Chapter 3 — The Crimson Ledger
Liz Arden
The hum of the fluorescent lights in the Apex Tower’s archival room was oddly oppressive, a low, constant drone that seemed to seep into Liz Arden’s thoughts. The room was pristine, its sterile air a testament to the meticulous order she demanded in her empire. Yet, despite its precision, a faint unease coiled in the pit of her stomach. The air felt heavier than usual, pressing against her skin like an invisible shroud.
Her sharp gray eyes scanned the room as her heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound a staccato rhythm of her mounting impatience. She stopped in front of a sleek, digitally locked filing cabinet, the polished steel reflecting her angular features. For a moment, her reflection seemed distorted, almost warped, but she dismissed it as a trick of the light.
“Open,” she commanded, her voice clipped and efficient as she swiped her palm across the biometric scanner.
The cabinet responded with a soft chime, sliding open to reveal rows of meticulously organized records and slim, leather-bound volumes. Liz’s gaze darted over the labels: acquisitions, quarterly reports, legal agreements. All predictable. All mundane. But at the center of the neatly ordered rows, nestled as though it had claimed its place with purpose, was something that made her pause.
The book exuded a presence. Bound in weathered, dark leather with gilded edges, it seemed to shimmer faintly under the sterile light, as though it absorbed and refracted the room’s cold illumination. An intricate sigil embossed in deep crimson adorned the cover, its pattern both unfamiliar and strangely evocative. A flicker of recognition stirred in her, distant and ungraspable, like a name on the tip of her tongue.
Liz’s fingers hesitated above the book, a chill prickling the back of her neck. Her practical mind rebelled at the absurdity of her apprehension, but the hum in the room seemed to intensify, aligning with the rhythm of her heartbeat.
“What are you?” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the sigil. A jolt of something—cold, electric, alive—shot through her hand, and she inhaled sharply. The sensation was disconcerting, but it only solidified her resolve. Gripping the spine, she pulled the book free.
It was heavier than it looked, its weight solid and deliberate, as though it carried more than mere paper within its covers. The faint shimmer on its surface intensified, the sigil seeming to pulse subtly, like a heartbeat responding to her touch. Liz’s jaw tightened. She’d built her life on dismissing irrationality, on mastering her environment, yet holding this book felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.
She flipped it open. The pages glowed faintly, the ink shimmering a deep, visceral red that reminded her uncomfortably of fresh blood. The text was written in a looping, elegant script, its characters unrecognizable yet achingly familiar. As her eyes traced the lines, the words seemed to shift and realign themselves, resisting her focus. Her vision blurred, her head growing light as though the book itself were pushing back, denying her comprehension.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Liz froze. The voice, smooth and laced with quiet amusement, cut through the room like a blade. She turned sharply, clutching the book to her chest as though it could shield her.
Victor D’Aubigné stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with the ease of a man who owned the space. His tailored burgundy suit was immaculate, his posture relaxed but predatory. His amber eyes glinted with a knowing intensity, their depths unreadable yet utterly commanding.
“You seem to have a knack for trespassing,” Liz said coldly, straightening. Her voice was sharp, efficient, though her pulse betrayed the unease she refused to show. “How did you even get in here?”
Victor’s lips curved into a faint smile. He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped into the room, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a panther stalking its prey.
“That,” he said, gesturing to the book in her hands, “is far more than it appears.”
Liz raised an eyebrow, her grip tightening. “A glowing book in my archive. How terribly subtle.”
Victor chuckled softly, the sound deep and unsettling. “Your wit is as sharp as ever, Elizabeth. But I’d advise caution. The Crimson Ledger is not to be trifled with.”
She arched a brow, her skepticism hardening into defiance. “The Crimson Ledger? You’re telling me this… thing has a name?”
“It has a history,” Victor replied, stepping closer. His voice lowered, each word deliberate. “A long and complicated one. Much like your company.”
Liz bristled. “You seem to know a great deal about my company for someone who doesn’t work here.”
His amber eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze was suffocating. “I know more than you think, Elizabeth. And I know that this—” he gestured to the book, “—is the foundation upon which your empire was built. Every deal, every contract, every compromise that shaped your company into what it is today is recorded in that ledger. But you won’t find balance sheets or legal clauses within its pages.”
Her stomach churned, though her expression remained steely. “What are you implying?”
Victor’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Your company’s success was not achieved through human means alone. This ledger documents every supernatural bargain struck to ensure its rise. You are holding the very soul of your empire in your hands.”
Liz’s grip on the book faltered slightly, her fingers trembling before she steadied herself. “If you think for one second that I’m going to fall for—”
“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” Victor interrupted, his voice cutting through her defiance. “The cracks in your control. The shadows that linger at the edges of your vision. The dreams.”
Liz stiffened. Her fragmented dream from the night before surged to the forefront of her mind—the woman who bore her face, the haunting plea, the sense of inevitability. Her sanctuary in The Apex Tower had begun to feel foreign, her control slipping in ways she couldn’t explain.
“I don’t need your cryptic warnings,” she snapped, her voice rising. “If there’s something I need to know, say it plainly. Otherwise, leave.”
Victor studied her, a flicker of something—hesitation, regret?—crossing his face before it vanished. “The ledger may hold answers, but it also holds dangers. Once you open those pages, there will be no turning back.”
Liz squared her shoulders, her defiance unyielding. “I’ve never turned back from anything.”
Victor’s gaze softened, tinged with a melancholy she didn’t understand. “I know.”
He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Be careful, Elizabeth. The price of ambition is never paid in full.”
And then he was gone, leaving Liz alone with the book and the weight of his words.
She sank into a chair, the Crimson Ledger resting in her lap. She stared at it, the glow of its pages casting faint red shadows across her hands. Her mind was a storm of questions, doubts, and a gnawing sense of dread. But beneath it all, something darker stirred.
Curiosity.
With a deep breath, Liz opened the book.
The red ink flared, and the room seemed to tilt as the words writhed and shifted, forming patterns that burrowed into her mind. A rush of heat spread through her, as though the ledger had wrapped itself around her very soul. Shadows crept along the walls, their edges sharp and menacing. The hum in the room grew deafening, a chorus of whispers rising in intensity—pleading, commanding, warning.
Liz clutched the edges of the book, her knuckles white, her breath shallow. Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The room fell silent. She stared at the open page, where the shifting text had settled into a single, unyielding line:
“The price of ambition is never paid in full.”
Her hands trembled as she closed the book, the whispers echoing faintly in her mind. Whatever she had unleashed, one thing was clear: her world would never be the same.
