My mornings begin before the sun can decide what it wants to be. At twenty-three, I should've been preoccupied with brunches, soft jazz cafes, and midnight texts from lovers. But I had made a world where leisure was a luxury I couldn't afford—and didn't particularly miss. Especially not when every second of my schedule needed precision.
I stood by the full-length windows in my Sydney apartment, watching the skyline stir with movement. I adjusted the sleek navy blue blazer over my blouse, tugged at the cuffs, and turned when I heard the knock.
"Come in."
Nia, my assistant, walked in—polished and punctual as always. She carried her tablet in one hand and a coffee in the other. "Your flight to Melbourne is booked. You're speaking to the local HR team at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Seven branches will be represented. They've finalized the audit files. I've cross-checked all pre-briefs."
I took the coffee with a grateful nod. "Any red flags?"
She gave a tight smile. "Nothing major. Brisbane's turnover rate raised some questions. I flagged that in the executive brief."
"Good. I'll handle that myself. Book us a follow-up in two weeks."
I had spent the last three years establishing a global presence as the Human Resources Administrator for Arkline International, a mammoth building and construction firm overseeing fifty companies spread across continents. From Brazil's coastal high-rises to Dubai's luxury complexes, my job was to ensure that the human machinery running behind the concrete empire ran smoothly, cleanly, and fairly.
Each branch had an HR manager, who answered to me. I audited systems, policies, and procedures. I created and uncreated teams. I didn't just manage people—I manoeuvred them.
But what most didn't know was that I had been trained for more than conflict resolution and organizational behaviour. I could vanish in plain sight, shift names, and mask traces. Leo called me a shadow who learned from the best. In a world of surveillance, I was invisible by design.
Not that I was hiding. Not now.
I finished my coffee and walked into the living room, where two soft voices chattered over cartoons. Jasmine and Julian—my two-and-a-half-year-old twins. Jasmine, with her fierce brows and unyielding curiosity. Julian's quiet, observant charm made you forget how fast he could break things when no one was watching.
Their nanny, Lisette, glanced up from the sofa. "They've had breakfast. Jasmine wants to wear her purple boots all day again. Julian stole her bunny and made her cry, but they've made up."
I smiled despite myself. "Thank you, Lisette. I'll be out for a few hours."
Julian noticed me and ran toward my legs, wrapping himself around one knee. Jasmine followed, tiny fists tugging at my blazer.
"Mama, stay."
I knelt and kissed both their foreheads. "Mama has to work. But I'll call you before bedtime, okay? Be good for Lisette."
They nodded solemnly, as only children who don't believe promises do.
I stood, lingered for a breath, then stepped away.
The past taught me to plan for emergencies, pack light, trust slowly, and love fully—especially the tiny lives I never expected to bring into this world. They were my heartbeat, my reason, and—whether I liked it or not—the secret that could tear everything apart.
And yet, not even my old friends—the pact—knew they existed.
Not yet.
Because I hadn't seen or spoken to any of them in nearly three years.
But something was changing.
I sensed it last week when I received the envelope.
No name. No return address. Just five embossed letters on the flap.
S. Z. M. L. D.
The Pact.
I hadn't opened it. Not yet.
Some truths demand silence before they're spoken.
And some ghosts knock twice.