ALFRED. BROWN.
Two words, ten syllables, were enough to freeze Paul in place and scramble his mind into nothingness. Horror and confusion twisted violently inside him, but he forced his expression to remain stoic and unfazed.
Alfred Fucking Brown? The thought lodged in his chest, stealing his breath. No. Impossible. He had to be mistaken. That bastard was not supposed to exist in any reality that involved Danica, him, or this company.
"Alfred Brown." Danica repeated, doubting her manager had heard anything beyond the name itself. "Dig into everything. His work, his circle, his movements, his network, his family, where he lives, and how he spends his money. Down to the smallest, most insignificant habit."
Fuck. Fuck the company. Fuck me. Fuck every fucking thing. The thoughts snapped through Paul's head, bitter and restless, his conscience refusing to digest the truth staring him down.
If Alfred's name had robbed his mind of sense, it had utterly abandoned him now. Waves of rage and disbelief scalded his lungs and flooded his veins with pure agony.
Brown had been his sophomore-year roommate, his former ride-or-die, and the reason Paul loathed his father. And now, in this twisted game of pursuit, he was his newest nemesis. The irony was infuriating and the history was unbearable. Questions swarmed his mind without mercy, tightening around his throat until anger swelled thick enough to choke him.
What was Alfred doing anywhere near Danica?
No, worse than that.
How had they met? Why had he gone after her? Why had that bastard ever crossed her path at all? What was—
"Did you register that?" Her copper voice snapped him out of his thoughts like a slow, inevitable crash.
He swallowed his anger and the tangle of every other ugly emotion with acrid reluctance and fixed his face into a practiced smile. Nothing about the situation was salvageable. The longer he thought about it, the more vividly he imagined ripping Alfred apart limb by limb.
"Yes," he said at last, forcing the word out.
"Excellent." She swivelled her chair and returned to her screen. "We will meet when you have enough data on Alfred."
Paul offered a curt nod and immediately left the cabin.
Danica narrowed her eyes for a moment at the abruptness of his exit, sensing something was off even if she couldn't pinpoint it.
Never mind, she thought, already looking away from the door. Babysitting emotions was not her job.
Outside Danica's office, the atmosphere buzzed with chatter and artificial urgency. People half-enjoyed their early morning rush, flaunting frantic productivity, while the receptionist hammered at her keyboard as if she were paid to look interminably busy. It was a brutal contrast to the foul mood and bloody rage simmering in Paul's bones. He wanted to scream, shoot a few people dead for smiling too much when nothing about the morning deserved it, and tear the corporate system apart for fuck's sake.
But he couldn't. He was in formal wear and a tie; he was supposed to be nice and polite.
Aren't you exhausted from pretending to be her manager?
Lee's words from the earlier conversation resurfaced with unwelcome force, almost impossible to dismiss.
Be the CEO beast that you are meant to be.
Leaving that throne was the dumbest move you've ever made.
She doesn't acknowledge you.
The voices cut grooves into the rawest part of Paul's heart, filling him with self-disgust and chagrin. Maybe Macen was right. Maybe he shouldn't have chosen this path. Maybe he should have been bold and forthright about the feelings he harbored for Danica. But there was no time for maybes. He had buried his claws in the mire, and there was no turning back.
"I will not," Paul muttered, teeth clenched, "let Alfred crawl anywhere near Danica. Never."
His eyes widened slightly as envy and anger flared hot and fast through the valves of his black heart. "For years, I've systematically wiped out every man fool enough to eye her with want, longing, or the slightest fantasy."
He nodded, his face going rigid as the world tinted into shades of red. "And I'd do it a million times if that's what it takes to make her mine. I don't care how filthy my hands get or how far my morals have to bend."
By now, Paul was talking to himself.
"Alfred," he scrubbed a hand over his face, "it's time for payback. Bigger. Dirtier."
Then a thought crossed his mind of filling Danica's head with Alfred's every wrongdoing until she gutted him raw, or better yet, him slicing Alfred's body into small pieces. The image made him laugh out loud, the pitch of his laughter climbing with every darker thought.
For the first time since morning, the receptionist's fingers froze above the keyboard as she stared at Paul, confused and unsettled. His laughter felt wrong. She had never seen him like this, and it stirred a fear that made her want to bury herself somewhere out of sight.
She watched him, rooted in her seat, as he abruptly cut off his laughter. He muttered something she couldn't catch, patted the back of his head with deliberate intent, and methodically smoothed himself back into normalcy.
