Chapter 2
742words
It's a luxurious fishbowl suspended ninety floors above Manhattan, separated from Damian's kingdom of ebony and leather by nothing but a symbolic glass partition. From his throne, he can observe my every move with a mere glance.
A childish power play—transparent in its masculine need for control.
My assistant—a jittery young thing—finishes her orientation and adds in a hushed tone: "Miss DuBois, all your predecessors complained about the... lack of privacy here."
"Privacy is for people with secrets," I say, setting my laptop down on the pristine white desk with a deliberate click. "I have nothing to hide."
The girl nods uncertainly before practically fleeing the room.
Of course I have secrets. My entire existence is one massive secret constructed from hatred. But with a predator like Damian, the best camouflage is apparent transparency. The harder you try to hide, the more breadcrumbs you leave behind.
I open my laptop and pull up Stardust Technologies' financial models—a complete disaster. Let him watch. Let him see exactly how I'll dismantle his father's business fortress brick by brick, only to rebuild it in my image.
The first board meeting happens on my third day.
When I stride into the conference room with its panoramic view of Manhattan, I feel a dozen gazes lock onto me like targeting systems. Curiosity, contempt, but mostly territorial hostility. These are the vassals of the Blackwood dynasty, and I'm the unknown usurper stealing their influence.
Damian sits at the head of the table, face impassive. He makes no introduction, offers no lifeline—just watches like an emperor at the Colosseum, waiting for blood.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I stand and drop a thick report in the center of the table. "Stardust Technologies isn't failing because Seraphim's attack was brilliant. It's failing because our defenses were Swiss cheese to begin with."
"What exactly are you implying?" A silver-haired director leans forward, voice dripping with hostility. "Miss DuBois, are you questioning a decade of our strategic management?"
"No, I'm questioning your decade-long ignorance of basic risk management." My voice is soft but each word lands like a precision strike. "Your tech portfolio is dangerously over-concentrated in a handful of high-risk ventures. When one gets hit, the entire chain collapses. This isn't about external threats—it's about internal vulnerability."
The room goes deadly silent.
"I recommend we activate the poison pill protocol immediately while launching a hostile takeover bid against the primary beneficiary of this short attack—Summit Capital."
"Absurd!" The director slams his palm on the table and jumps to his feet. "That's suicide! Our cash reserves can't possibly sustain a two-front war against Summit!"
"Damn right it's gambling!" another voice chimes in.
"Would you rather watch Blackwood boil slowly like a frog that doesn't know it's dying?" My voice turns to ice. "Robert Field, Summit's CEO, has a nine-figure options contract expiring in three weeks. The counterparty is a private fund I control in Europe. One move from us, and his personal finances implode overnight. He won't dare go toe-to-toe with us."
The room falls into stunned silence. They're all realizing the same thing: I'm not some consultant offering advice. I'm a general seizing command of their war.
Damian speaks, his voice cutting through the silence: "Timeline."
"One week," I answer without hesitation. "I want Summit's stock down thirty percent in seven days."
"And if we fail?"
"Then I'll throw myself from the roof," I say, as casually as discussing the weather. "But before that happens, Fortress Boy, make sure I have full authority over fund allocation."
Fortress Boy.
A slip of the tongue. A nickname only ten-year-old Amelia Vanderbilt would use for the boy who obsessively built block fortresses.
I see Damian's hand freeze mid-motion. His eyes lock onto my face with laser precision—filled with suspicion, shock, and something deeper, more painful that I can't quite read.
I've made a catastrophic error.
But with a dozen pairs of eyes watching, I can only maintain my composure and keep Seraphina's mask firmly in place.
"Any questions?" I scan the room coolly. "No? Then good luck, everyone. We're certainly going to need it."
After the meeting, I retreat to my glass prison alone.
Through the glass partition, I see Damian sitting motionless at his desk, statue-like. But beneath that calm exterior, I know a storm is gathering force.
He suspects me now.
And that's both the most dangerous and most essential part of my plan.
