Chapter 4
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The final piece of our acquisition puzzle lay in the hands of an eccentric British aristocrat ensconced in his countryside castle. He'd rejected all video conferences, insisting that Blackwood's top executive personally join him for afternoon tea.
That executive was, of course, Damian. And I, as the deal's architect, had every reason to accompany him.
This would be our first time spending over ten hours alone together, far from the protective structure of the office.
The private jet's interior resembled a floating luxury lounge—opulent yet suffocating. Damian and I occupied separate leather sofas, divided by a massive teak table large enough for two bodies to lie across.
After takeoff, he buried himself in emails while I reviewed the nobleman's dossier. We didn't speak, and even the air between us seemed to stagnate in the deliberate silence.
To combat the nervous chill spreading through my fingertips, I unconsciously began tapping my right index finger against the smooth teak surface.
A distinctive pattern—three short taps, two long ones. Rhythmically imperfect, yet unmistakable.
Our childhood "secret signal." The code we'd tap across crowded banquet halls: "I'm dying of boredom, rescue me."
The gesture had become as involuntary as breathing.
I didn't realize what I was doing until I noticed his fingers had frozen over his keyboard.
He raised his head, those blue eyes locked on my tapping fingers. His gaze held no more questioning—only the deadly stillness before a storm breaks, filled with absolute certainty.
Just then, an unexpected voice shattered our charged silence.
"Damian, old friend!"
The voice came from the rear cabin. A tall man with golden hair approached, champagne in hand. He looked about thirty, radiating the polished elegance that only comes from Britain's finest schools.
"Rian." Damian's face transformed with genuine warmth. "What are you doing here?"
"Hitching a ride." Rian Sterling—Blackwood Group's VP and Damian's oldest friend—dropped into the seat opposite mine. "Got some business in London myself."
His curious gaze settled on me. "So this is the infamous Seraphina DuBois?"
"Rian Sterling." He extended his hand. "Pleasure. Heard you absolutely demolished Summit Capital?"
"Just lucky timing." I shook his hand, startled by both its warmth and his unguarded friendliness. It felt alien—in my world, people were either enemies or tools, never simply... kind.
"Lucky?" Rian laughed. "Tanking a multi-billion-dollar company by thirty percent in a week isn't luck, darling. That's talent."
He turned to Damian. "Where the hell did you find her?"
Damian ignored the question. "What do you remember about the Vanderbilt family?"
The name froze the air instantly.
Rian's smile faltered. "Vanderbilt? The family that crashed and burned a decade ago?" He paused. "They had a daughter, didn't they? Around our age."
"Amelia." Damian spoke the name while watching my face intently. "At ten, she inadvertently triggered a commercial disaster with an innocent remark."
I kept my expression neutral while inside, that ten-year-old girl curled into a ball of agony.
"Right, I remember now." Rian's expression softened with sympathy. "Poor kid let slip some business secret at a party. Got one of her father's major deals sabotaged by competitors."
"Not just sabotaged." Damian's soft voice pierced my heart like ice picks. "That leak triggered a cascade. Government investigations, credit lines frozen, partners jumping ship... The entire Vanderbilt empire collapsed in just three months."
"Jesus." Rian shook his head. "Hard to believe a kid's innocent mistake could bring down an empire."
"Yes," Damian's gaze never left my face, "terrible indeed."
He was waiting—for a confession, a breakdown, any crack that would expose the broken Amelia beneath Seraphina's mask.
I refused to give him that satisfaction.
"Tragic story," I remarked coolly. "But that's business, isn't it? The weak get culled—whether they're adults or children."
"Indeed." Damian nodded, though his eyes held a disappointment I couldn't decipher. "The weak are always eliminated."
We flew in silence after that. Rian, sensing the tension, tactfully retreated to his own seat.
I pretended to review documents while my attention fixed on a small metal object on the table.
It had fallen from Rian's pocket—a tiny metal cylinder no bigger than a coin, engraved with "A&D, 2013."
A&D. Amelia and Damian.
2013. When we were ten.
Our time capsule, buried in the Vanderbilt garden. Inside were letters we'd written to each other, promising to open them together a decade later.
Only Damian and I knew it existed.
He'd carried it for ten years.
The realization made my heart convulse.
After landing, Rian departed first, leaving Damian and me alone in the empty cabin.
He spoke suddenly: "Amelia."
Not Seraphina. Amelia.
My mask lay in ruins.
"Why?" His voice was soft yet more painful than any shout. "Why come back? Why get this close to me? What do you want?"
I turned to face him. For the first time in ten years, I let all my disguises fall away.
"What I want," my voice rasped, "is for all of you to pay for what happened that night ten years ago."
He nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"Well then," he said, "let's discuss terms."