Paul strode past her desk and disappeared into the maze of cubicles at the far end of the hallway.
"Psycho," she breathed out, shaking it off before returning to her screen.
********************************************************
"Danica, your concept is strong," the man remarked in a low voice, his tailored denim-colored suit and polished Rolex underscoring his status. "If it delivers as intended, it could substantially enhance both Dominion's revenue and brand perception."
It was late afternoon, and Danica was settled in her regal dark-brown chair at the head of the extravagant conference room. The space gleamed with polished surfaces in shades of mahogany and black, mirroring the seven board members seated around her, watching, listening, and weighing the fate of the new product on the line.
"Yes, I'm aware." Danica replied, bored to the bone, and her face was unreadable. "Tell me why you think this idea deserves to be shelved."
Greg adjusted his Rolex again, buying time while his thoughts raced toward a defensible explanation. Being CFO was gold until you were cornered at the edge of a corporate cliff, forced to rationalize every call you'd made. And doing it in front of Danica made it infinitely worse.
"When we refer to regenerative anti-aging serum," he started carefully, aware of the scrutiny, "we're proposing a permanent reversal of aging. To achieve that, we would need bioengineered ingredients, which would raise the cost of each unit above six thousand dollars."
Danica drew in a tight breath as the other board members murmured among themselves.
"That's still manageable, to an extent," Greg continued, finding his footing. "However, this product requires specialized, high-profile R&D teams. The pharmaceutical cost alone would run close to four thousand dollars per unit. When you factor in R&D, the total investment exceeds eighty million dollars."
"Dominion's revenue would strongly disagree," Danica replied, her tone immovable as she laid the documents on the table. "You of all people should remember what my last product did to the numbers."
"I accede to this," Jaimi, the company's CEO, chimed in, her tone characteristically neutral as she addressed Greg. "Our revenue climbed from fifty billion to eighty billion within a six-month span." She lifted a perfectly groomed brunette eyebrow. "Taking this risk positions our brand at the top, because the idea redefines what skincare means."
"Risk is precisely why the launch shouldn't move forward." The regulatory director shot back, offering Jaimi a strained smile.
Cillian O'Reilly, Independent Regulatory Director, wore autocracy like a second skin. He took pride in his title and his charm, so assured that not even Danica's death stare could shake him. But it was his gall, an astonishing amount of it, that tested her patience and made her blink twice just to be certain she was seeing this right.
She often found herself indulging the thought of how his flesh would feel beneath her hands, warm and inconsequential, once every shred of his arrogance was stripped away, inch by inch. With a blade (of course). It was a tempting, dark fantasy she resisted because the bastard was simply too valuable at his job.
All seven board members were undeniably competent, which was, for now, the only thing keeping them alive.
"There's no doubt we currently have upscale R&D teams and more than enough capital to launch the idea," Cillian continued in his Irish-American lilt. "But that alone won't be sufficient. The concept is exceptional and demands expanded manpower, elite teams, and stronger financial buffers. In short, everything needs an upgrade." He shifted his ice-blue gaze from Jaimi to Danica. "We cannot afford to compromise on protocols or specialized regulatory requirements."
Danica's expression stayed perfectly blank, betrayed only by a subtle flex of her jaw. As much as she wanted to chew Cillian apart for daring to oppose her, she couldn't deny the figures. He had a fucking point.
More than half of the capital would be required to upgrade every lab team and expand resources for this single product. Additional funding would be needed for procedures, trials, soft-launches, sponsorships, campaigns, and more. Dominion was undoubtedly large and an ever-growing skincare brand, but growth did not excuse cutting corners on compliance requirements.
Cillian shifted his ice-blue gaze from Danica to the rest of the board. "I do not vote in favor of this proposal."
"I want to back this," Greg admitted, tracing his thumb along his mouth, "but I'm opting out."
"I vote yes for this product," Jaimi stated, her voice steady as she emphasized the next words, "and every risk that comes with it."
Voss El Armani, strategist and M&A director, finally weighed in, his tone deceptively casual. "No from me."
Danica's knuckles went white.
Voss. Asshole.
He was only here because of his formidable reputation and ruthless precision in acquisitions, mergers, and expansions. His timing was impeccable. His instinct for profit and risk was unmatched. But none of that justified how consistently he dismissed her ideas, again and again, until it was clear he had no commendation for the vision she carried for Dominion. Fuck him.
"I'm voting yes." Stacy Carrington, Creative Director, replied as she tied her smoky-white hair into a low, messy bun. "The concept is exceptional and worth staking everything on."
