The city looked frozen under morning steel. Towering glass buildings caught the thin winter light, reflections sharp enough to cut.
Aria adjusted the cuff of her jacket, smoothing the fabric with fingers that didn't tremble.
Sharp lines. Muted navy. Nothing extravagant. Nothing careless.
Just precise enough to say: I see you. And I'm not here to be swallowed.
Vincent said nothing as they crossed the lobby of Moreau Corp's headquarters, his stride measured, his face unreadable beneath the polished veneer of power he wore like armor.
He hadn't spoken more than a few clipped words since summoning her this morning.
"Board meeting. You're coming."
No explanation. No warning.
The elevator chimed open. Mirrored walls reflected their silence back at them.
Aria breathed in slowly, feeling the weight of it—the altitude of expectation—and anchored herself.
When the doors slid apart, the corridor stretched before them, all cold glass and brushed chrome.
They entered the conference room without ceremony.
Fifteen heads turned.
Fifteen judgments made in an instant.
Middle-aged men in tailored suits lined the long table, watches gleaming, expressions already calculating. The room smelled of expensive cologne, paper, and the faint metallic tang of rivalry.
Selene was already there, of course, perfectly positioned halfway down the table. She sat poised with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her dress a shade too bold for corporate formality. A smile curved her lips—too pleasant. Too sharp.
"Ah," Selene said, voice ringing lightly over the polished surface, "I wasn't aware we'd be entertaining guests today."
Her eyes slid to Aria like a blade sliding across silk.
"I suppose you'll be observing?" she added sweetly.
Aria met her gaze without blinking.
Vincent didn't pause. He only nodded toward the seat beside him—close enough for optics, far enough for politics.
Aria moved without hesitation.
The chair scraped lightly as she pulled it out. No fumbling. No shrinking.
Silence rippled faintly among the board as they took her presence in—the outsider, the illegitimate whisper dragged into their world by Vincent's command.
Papers shuffled. A few low murmurs. Then the meeting began.
Dry numbers filled the air.
Quarterly losses. Restructuring costs. A proposed merger with Ashbourne Holdings—a move touted as vital for Moreau Corp's international expansion.
Aria sat still.
Listened.
Not to the words themselves, but to the spaces between them.
The hesitation when someone glossed over liabilities.
The eager tilt in Selene's voice when discussing projected earnings.
No one looked at her. They thought ignoring her would diminish her.
It only sharpened her.
An hour in, coffee was poured. Notes were scribbled. No one offered her a copy of the agenda.
Fine.
She was memorizing it anyway.
Then—
Selene laughed lightly, the sound like champagne bubbles about to sour.
"Of course," she said, setting her cup down with a soft clink, "none of this is simple for someone fresh to the business world."
Several board members smirked behind polite masks.
Selene tilted her head. "Perhaps, Aria, you'd like to share your insights on multi-national mergers?"
A few chuckles floated at the edges of the room, brittle and hollow.
Aria smiled.
Small.
Controlled.
Not the smile of a girl cornered.
The smile of someone who knew exactly where the walls ended—and the knives began.
She let the silence stretch a second longer than necessary, letting it hum, letting them lean in.
Then she spoke, her voice even:
"I find it interesting," Aria said, fingertips brushing the rim of her water glass, "that Ashbourne Holdings' draft merger terms contain a silent dilution clause. One triggered six months post-acquisition."
Selene's smile froze mid-glitter.
Around the table, heads lifted.
Aria continued, her tone almost gentle.
"It's buried in Clause 18-C, subsection four. After the merger finalizes, their executive board gains expanded voting rights—nullifying Moreau Corp's controlling interest within a fiscal quarter."
The murmuring wasn't masked this time.
Pages flipped. Pens clicked nervously.
One of the finance directors—red tie, gray hair, eyes sharp—scanned his copy of the merger documents with frantic precision. His mouth tightened.
Vincent didn't move.
He watched.
Selene laughed again, strained now. "Surely you're misunderstanding the structure—"
"I'm not," Aria said calmly.
She turned slightly toward the director without breaking eye contact with Selene.
"Mr. Lemaire, page seventy-two, bottom paragraph. Would you mind confirming?"
Mr. Lemaire hesitated—then flipped furiously through the packet.
Seconds stretched.
He stopped. His eyes narrowed.
A slow, reluctant nod.
"It's there," he said grimly.
The boardroom shifted.
The balance of the room—the invisible weight of who mattered—tilted.
Selene recovered fast, sliding into a chuckle. "Well, details are often murky in early drafts—"
"That's why observation matters," Aria said lightly, lifting her glass again.
"And understanding."
She sipped her water as if the room wasn't vibrating around her.
No smugness. No gloating.
Just clean, surgical precision.
Selene's jaw tightened at the edges. Not enough to show. Enough that Aria saw.
Enough that Vincent saw.
He leaned back in his chair slowly, one hand folded across the other, index finger tapping once against the polished wood.
His gaze locked onto Aria with a sharpness that hadn't been there before.
Not dismissal.
Not burden.
Recognition.
The conversation limped forward after that—stilted, broken at the edges. No one asked Aria another question.
They didn't ignore her now.
They simply didn't know how to treat something they hadn't seen coming.
Vincent ended the meeting fifteen minutes later with a clipped, "That's all."
The board scattered like birds from gunfire, polite murmurs, hurried exits.
Selene stayed seated a beat longer than necessary, gathering her papers with exaggerated grace, her smile brittle at the corners.
She didn't look at Aria as she left.
Victory didn't need shouting.
It was written in the silence they left behind.
Aria gathered nothing.
She hadn't brought papers.
She didn't need them.
As she stood, she glanced once across the empty chairs—the landscape of the battlefield she was stepping into.
Not a guest anymore.
A contender.
Vincent's voice broke the quiet.
"Walk with me."
Not a request.
A summons.
Aria nodded once and followed him out of the room, her steps even, matching his pace stride for stride.
The city glittered far below them through the vast glass walls—distant, indifferent.
Vincent said nothing as they moved down the hall.
But when they reached the elevator, when the doors slid shut on the vacant floor—
He turned slightly.
Studied her.
And for the first time since she'd arrived at the estate, his lips curved—not into a smile, not into warmth.
But into something closer to respect.
"You see things most people miss," he said quietly.
Aria met his gaze, unflinching.
"So did my mother."
A flicker crossed his face—there, then gone.
The elevator chimed, opening at the executive floor.
Vincent stepped out first.
But for the first time—
He didn't walk ahead of her.
He walked beside her.