White Mansion, Later That Night –
The dinner was long finished, plates cleared and wine glasses only half-drunk. The silence between them had turned contemplative—like two minds walking parallel roads, close enough to feel each other's presence, but not yet ready to cross the gap.
"I need a book," Kiefer said softly, breaking the silence as she stood from the table.
Davis raised an eyebrow, lounging back in his chair. "A book?"
"I always read before bed. It helps… settle the mind."
"Come with me," he said, standing and gesturing for her to follow.
She trailed him through the grand corridor of the mansion, her footsteps padded against warm wooden floors. He led her to a wide set of double doors made of oak and brass. When he opened them, a wave of silence swept over her.
The room smelled like old paper and oak. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, filled with hardbound volumes of everything from business law to ancient history. A ladder on wheels clung to one side. A fireplace crackled quietly in the far corner, casting a soft amber glow across the room.
"You read all of these?" she whispered.
"Most of them," he said, walking to a shelf and pulling down a weathered hardcover. "This one's a favorite. 'The Medici Dilemma.' Politics, innovation, betrayal, legacy—all in one."
She smiled, taking the book and tracing her fingers over its cracked spine. "Fitting for this house."
He glanced at her. "Why do you really want to work here, Kiefer?"
She looked up at him—calm, unwavering. "Because I need this to build what I believe in. And because no one else is giving voices like mine a seat at the table."
Davis studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "And if that table doesn't have space for what you want?"
"I'll carve one of my own."
There it was again—that spark. That dangerous, hungry edge in her voice. It wasn't arrogance. It was conviction.
He stepped closer, not threatening but firm. "Be careful. This world isn't kind to women who speak like that."
"I know," she said. "That's why I stopped asking for kindness."
Something about her answer made him go quiet. The room felt smaller, more intimate. Their proximity was suddenly a storm waiting to break.
She tucked the book under her arm. "Thanks for the loan. Goodnight, Davis."
And with that, she turned and walked out—back straight, voice calm, leaving behind a silence thick with unspoken thoughts.
---
White Mansion – Davis's Private Study, Midnight
Davis leaned back in his leather chair, sleeves still rolled up, tie hanging loose around his neck.
He should've been asleep.
Instead, he stared at his screen, a detailed profile slowly populating as his secure access cut through layers of governmental and private data. Kiefer Samuel.
Real name. Former residence. Academic records. Hospital volunteering hours. Part-time herbal research under an alias. Mother: deceased. No known father listed. A long list of top medical entrance scores, but not a single corporate sponsorship or university fund.
He clicked on an encrypted submission file—the one from the innovation contest.
Her proposal glowed on the screen. Affordable, sustainable herbal treatments for rural medical centers. Not just theory—she had mapped out biochemical testing phases, predicted allergic thresholds, and even listed tribal medical records as references.
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he opened a side window and pulled up internal White Pharma reports.
Cross-referenced data.
And there it was.
Three of the compounds she'd listed were nearly identical to a halted project White Pharma shelved years ago—not because it failed, but because it was deemed unprofitable.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
So she had real knowledge—more than she should've. But not stolen. No evidence of breaches. No suspicious affiliations. Just... tenacity. Brilliance. And a will to survive.
He sat back, rubbing his jaw.
"Who the hell are you, Kiefer?" he muttered to himself.
He closed the file. Shut down the monitor.
But her presence still lingered—in the walls of his mansion, in the air of the library, and now... in his thoughts.