That was two versus three. Danica needed two more votes to move forward.
"I vote yes." External stakeholder Qedaar Rajadhyaksh spoke with conviction. He was a stock-market demigod seated atop a seven-hundred-billion-dollar fortune and possessed the unsettling calm of a man who had survived every crash by knowing when to step forward and when to let others burn. Risk did not scare him, and betting on this idea felt almost inevitable.
The vote was split, three to three. All she needed was one more voice to crush the resistance, bend the board to her will, and greenlight the launch.
Danica's gaze slid to the man seated at the far end of the conference table, directly opposite her. Silence stretched thin as the board members turned their glances toward the non-executive chairperson of Dominion.
Black shirt. A charcoal waistcoat pulled tight over a body built for violence. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing powerful arms corded with muscle. A vein in the back of his hand pulsed just a fraction as he lit his cigar with an effing calm. Smoking indoors was strictly forbidden, and anyone defying the rule was subjected to harsh treatment. But Stefan Stojanović despised authority, structure, and every rule that dared to limit him. He was arebel mf. And you can't tell arebel to play nice.
Stefan let out a slow breath of smoke, then crushed the smoldering end of his cigar against the polished tabletop and lifted his gaze to Danica.
His voice came dark and whisky-deep. "No."
********************************************************
"Everything you asked for is prepared." The man stated curtly on the other side of the call.
Paul took a sip of sour tea and grimaced. "Tell me you didn't stop at the obvious."
A brief silence. Then, "I didn't," the man replied. "This took every ounce of dark web access I have. The records so far are… tight."
Paul's expression hardened. "What does that mean?"
"Open the zip files. You'll know," he exhaled. Whether it was disappointment or sheer exhaustion, Paul couldn't tell. "If you believe something is missing, do not call me. This is as thorough as it gets. So, there won't be any loose puzzle pieces." A beat later. "I'll be with my wife on a month-long trip."
Paul scratched his eyebrow. "Whatever. But if anything raises a flag, I'll run it by you over text."
"That won't be possible either," he replied, his tone shifting into something disturbingly deliberate. "When I'm with my wife, nothing else exists. That means no phone. No messages. No emails."
"Fine." Paul clucked his tongue. "I've never seen a man wear a pink 'Daddy' bracelet simply to amuse his wife."
"And I've never seen a titan of industry throw away a Fortune 500 crown just to play executioner for a woman who doesn't pine for him."
Moral sermons were the last thing Paul had patience for.
"I think she is waiting for you," he said, neatly sidestepping the point.
"Nah. I never make my lady wait." Man's tone grew heavier, more territorial. "I'd rather hurl myself off the Brooklyn Bridge than rank anyone higher than her. I wouldn't be wasting words on you if she stood in front of me."
Paul ended the call abruptly and tossed his phone onto the desk. He had better things to do than listen to a six-foot colossus running a billion-dollar cybersecurity company wax obsessive over his wife.
The business world had long known how deeply besotted Mikhail Morozov was. It sent a jolt of sickening twist in Paul's stomach and stirred an envy he hated acknowledging. After all, who was he to judge when he himself was thirsting after obsidian-dark hair, lethal stilettos, and a razor-sharp mouth?
Paul narrowed his gaze at the circular icon in the top-left corner, watching it glow for two seconds before the download finished. He opened the folder immediately and unzipped the files.
His vision fractured into a black-and-white blur as he tore through the sheer volume of information on Alfred. Each scroll widened his stare, stoking the simmering rage in his blood.
"Impossible." The word slipped from Paul on a heated breath.
If Alfred were a business tycoon wielding an ungodly amount of power, there would have to be an equal or greater amount of rot hidden behind the flawless polish of his empire.
Filth. Scandal. Sins. Something worth burying.
Not this.
The records so far are tight.
The words kept ringing in Paul's head as he gawked, absorbing every detail.
Nothing was out of place. Nothing was messy. It was too clean. Too perfect. Too fucking impressive to be real.
So that's what Mikhail meant by the word "tight."
If Danica saw this, she wouldn't blink twice before stepping deeper into whatever was forming between her and Alfred. But if Paul tried to manipulate the situation and got caught in time, the odds of her killing him were far higher than his chances of killing Alfred.
It wasn't the consequences he feared, but the loss. The thought of her being held by someone else, when she should have been his, clenched something brutal and vicious inside his chest. One reckless move and the board would flip into checkmate, undoing every calculated step that brought him here.
