The Carrington Code is currently under submission to literary agents.Email: [email protected]

CHAPTER ONEToronto — Six Months AgoThe city glowed beneath the storm clouds, a grid of white and gold stretching out from the tower that carried his name. From the top floor, Lucas Carrington watched the lights pulse in waves—steady, ordered, dependable. The way things were supposed to be.Behind him, laughter drifted from the private lounge. Michelle’s voice carried easily—warm, practiced, perfectly suited to the delegation from Norris Defence Systems. Their suits were tailored, their smiles well-rehearsed. Partners in theory. Competitors in truth.Lucas felt the tension the moment they stepped into his penthouse. He wasn’t sure why. Instinct, maybe. Or experience. Or the simple fact that his company had built something the world wasn’t ready for and would never stop wanting.LUCAS Global’s new architecture had already drawn attention from places he preferred not to think about—quiet inquiries, discreet invitations, pressure packaged as opportunity. Nations didn’t ask for access to revolution; they tried to buy it, steal it, or bury it.He had expected interest.He hadn’t expected it in his living room.Michelle caught his eye across the room and smiled in a way that asked him to trust her. To trust the process. To trust the night. He returned the smile, because that was what the moment required.Because sometimes love was the quietest way to lower your guard.Storm light flashed, briefly throwing the room into sharp relief—the delegation leaning in too closely, Michelle’s hand on a wine glass, Lucas’s own reflection watching all of it with a stillness he didn’t yet understand.This would be the night he remembered.Not for what happened.But for what he failed to see.Six months later, when everything unraveled, he would look back and realize the truth:The first breach had not been in his servers.
It had been here.
In this room.
In this moment.
Inside the only place he never thought to defend.The world would soon learn that betrayals have consequences—
and billionaires make very patient hunters.Present DayCrystal glassware chimed softly through the private dining room as the last of the plates were cleared. Lucas Carrington leaned back, a quiet smile easing the lines at the corners of his eyes. Across the table, Yvette Renault and her husband—French Ambassador to Canada Claude Renault—were still laughing at a story Lucas had told in polished Parisian French.“À notre partenariat,” Lucas said, lifting his glass.Renault’s eyes warmed. “Et à votre vision, mon ami. À bientôt.”Lucas shifted smoothly back into English, echoing the sentiment. “To our partnership—and to your vision, my friend. See you soon.”They stood, shook hands, and exchanged the polite embraces of men who understood both politics and profit. Yvette kissed both his cheeks lightly.“Please, do take care of yourself, my dear. It’s a shame we didn’t get to meet your Michelle.”He smiled. “Yes, Madame Renault — it is a shame. Perhaps next time.”For a moment, Lucas allowed himself a quiet breath of satisfaction. The deal was sealed—his company’s future secure across two continents.Outside, the city glittered beneath a cold halo of falling snow. A black sedan waited at the curb, engine humming softly in the winter air. The driver stepped forward the instant Lucas appeared, opening the rear door with a smooth, practiced motion.Beside him stood Cole Bennett—Lucas’s Director of Executive Protection—hands relaxed at his sides, posture loose, his eyes tracking every angle of the street with quiet precision. A natural state for Cole after his years as a JTF2 Tier One operator.“Evening, sir,” Cole said, voice low.“Cole — Carrington Tower, please,” Lucas replied.Bennett walked with him the last few steps, not crowding, not intruding. Just present. Just steady. Just Cole—unshakable, invisible when needed, a wall when it mattered.“Route’s clear,” Cole said as Lucas reached the open door. “Traffic’s light.”“Good.” Lucas slid into the back seat.Cole closed the door gently, then took the front passenger seat while the driver returned behind the wheel. No escort convoy. Just disciplined discretion—the way Lucas preferred it.The car pulled away. City lights slid over the tinted glass.He checked his phone—still no reply from Michelle. He should have picked her up before the meeting but had run late. Instead, he left a message asking her to have the protection team take her to the venue. Two missed calls, three unanswered messages.He frowned, thumb hovering over her name. It wasn’t like her to disappear, especially on a day when a contract with France worth hundreds of millions had just closed.Streetlights strobed through the window. Lucas’s mind drifted from the elegant conversation with Renault to the softer, uncertain memory of Michelle’s last words to him that morning—We’ll talk tonight, when you pick me up for dinner.Something in her tone had carried distance… a faint echo he hadn’t wanted to hear.He turned his gaze to the snow-slick streets sliding past the window, unaware that by the time he reached the penthouse, the life he’d built—career, love, and certainty—would all begin to unravel.The private elevator eased to a stop with a whisper of gears.Lucas stepped into the penthouse, the soft click of the door sounding far too loud in the stillness. The lights were low, set to the warm glow he and Michelle used for quiet evenings.A faint perfume—something floral and expensive—hung in the air, mixed with the heavy musk of a cologne that wasn’t his.The vast expanse of marble and glass stretched before him, the city’s glow mirrored in every polished surface. Beyond the great windows, snow fell in slow spirals over the skyline.On the entry rug sat a pair of pristine brown Oxfords.
