Chapter 7
1149words
We worked side by side, nearly inseparable. The wall became a massive evidence board—his discoveries combined with my decade of collected dirt—as we pieced together the chain that would drag Alistair to hell.
The process was fraught with arguments and tactical disagreements.
"No, we can't use this short-selling record!" He'd jab at my screen, rejecting my strategy. "It would trigger market panic and tank Blackwood's stock. I want to destroy him, not the entire company!"
"So you'll just watch while he treats your company like his personal ATM, bleeding it dry?" I'd fire back mercilessly. "Damian, this isn't a boardroom game! It's war! War demands casualties!"
We were like wounded predators—tending each other's injuries while ready to snap at any provocation. We didn't fully trust each other, yet had no choice but to rely on one another.
Late one night, we hit another deadlock over a legal technicality. The apartment fell deathly quiet, broken only by the city's perpetual hum beyond the windows.
Restless, I rose and moved to the window, drawing the curtain back slightly.
In the building opposite, a single apartment remained lit. Through the window, I glimpsed a young mother cradling a toddler, pacing slowly across her living room. The child was restless, and she hummed softly, trying to coax him to sleep.
The scene stirred something inside me.
Mother. Lullaby. Home.
Words that now felt like artifacts from another life. For ten years, I'd been a revenge machine, nearly forgetting that humanity could exist in gentler forms.
"What are you thinking?" Damian's voice came from behind me.
"I'm wondering what we might have become without all this," I didn't turn around, eyes fixed on the tender scene across the street. "You'd be a normal CEO, and I'd be... what? A housewife? Piano teacher?"
"You'd be a pianist," he said with certainty. "Like your mother."
"Perhaps," I smiled bitterly. "Instead, I'm just an avenger. A monster carved from hatred."
"You're not a monster," he moved beside me. "You're just someone who's been hurt."
His words made my heart hammer against my ribs.
I turned to face him. The cold distance he'd maintained earlier had vanished, replaced by a gentle understanding I could barely withstand.
"Damian..." I started to speak, but the words died on my lips.
Because I knew what stood between us—a decade of hatred and pain. Even standing together now, fighting for the same cause couldn't change the fundamental truth: our connection was built on mutual trauma.
Such foundations could never support anything lasting.
Yet in the depth of night, worn down by exhaustion and vulnerability, the invisible wall between us began to crumble.
"Amelia," his fingers brushed my cheek with unexpected warmth, "remember how we used to hide in the study as kids, spying on the adults' meetings?"
I nodded. Back then, we'd innocently believed the business world was just an elaborate game.
"Now we've become those adults," he smiled sadly. "But the price was far too steep."
I don't know who moved first—perhaps me, perhaps him. When our lips met, everything else dissolved—the hatred, the pain, the calculations—all vanished in that kiss.
It was gentle and brief, tentative as a question. When we parted, I saw confusion and conflict in his eyes that surely mirrored my own.
"This shouldn't happen," I whispered.
"No," his voice was rough, "but it already has."
That night, we abandoned talk of revenge and strategy. We simply sat together on the sofa, his arm around me, my head against his shoulder. In this apartment built for vengeance, we carved out a momentary sanctuary.
I felt his chest rise and fall, listened to his steady heartbeat. For the first time in a decade, I wasn't a revenge machine—just a woman, tired and craving warmth.
"What are we doing?" I murmured against his chest.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Maybe just finding a moment's peace."
Peace. Such a foreign, precious concept.
We held each other until dawn broke. Nothing more—just the comfort of another's presence. Like desert travelers who'd found an oasis, if only for one night.
"Amelia," he said suddenly, "if we succeed—if we really bring Alistair down—what then? Will you return to Europe?"
"Yes," I answered too quickly. "Back to Geneva. Back to my work. Pretend none of this happened."
"And we..."
"We are nothing," I cut him off. "Just two people who formed a temporary alliance. Once it's done, we go our separate ways."
He nodded, though his eyes held a disappointment I refused to acknowledge.
Just then, his phone rang.
The screen showed an unknown number.
"Mr. Blackwood." A digitally distorted voice crackled through the speaker. "I believe you'd like to know what really happened with that fire on Long Island."
Damian's face drained of color. He hit the speaker button so I could hear.
"Who is this?"
"Someone who knows the truth." The voice continued, "Mr. Harris's family—all except himself—did indeed die in what appeared to be an accidental fire. But before that fire, your father received a phone call. A death threat."
"What threat?"
"Tell your son to back off. Or next time, you'll all burn."
The caller delivered this final judgment and hung up.
This wasn't information—it was a warning.
Damian and I locked eyes, both processing the implications with growing horror.
"He knows," I said. "Alistair and whoever's protecting him know you're investigating."
"What does that mean?"
"It means our timeline just collapsed." I moved to the evidence wall, gathering key documents. "We need to strike now, before they make their next move."
"How?"
"The shareholders' meeting." I turned to face him. "Blackwood's annual meeting next Tuesday. We expose everything—in front of the shareholders, the board, the press."
"But our evidence isn't strong enough yet..."
"Then we make it look sufficient." I cut him off. "We have recordings, documents, witness statements. Maybe not enough for court, but enough to destroy him morally—enough to make the shareholders lose faith."
"That's incredibly risky."
"Anything worth doing involves risk." I held his gaze. "The question is: are you ready? Ready to tear down everything your father built with your own hands?"
Damian fell silent for a long moment.
Finally, he nodded. "I'm ready."
We worked through the night. By the time moonlight slipped through the curtain gaps, our plan was complete.
All evidence compiled into a comprehensive dossier. All recordings edited into presentation-ready clips. We even crafted contingency plans in case Alistair tried to silence us.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Ready," he confirmed.
Then he did something completely unexpected.
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates of spectacularly unappealing pasta. The noodles were clumped together, the bacon charred at the edges.
"Dinner," he said simply. "Our last supper, I suppose."
Looking at that sad attempt at cooking, I found myself smiling.
My first genuine smile in ten years.