"Fuck," Paul raked a hand over his mouth, jaw tight as the truth settled in. "This is more twisted than I was prepared for."
Still, surrender was off the table, and losing was unthinkable.
********************************************************
A no? Stefan's answer was clear.
She should've known. She did know from miles away. And yet, somewhere in the illogical depths of her mind, she'd allowed herself to believe he'd opt for neutral ground and the meeting would be postponed, buying her days to devise a strategy sharp enough to tilt the tables back in her favor.
"The product remains on the line," Danica stated, standing from her chair with obdurateness.
Seven people with less than eleven percent of the shares thought they had leverage, backed by a handful of secondary businesses. They didn't. She was the founder, damn it. They could bow their heads to her decision or get beheaded for subversiveness.
"We meet again in exactly five days, at this hour," Danica demanded, "to hear proposals and reshape the strategy required to make this vision real."
Qedaar flashed an amused smile, clearly unsurprised by Danica's refusal to bend.
"This is—" Greg tried to interject, but his words died as Danica power-walked out of the room.
Fuck them all. Once she set her mind on something, she'd gamble everything she had to make it real.
********************************************************
Paul paced back and forth outside Danica's cabin, a file clutched in his hand and impatience radiating off him like a neon sign.
At the front desk, the receptionist eyed him as though he were some rare, dangerous creature with too many heads and not enough warning labels. A cold dread slid into her veins, numbing her mind while her body stiffened with chafing familiarity.
Murmurs. Evil laugh. Trembling hands.
The wraps and paninis from lunch sloshed ominously in her gut as she remembered his baffled features and the strange, unsettling gait he'd carried before.
Paul stopped mid-stride. The fabric of his shirt pulled tight as his shoulders slackened briefly before he forced his spine straight. He could feel heat blooming in the small of his back with more intensity than necessary. He turned and found the woman at the front desk avoiding him entirely, eyes locked on her desk as her hands jittered through a purposeless search.
Had she been staring at me? Paul's copper eyes narrowed as realization landed slowly.
Even before he could assess her posture or decipher the nervous tick in her movements, Danica appeared in his peripheral vision. He snapped his attention from the front desk woman to the hallway, where Danica was closing the distance with deliberate steps.
The subtle crease between her black eyebrows, the tight set of her jaw, and the stiffness in her face suggested something was catastrophically wrong.
The receptionist finally stopped pretending to work and gave a stiff, hurried bow as Danica passed and entered the cabin, leaving Paul pointedly unacknowledged.
The indifference burned. It made him want to peel himself open, to leave something bloody and undeniable behind just so she'd see him. He craved even a flicker of her attention, a glance, a smile, or even the faintest of warmth. It was more than enough to shatter the years of restraint that'd housed itself within his fractured heart.
She didn't realize how much power she wielded, how easily she could unmake him, and how firmly she already held him at her mercy.
She didn't know any of it. Not yet.
He swallowed his feelings and the fragile fantasies they fed before entering her cabin.
Danica stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, her gaze fixed on the vast, gleaming sprawl of the modern city. When the door clicked shut behind her, she pivoted smoothly, as if she'd been expecting him all along.
"What's wrong?" The question escaped Paul before he could think better of it. "The meeting didn't go well?"
Danica crossed her arms, and her heels clicked softly as she moved toward him. "That's none of your business." Her eyes slid to the folder he carried, stayed pinned on it for a second, and then returned to his face. "I made myself clear that we'll meet when you have something worth bringing me about Alfred. I trust that's the only reason your polished Oxford shoes found their way into my office."
Paul nodded. "I do."
He raised the file, and Danica took it right away.
"A considerable amount," he added with reluctance as Danica scanned the pages, flipping through them. "Alfred Brown is a business tycoon. Six-foot-five. Owns multiple companies and finances political campaigns. He runs a venture firm that backs small and emerging businesses. Beyond that, he's…"
Danica nodded absently, her eyes locked on sheet of paper as she absorbed the neat lines of his hobbies and family lineage.
Hunting and cooking.
Predator and provider. Interesting.
His mother had been a housewife. His father was a former industrialist. A brother tied to sports—
"Bought PitFur..." Paul's words came rushing back, shattering Danica's focus in an instant.
She snapped her attention from the paper to her manager. "What did you just say?"
"PitFur, a major pharmaceutical company, got sued last year," Paul repeated grudgingly. "It was on the brink of dissolution. Alfred bought it on a whim and somehow turned it into something even more formidable."
