Quiet warfare was mastered in the days that followed.
Amelia was not immediately confronted by Elena Masters.
No.
She was too intelligent to do that.
Rather, she flashed an overly charming grin in the corridors.
placed Amelia in meetings that were double scheduled.
"Forgot" to send important notes.
Additionally, every move and assault was laced with poison and wrapped in silk.
Refusing to break was the only way Amelia knew how to fight back.
She checked her calendars again.
copies of each report were made.
Moved with brutal, painstaking accuracy.
The tension still bothered her.
She no longer only fought for her career.
She was battling to maintain her position in Damien Raven's inner circle.
And it meant more than it ought to have, in some impossible way.
The conflict didn't boil over until Thursday's executive briefing.
Sharper suits and sharper grins filled the room.
Unnoticeable as ever, Amelia stood close to the rear, holding a tray of coffee.
Before Elena's voice broke through the table.
While looking through her folder, she remarked jokingly, "I'm afraid there's been some confusion with the Langston contract drafts."
"The projected timelines Amelia provided were… off."
People turned.
Whispers sounded.
The blood in Amelia froze.
She was being set up by Elena. in public.
With dark, unfathomable eyes, Damien raised his head from his iPad.
The chamber awaited.
Amelia parted her lips, then shut them again.
How could she respond?
That she had deliberately spread misinformation?
That she had set up a trap for the leak?
There was a long pause.
Then Damien spoke.
With a voice like silk over steel, he replied, "Miss Masters, I went over the Langston drafts myself this morning."
A pause.
"In fact, I personally signed off on Miss Vale's projections."
Elena became pale.
A tremor of astonishment swept across the space.
Damien looked at Amelia languidly across the table and continued to stare.
With a slender smile, he remarked, "Maybe you ought to check your sources again next time."
There was no more carnage as the gathering continued.
However, the harm had already been done.
They had marked Amelia.
Safe.
stated.
Later, she attracted Elena's attention as she snuck out of the conference room and across the corridor.
No more phoney grins.
Just blazing, unadulterated hate.
Amelia gripped her iPad with slightly shaking palms.
This was not the end of it.
It was barely getting started.
And somewhere deep inside her, a part of her—reckless, wild, alive—thrilled at the battle ahead.
By Monday morning, the war within Raven Corp had shifted.
Amelia Vale wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was being tested.
Damien's orders came swift and brutal:
> "Handle the Ridgemont meeting yourself.
No notes. No aides. No mistakes."
Sink or swim.
Amelia spent the entire weekend locked in her apartment, memorizing contracts until the text blurred and the Chicago skyline outside her window faded into darkness.
Her mind ran in endless, anxious circles.
What if she choked?
What if Damien's faith — if it even was faith — turned to disappointment?
There was no backup plan.
No second chance.
This was it.
Standing in the glittering boardroom on the 87th floor, Amelia fought to keep her breathing steady.
The executives from Ridgemont sat across the shiny mahogany table, their smiles brighter, their outfits sharper.
They were seasoned and older.
They detected the scent of blood.
Damien Raven stood behind the mirrored glass, unseen yet not far from it.
observing.
judging.
awaiting the possibility that she would drown.
The beginning of the negotiation was tough.
Their main negotiator leaned back in his chair and grinned greasyly as he remarked, "Surely Raven Corp can stretch the development incentives,"
Amelia pulled her face into a businesslike attitude.
Her anxieties were screaming inside.
She was able to fold. I agree. Be cautious.
However, she recalled Damien's icy, hard-edged voice: Miss Vale, use the leverage.
Pulling up a little-known contingency provision that Ridgemont hadn't addressed, Amelia carefully flipped to a new page on the projection screen.
If Ridgemont requires additional funding," she said sweetly, "then Raven Corp will, naturally, require partial co-ownership of the final property title."
A beat of stunned silence.
Across the table, the Ridgemont team shifted, visibly uncomfortable.
Amelia watched them with a stillness she didn't know she possessed.
The head negotiator laughed—a short, sharp bark.
"You drive a hard bargain, Miss Vale," he said finally.
Amelia smiled coolly.
"I was taught by the best," she said, glancing ever so briefly toward the mirrored glass.
No movement.
No reaction.
But somehow, she knew he was still there.
Watching.
The meeting dragged for another hour, filled with sharp parries and strategic retreats.
By the time contracts were initialed, Amelia's heart was thundering against her ribs.
But her hands — steady.
Her voice — even.
When she finally exited the boardroom, she caught a fleeting glimpse through the glass.
Damien stood in the observation room, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side.
Not smiling.
But there was something in his eyes.
Approval.
Pride.
Recognition.
The kind of look a general gave a promising young lieutenant after their first real victory.
Later that evening, Amelia found herself summoned to Damien's penthouse-level office.
The skyline glittered behind him — a million-dollar view he barely seemed to notice.
"You didn't fold," he said, without preamble, still facing the window.
Amelia stood rigid, uncertain.
"No, sir," she said.
"You didn't improvise blindly, either."
"No, sir."
He finally turned — and for the briefest moment, the armor cracked.
She saw it.
The exhaustion in his eyes.
The loneliness carved into the hard lines of his face.
A man who had built an empire with his bare hands — and paid for it in blood and isolation.
But the moment passed quickly.
Damien's expression sharpened.
"One win doesn't make you invincible," he said, voice low and lethal.
"The moment you start believing your own hype, you're finished."
Amelia straightened her spine.
"I won't forget that," she said.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them — thick, charged, almost electric.
Then Damien's mouth tilted upward — not quite a smile, but close enough.
"Good," he said.
He turned back to the window.
Dismissed.
But as she reached the door, she heard his voice — softer, almost grudging:
> "Not bad at all, Miss Vale."
Amelia didn't smile.
Not outwardly.
But something inside her — something fierce and defiant and desperately hopeful — flared to life.
She hadn't just survived the crucible.
She had earned her place.
And Damien Raven had seen her.
Really seen her.