Chapter 1

Roman

The platinum cufflink catches Manhattan sunlight as I twist it between my fingers. Victor's voice crackles through the speakerphone like static electricity, each word calculated to grate against my last nerve.

"—and frankly, Roman, the company reports show a concerning pattern. Shareholders are beginning to question your judgment after the Luxembourg debacle."

I rotate the cufflink clockwise. Counterclockwise. The motion keeps my hands occupied while Victor pontificates about market confidence and quarterly projections. He loves these calls—the chance to lecture me from his ivory tower while I sit in my corner office, supposedly grateful for his wisdom.

"Your image, my boy, is everything in this business. One misstep and the vultures circle."

My boy. The condescension drips through the speaker like honey laced with arsenic. I lean back, studying the city sprawl beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, people scurry about their insignificant lives, blissfully unaware that men like Victor pull their strings from conference rooms forty floors above the street.

"Are you listening, Roman?"

"Every syllable." I slide the cufflink back into place, the metal cool against my wrist. "Though I'm curious—when exactly did my image become your concern? Last I checked, I built this company while you were still warming boardroom chairs for other men's empires."

Victor's laugh carries no warmth. "Such fire. Your father would be proud."

Wrong move, old man. My jaw tightens, but my voice remains level. "My father taught me that respect is earned, not inherited. Perhaps that's a lesson you missed."

"Come now, no need for hostility. I'm simply suggesting that recent... setbacks... require careful navigation. The board notices everything."

The second cufflink receives the same treatment—twist, pause, reset. Victor's veiled threats cling like smoke from a dying cigarette. He speaks of setbacks as though they're natural disasters, unavoidable acts of corporate god. But I know better. Nothing happens in my company without fingerprints, and Victor's prints are all over the Luxembourg mess.

"What exactly are you suggesting, Victor?"

"Prudence. Caution. Perhaps a more... collaborative approach to major decisions."

Collaborative. Corporate speak for leashing the dog.

"I understand your concerns, Victor." The words taste like ash. "However, I have a prior engagement that requires my attention."

"Ah yes, the tech summit. Another public appearance." His tone suggests I'm attending a circus instead of a Fortune 500 gathering. "Do try to smile for the cameras, Roman. The board appreciates positive press coverage."

The line goes dead before I can respond. Classic Victor—deliver the poison, then disappear before the victim can retaliate.

I straighten out my tie and check my reflection in the darkened computer screen. The man staring back wears authority like a second skin, but underneath, frustration simmers. Three hours. Three hours of handshakes and hollow conversations with tech journalists who wouldn't recognize genuine innovation if it bit them on their collectively mediocre asses.

The ride to the lobby feels like descending into purgatory. Each floor brings me closer to the performance—because that's what these events are. Theater for stockholders and business reporters who measure success in soundbites and photo opportunities.

My driver holds the door as I slide into the Bentley's leather embrace. "The Meridian, sir?"

"Unfortunately."

Traffic crawls through Midtown like molasses, giving me ample time to contemplate the fresh hell awaiting me. Panel discussions about "synergistic paradigm shifts" and "disruptive market convergence." Journalists armed with softball questions and hidden agendas. Competitors wearing fake smiles while calculating how to steal my innovations.

The Meridian's glass facade reflects the afternoon sky as we pull up. Photographers cluster near the entrance like vultures around roadkill, their cameras already clicking at anyone wearing a decent suit. Inside, the hotel's marble lobby buzzes with the artificial energy of people who believe their own press releases.

"Mr. Voss!" A perky blonde with a press badge thrust a microphone toward my face. "Channel Seven Business. Can you comment on the recent fluctuations in Voss International stock prices?"

"Market volatility is nothing new." I don't break stride toward the ballroom. "Voss International continues to exceed performance expectations across all sectors."

Corporate speak flows like second nature—sanitized, meaningless phrases that say nothing while sounding profound. The journalist scribbles notes as though I've revealed state secrets instead of reciting standard PR platitudes.

The ballroom doors loom ahead like the gates of hell. Inside, five hundred industry professionals pretend to care about innovation while secretly plotting each other's downfall.

Time to feed the machine.

The ballroom assault begins the moment I cross the threshold. Marcus Charleston from TechCrunch materializes like a heat-seeking missile, his recorder already spinning.

"Roman! Fantastic to see you. Quick question about the rumors surrounding Voss International's AI integration timeline—"

"Marcus." I grip his hand with just enough pressure to remind him who holds the cards. "Always cutting straight to the business, I see. The integration proceeds as scheduled. Revolutionary technology requires revolutionary patience."