Her lips curved, barely, into a knowing smirk. Improved R&D had been on her list for months, and this information felt like relief pressed directly against a sore nerve. But she wasn't reckless; one piece of good news wasn't enough. She needed firmer guarantees.
"That's… impressive." Danica's response made Paul itch.
"So, he runs a venture firm, has his hands in politics, and owns a pharmaceutical company," she continued. "That's a remarkably diverse sphere of influence."
"He also owns an IT firm," Paul continued, every word coating his mouth in ash. The urge to bury a blade in Alfred again and again burned hot, but he swallowed it down and smiled. "It nearly collapsed after a cyber breach a few years back. The fallout exposed all its corruption and…"
"Are you talking about..."
"BranTech," Paul concluded, pausing just long enough to feel it sting. "Yes. He acquired that company too."
Fuck you, Alfred. He thought.
"He's changed the name of …"
The sound of Paul's voice flattened into white noise while Danica's mind raced elsewhere, assaulted by images she didn't want and couldn't stop. Something ancient and sick splitted her insides into halves; bricking impotence in every space until nausea swelled and anchored her to the place.
Heat. The snap of a whip.
Screams tearing the air apart.
Her throat went bone-dry as the images became sharp and immediate, stripping away time. She tried to inhale, but her lungs felt unbearably heavy, and the air became dense and impossible to draw in.
A low, dirty laugh echoing off the walls.
"Obedience is rewarded, Dan."
The visions flared vivid and cruel, darkening before collapsing into violent hues of green poison. Again and again and again, personifying pressure in her chest as though it were suffocating along with her.
"He graduated from Kingsford University…" Paul's words came into harsh focus before they dissolved again.
She couldn't let the monsters of her past crawl back in and crack the fortress of autocracy, power, and imperviousness she'd built with grit and blood.
"Leave. Now." Danica forced out, her voice tighter than she intended.
The suddenness of her action knocked Paul into silence. Something was off, deeply and irrevocably, but he couldn't identify its shape. But then again, nothing about this situation had ever been right.
He gave a curt nod and left without hesitation, leaving Danica to her unprocessed rage and the chaos she kept buried. He wanted to go back and hold her, silence the memories, and kiss away the armor she wore so convincingly. But the situation demanded something else. Distance. Control. Compliance.
It hollowed him out yet pulled him closer to the edge she stood on.
Danica tossed the file onto the black marble desk and forced out a heavy breath, hoping it might interrupt the havoc rising within her. It didn't. Panic still gripped her, its fangs sinking into the flesh seven layers deep.
Desperate to steady the black tide raging within, she hugged herself tight and walked toward the windows, where sunlight flooded the room in soft gold.
"Think about something that makes you stop and stare," she whispered and patted her shoulder in a small, grounding gesture.
People creating pathetic content for attention?
Unicorn? A human baby?
Nothing worked. If anything, it only amplified the voice in her head, leaving it louder than before and cementing her mouth with chalk-dry bitterness, thick and oppressive.
Think of something else. She pressed the thought down harder than required, afraid of what would surface if she didn't.
First meeting with Alfred? His grey eyes mooring and assessing her.
Her breath stuttered when the images she fought against rearranged themselves, slipping into memories of the World Summit's end. His presence, his smile, and the glare of stage light illuminating the fine lines of his face.
It was irrational but effective. The more she allowed him into her thoughts, the more the monstrous visions receded inch by inch. She could drown in river of self-disgust later for using Alfred as a shield against her vulnerability, but in this very moment, he was the only thing standing between her and madness.
"I returned what's yours."
The soft chuckle. His well-groomed hair.
"Are you looking for this?" His voice was as deep as the Pacific Ocean.
She replayed the scenes in obsessive detail, the absurd fairytale moments and all the in-between spaces, until the rhythm of her breath steadied itself and bricks of impotence crumbled, taking away fangs of panic with it.
Danica untangled herself from a hug, fished out her cellphone, and began typing:
Let's meet at ten pm.
-Danica.
Her thumb hovered for a heartbeat before pressing send. The email went straight to Alfred.
He'd cleared her first line of defense; it was safe to meet him. If his records, both on paper and behind the corporate façade, were spotless, then his intentions behind this sudden meeting had to be just as immaculate. She wouldn't regret showing up at La Belle Vie to meet a stranger who'd made her heart skip, her toes curl, and unknowingly subdued the nightmares she carried.
Would she?