letting them know the deal is officially done. Taking credit for my hard work,” he says with a wink. It’s a joke, but it doesn’t land right. It feels too close to the truth.

I close my eyes. I’m tired. Tired of the fight, tired of the act. Tired of feeling like I’m the only one who sees the cracks in my perfect life.

That’s when I see them. The twin headlights, impossibly bright, coming straight for my passenger side door. They aren’t slowing down.

“Julian!” I scream, my voice raw with terror.

He looks up from his phone, his eyes wide with panic. The world explodes in a symphony of screeching tires and shattering glass. The force of the impact is violent, absolute. My head whips to the side, hitting something hard. A searing pain shoots through my body, followed by a strange, floating calm.

My last conscious thought is of Kaelen’s face. His mocking eyes. His final, silent toast.

Then, there is only darkness.

Chapter 2

Elise Hartman.

A steady, rhythmic beeping pulls me from the dark. It’s the first thing I register. The second is the smell. Antiseptic and bleach, so clean it burns my nose.

My eyelids feel heavy, glued shut. I force them open. The world is a blur of sterile white. A ceiling. A light fixture. I’m in a bed, the sheets crisp and stiff.

“Elise? Darling, you’re awake.”

Julian’s face swims into view above me. His hair is artfully messy, his eyes shadowed with what looks like exhaustion. He looks completely wrecked. A perfect picture of a worried boyfriend.

“Thank god,” he breathes, his voice thick. He rushes to my side, his hand finding mine, his touch cool. “I was so scared. I thought I lost you.”

His words are a comforting balm, but my eyes are fixed on something else. Something impossible.

Floating just above his head, shimmering in the dull light of the room, is a number. A glowing, crimson ‘9’.

I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my brain. It must be a side effect of whatever drugs they have me on. A hallucination. But it stays, stark and unwavering. A single, bloody digit.

“Julian… what happened?” My voice is a dry rasp, a stranger’s voice.

“There was a crash,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “A drunk driver, the police said. He ran a red light and slammed right into us. But you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. His concern feels like a heavy blanket. His story is perfect. His actions are perfect. But that crimson ‘9’ burns in my vision, a tiny signal of something terribly wrong.

My gaze drifts past his shoulder, towards the open doorway of the private room. A man stands there, silent and still. He’s tall, his shoulders broad in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that looks out of place in a hospital. Kaelen Sterling.

His face is a stoic mask, no mocking smile, no taunting glint in his eyes. Just an intense, unreadable focus. On me.

And above his head, another number blazes. This one is not crimson. It’s a brilliant, shining gold. A ‘90’.

My mind stutters to a halt. Ninety? My fiercest rival? The man who toasted to my company’s destruction not a day ago? It makes no sense. A ‘9’ for my loving boyfriend and a ‘90’ for my sworn enemy.

The door swings open wider, and a man in a crisp white coat enters, a tablet in his hand. “Ms. Hartman. It’s good to see you with us. I’m Doctor Chen.”

He offers a polite, professional smile. And just like the others, a number materializes above his head. A neutral, slate-gray ‘30’.

“How are you feeling? Any significant pain anywhere?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the monitors beside my bed.

“My head,” I manage to say. “It hurts.”

“She needs the absolute best care, doctor,” Julian interjects, his voice firm. “Whatever the cost.”

The crimson ‘9’ doesn’t move. Not by a point.

Doctor Chen nods. “Of course. You have a rather serious concussion, Ms. Hartman, but your brain scans are clear. All things considered, you were very fortunate.”

A thought, cold and alien, slices through my confusion. An experiment. A test.

I turn my head slightly on the pillow to look at the doctor. I summon what little strength I have and push genuine warmth into my voice. “Thank you, doctor. For taking care of me.”

He stops typing on his tablet and meets my gaze, his professional smile softening into something warmer, more human. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Hartman. Your only job now is to rest.”

I watch, holding my breath. The gray ‘30’ above his head flickers. It dissolves and reforms into a ‘35’.

My blood turns to ice.

It’s real. All of it.

My gaze snaps back to Kaelen, still motionless in the doorway. His golden ‘90’ is a fixed point in my chaotic new reality. Then I look at Julian. He’s still holding my hand, whispering meaningless comforts, playing his part to perfection.

The horrifying truth dawns on me, sharp and cruel. The numbers show how people feel about me. Favorability. Affection. Loyalty.

The doctor’s score went up with a simple act of kindness. Kaelen Sterling, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, holds me in impossibly high regard.