His laugh sounds rehearsed. "Of course, of course. But some analysts suggest your recent shifts in market strategy indicate—"

"Analysts." I release his hand and adjust my tie. "Fascinating creatures. They dissect yesterday's news to predict tomorrow's weather."

Before Marcus can recover, a flash explodes in my peripheral vision. The photographer's satisfied grin suggests he captured exactly the moment of condescension he was hoping for. Perfect.

"Mr. Voss!" A woman wearing enough jewelry to finance a small country extends her hand. "Linda Hartwell, Gladstone Capital. We simply must discuss your expansion into sustainable luxury markets."

"Linda." Her handshake feels like gripping a dying fish. "Sustainability remains a core Voss principle. We believe luxury and responsibility aren't mutually exclusive."

"Oh, absolutely! That's precisely why we're so excited about potential partnerships. The ESG compliance alone would generate tremendous investor interest—"

Another camera flash interrupts her pitch. This time I catch the photographer's eye and offer him the smile that graces magazine covers—calculated charm that never reaches the soul.

"Roman!" A familiar voice cuts through the ambient chatter. Jonathan Pierce from Blackstone approaches with his trademark swagger, crystal tumbler already half-empty despite the early hour. "You magnificent bastard. How's business in the empire?"

"Thriving, as always." I accept his bone-crushing handshake. Jonathan's the only person in this room who doesn't require performance. "Though I heard your Dubai venture hit some interesting complications."

His bark of laughter turns heads. "Interesting. Such a diplomatic word for complete clusterfuck." He raises his glass in mock salute. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight's about pretending we all respect each other's business acumen."

"Speaking of respect—" Linda Hartwell reappears at my elbow like a persistent rash. "I was just telling Mr. Voss about Gladestone’s commitment to ethical investment strategies."

Jonathan's expression suggests he's bitten into something sour. "Ethical investment. Now there's an oxymoron for the ages."

"Mr. Pierce, surely you understand the importance of responsible corporate—"

"Lady, the only thing I understand is profit margins and quarterly projections." He drains his tumbler. "Everything else is marketing."

Linda's face flushes crimson as another photographer captures her mortification for posterity.

Linda continues her pitch about sustainable investing while Jonathan rolls his eyes like a teenager enduring a lecture on fiscal responsibility. I check my watch—seven minutes since the last time I checked. This purgatory has lasted exactly forty-three minutes, which feels like forty-three years of corporate penance.

"—and that's why Gladstone Capital believes Voss International represents the perfect synergy between profit and purpose—"

"Linda." I interrupt before she can launch into another acronym-laden soliloquy. "Your passion for purpose is admirable. However, I believe I see someone requiring my immediate attention."

I don't, but lying has become second nature at these events. Jonathan snorts into his empty tumbler while Linda's face crumples like discarded gift wrap.

The ballroom stretches out before me like a minefield of networking opportunities and hollow conversations. Tech executives cluster around the bar, their laughter too loud and their smiles too bright. Venture capitalists prowl between conversation groups, hunting for the next unicorn to exploit. Journalists scribble quotes that will be twisted into tomorrow's clickbait headlines.

Another forty-seven minutes. I calculate the minimum acceptable appearance time—ninety minutes total should satisfy the board's public relations requirements without appearing rude to potential investors. Not that I give a damn about appearing rude, but Victor's earlier threats echo in my memory like ghost whispers.

"Mr. Voss?" A waiter materializes beside my elbow, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. "Compliments of the house."

I wave him away without looking. Alcohol dulls the senses, and this room requires constant vigilance. Too many sharks wearing designer suits, their teeth hidden behind veneer smiles.

My phone buzzes—probably Martin from security updating me on tomorrow's schedule or Sarah from accounting with quarterly projections.

The ballroom air shifts.

Conversations don't exactly stop, but they stutter. Laughter becomes forced. Even the ambient chatter drops several decibels as heads turn toward the entrance like sunflowers following light.

She stands in the doorway wearing black silk that moves like liquid shadow across curves designed to start wars. Ebony hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and when she surveys the room, her gaze cuts through pretense like surgical steel through flesh.

Every man in my line of sight suddenly finds reasons to straighten their ties or check their phones. The women perform rapid calculations—threat assessment disguised as casual observation.

But her eyes. Christ, her eyes move across faces with the precision of a sniper acquiring targets. She's not here for networking or champagne toasts or corporate small talk. She's hunting.

"Now that's what I call making an entrance," Jonathan murmurs beside me.

I don't respond because my throat has forgotten how to form words. She's scanning the room with purpose, and when her gaze inevitably finds mine—because it will—I have the strangest sensation that everything up to this moment has been prologue.

The woman in black smiles, and the expression holds no warmth whatsoever.

God, I hope I have to chance to talk to her tonight. We have some unfinished business to attend to.