Jeff Caldwell’s.
Lead Engineer, Lucas Global R&D Division.He recognized them instantly: custom-made, soles barely scuffed—the kind of detail Jeff always flaunted around the office.Lucas stared for a heartbeat, the logic of contracts and closing dinners colliding with a rising pulse of disbelief.His phone was still in his hand; his thumb brushed the screen, the camera app sliding open. The red light blinked. He didn’t think—he just started filming.Each step carried him deeper into the penthouse. The trail of discarded clothing marked a path of passion: men’s pants, ladies’ undergarments, a tie on the banister, a silk blouse and skirt caught on the railing.From above came soft laughter—too intimate, too close.He climbed halfway up the curved staircase, every sense sharpened. The camera trembled once in his grip but kept rolling.He climbed a few more steps. From above came the muffled sound of movement, then the quick, sultry laugh of a woman catching her breath.Michelle’s voice.
Passionate.
Undeniable.Another murmur—Jeff’s tone, low and intimate.At the landing, a shaft of light spilled from the half-open bedroom door. The sounds cut off. A whisper. Then silence.Lucas could have pushed the door open. Could have taken one more step and burned the image into his mind forever.He didn’t.His body tensed. The tremor in his chest hardened into something colder, steadier. He turned away from the door and walked back down the stairs, the muted thud of his footsteps echoing off stone and glass.He collected the clothes on the banister in one hand. At the base of the stairs, the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city—fifteen stories below, lights shimmered beneath a blanket of falling snow.He crossed to the balcony, slid the glass doors open, and let the winter air slice into the warmth of the room. One by one, he sent the clothes spinning out over the railing.Silk and linen and cotton caught the updraft, fluttering away like startled birds, disappearing into the white glow of the night.Behind him, hurried footsteps pounded down the stairs.“Lucas—wait!”Jeff’s voice. Muffled. Panicked.Lucas turned, still filming. His expression was unreadable.Jeff froze at the bottom of the stairs, bare-chested, color draining from his face as he took in the phone, the empty rail, the open balcony doors.“Lucas, I—this isn’t—”“Save it,” Lucas said quietly.No raised voice. No shout. Just steady, precise control.He stepped forward, crossing the space between them in three even strides. His free hand closed on Jeff’s throat—not wild but exact, pressure without frenzy.With the phone still recording, Lucas half-dragged, half-steered him across the gleaming floor toward the elevator. Jeff staggered, clawing at his wrist, heels skidding on marble.Lucas bounced the back of Jeff’s head off the call button.The elevator chimed obediently.He released his grip and straightened his tie with the same hand, meeting Jeff’s eyes.“We’re done,” he said.The doors slid open.Lucas took one step back, gathered himself, and flicked his leg out in a clean, practiced motion. His heel connected squarely with Jeff’s sternum.Jeff shot backward, slammed into the elevator wall, and crumpled to the floor as the doors closed on his stunned face.The soft shhhk of the doors sealing was louder than any shout.Lucas went to the kitchen island, leaned his phone against a bowl full of oranges. The small red light blinked steadily against the marble.Evidence, not emotion.He grabbed a second phone from his inside pocket and called his lawyer and friend A.C. Strachan.“A.C…” he paused, “I need you upstairs, please.” Then hung up.Lucas stood motionless, breath fogging faintly in the cool air of the penthouse.From above came hurried movement: a door, the shuffle of feet, the rustle of fabric.Lucas turned. Michelle appeared on the landing halfway up the staircase, wrapped in a housecoat cinched tight at the waist. Her face was pale, eyes wide—the calculated calm of someone deciding whether to cry or to argue.