And Julian. My Julian. The man who is supposed to love me more than anyone. His score is a whisper. A number that screams apathy. Or worse. So much worse.

A chill snakes down my spine, a cold dread that has nothing to do with my injuries. The accident. The blinding headlights coming straight for my door. Julian, looking up from his phone a second too late.

His face is a mask of pure concern, but his number is the truth. And the chasm between the two is a dark, terrifying abyss.

Kaelen takes a single, silent step into the room, his eyes never leaving mine, his impossible number a silent enigma.

I realize with sickening clarity that the life I thought was a lie was nothing compared to the man holding my hand.

Chapter 3

Elise Hartman.

The penthouse feels like a gilded cage. Julian arranged everything to be just so. Silk pillows prop me up on the sprawling white sofa. A cashmere throw is draped over my legs. The city skyline glitters through the floor to ceiling windows, a kingdom I suddenly feel very far from.

“More water, darling?” Julian asks, his voice a perfect symphony of concern. He hovers near me, his hand constantly finding my shoulder, my arm, my hair. His touch makes my skin crawl.

Above his head, the crimson ‘9’ is a permanent stain on my vision.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, making my voice sound fragile. Broken. It’s a role I find surprisingly easy to play.

“You’re not fine, Elise. You were in a terrible accident. You need to let me take care of you.” He smooths my hair back from my forehead, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandage at my temple. “The board understands. They’ve all sent their best wishes.”

I look into his handsome, worried face. “It’s all just… a blur. The lights.”

“Don’t think about it,” he says quickly. A little too quickly. “The police said it was an open and shut case. Drunk driver. He’s already in custody.”

“Did you see him?” I ask, my voice small. “The other driver?”

Julian hesitates for a fraction of a second. “No. It all happened so fast. One moment we were talking, the next… well. The important thing is that you’re safe.”

His story is smooth. Practiced. But it doesn't align with the single news clip I managed to watch on my phone when he stepped out to take a call. The driver, a man with a long list of priors, had refused all sobriety tests. The investigation was ongoing. Not open and shut at all.

“You’re right,” I say, letting my eyelids flutter shut. “I’m just so tired.”

“Sleep, my love. I’ll be right here.”

I keep my breathing slow and even, listening to the soft sounds of him moving around the living room. I am a statue of helplessness. A broken doll for him to arrange. This weakness is my new armor. My greatest weapon.

He thinks I’m sleeping. I hear the soft slide of the balcony door. His footsteps are faint on the stone outside. He must think the thick glass will muffle his voice enough. He’s wrong.

His tone is different now. Lower, harder. Stripped of all the cloying affection.

“She’s completely broken, suspects nothing,” he says into his phone. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.

“The doctors are calling it post traumatic stress. It’s perfect. She’s docile.” A pause. I can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “The final buyout of her shares can proceed after the next board meeting. Her signature will be a formality. She’ll think she’s signing medical releases.”

Ice floods my veins, chasing away any lingering shock, any remnants of grief for the man I thought I loved. There is only a cold, crystalline certainty.

My accident was no accident.

He was never trying to help me carry my empire. He was trying to bury me under it.

I hear the balcony door slide shut. I don’t move a muscle. He walks back over to the sofa, his footsteps soft. I feel the dip in the cushion as he sits beside me. He thinks I’m his pawn, his victim. He has no idea he just armed a killer.

He stays for another hour, watching me ‘sleep,’ occasionally checking his phone. The unwavering ‘9’ above his head is no longer a mystery. It’s an insult. It’s the precise numerical value of his contempt for me.

Finally, he leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back in the morning, darling,” he whispers. “Get some rest.”

I listen to the front door click shut. The lock engages. The silence that follows is absolute. It rings in my ears.

Slowly, I open my eyes.

I sit up, the cashmere throw pooling at my waist. The city lights don't look distant anymore. They look like a promise. A hunting ground.

I swing my legs off the sofa and walk, my steps steady and silent, to the great mirror in the foyer. The woman staring back at me looks pale, wounded. A bandage mars her perfect skin. There are faint shadows under her eyes.

She looks like a victim.

But her eyes. Her eyes are not a victim’s eyes.

They are cold. They are clear. They are hungry.

Julian thinks he broke Elise Hartman. He thinks he’s about to checkmate a fallen queen. He’s about to learn what happens when you corner a predator.

I let a slow smile spread across my face. It feels foreign and sharp. “Let the games begin, Julian,” I whisper to my reflection. A satisfying confrontation is not just imminent. It’s guaranteed.