“Lucas—please, listen,” she began, voice cracking. She descended the remaining stairs and stopped. “It wasn’t—this isn’t what you think—”He smirked at the cliché. “You can do better than that.”She wrung her hands, words failing her. The only sound was the soft whistle of winter air entering the penthouse. Lucas calmly closed the balcony doors, bringing a choking, oppressive silence to the room.He turned back toward her.Her purse sat on a chair beside the sofa, half-open. She reached for it.The bag tipped, scattering lipstick, keys, a compact, a slim metallic thumb drive, a security fob, and the penthouse access card across the marble floor. The card and fob skidded to a stop at his feet.Michelle froze. Her breath caught; her eyes darted to the drive, then back to him. That flicker of panic told him everything.He crouched slowly, the phone still capturing every moment. Between two fingers he lifted the thumb drive, turning it so the ambient light caught the brushed-metal casing. The engraving was unmistakable:LUCAS GLOBAL — PROPERTY IDENT 47A“It’s mine,” she said quickly. “They’re work files.”He looked at her for a long moment, then down at the engraved drive. The lie collapsed under its own weight. Amateur—an impulsive lie dressed up as strategy.He set the drive on the counter without another word. The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation.Lucas stooped again, this time for the penthouse access card and security fob. He studied the fob—the small emblem of Lucas Global printed beside the security chip—and placed it beside the drive. Then, quietly, he slipped the penthouse card into his jacket pocket.The soft whisper of fabric sounded final.He looked down at his phone and scrolled to April Stevenson—his friend and Lucas Global’s COO. The one contact he didn’t need to worry about.He pressed it.April answered quickly, her voice warm and familiar, befitting a friendship of twenty years.“Lucas? Hey—how did it go tonight with Ambassador Renault?”“We signed,” Lucas said. “It’s done.”A quiet breath left her—relief wrapped in the tone of someone who had fought beside him for half her life. “That’s incredible. That contract took eighteen months of our lives… congratulations.”“You as well, April. You were a big part of its success.”Lucas’s voice was distant, less sharp.April heard it instantly.Her voice narrowed, a mix of discipline and compassion. “Lucas… what happened?”“There’s a problem here,” he said. “At the penthouse. A serious one.”“Tell me.”“Michelle had Caldwell over… he just left in his underwear. He had trouble finding his balance on the way out.”April gasped. “Are you okay?”Lucas ignored the question. “I found a restricted Lucas Global security fob in her purse,” he said, voice steady and low. “And a secure drive—ID 47A.”April didn’t speak for a moment. When she did, her tone was flatter—operational. “Do you still have the drive and fob?”“Of course.”“All right.” He heard her shifting gears. Keys. Movement. Focus.
“I’m revoking both their access profiles—hers and Caldwell’s. They won’t be able to touch anything, anywhere. I’ll mark both accounts for internal investigation.”“Thank you,” Lucas said.“I’ll have ITSEC prepare a trace on any unusual activity. I’ll also track custodial records on 47A,” she added. “We’ll keep this contained.”Lucas watched Michelle pacing near the sofa, wringing her hands, eyes darting to him and then away.The storm outside pressed white against the windows, muting the city.“Good. Best get Nikki in Public Relations up to speed,” he said.There was a gentler pause on April’s end—quiet, steadying. “Are you okay?”“I am. A.C. should be arriving from his suite downstairs shortly.”“Okay.” Another breath. “Call me when you can.”“If something comes up, I will. Thanks, April.”Lucas couldn’t imagine that in a matter of days, he’d be standing on a coastline half a world away, fighting for far more than his pride.

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