That night, Riva chose a custom white silk dress. The fabric caught the light with a soft, pearl sheen, making her look tall and unbreakable.
She skipped the jewelry. One exception: a small moonstone stud in each ear that flashed when she turned her head—an echo of what she was building in the dark.
She drove herself.
No driver. No entourage. No one to soften the edges. If this was a battlefield, she wanted both hands on the wheel.
The rooftop terrace at The Belvedere had been staged to feel effortless—warm light, low jazz, the city spread out below like it was part of the view.
The guest list was tight, a curated circle of power. Conversations stayed low and close.
One sweep of Riva's eyes and she caught the faces: the names that lived on the front pages of The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times—the kind of people who didn't chase the market. They moved it.
At the center of the terrace, Karl Winters was talking to an older man with the easy authority of someone who never had to raise his voice.
Karl wore a midnight-blue suit, no tie, the collar open just enough to say he didn't need to prove a thing. The details did the talking: clean stitching, quiet hardware, fabric that held its shape. Money, with manners.
A whiskey sat in his hand. His dark curls lifted in the night breeze, careless on purpose. His blue eyes stayed polite to his guest—focused, present—but his attention kept drifting, just a fraction, toward the entrance.
The second Riva stepped onto the terrace, his gaze found her.
Something lit in his eyes—quick, sharp—then went still again.
He didn't rush her. He finished with the older man, clean and courteous, then turned and walked toward her at an easy, measured pace.
"Riva." His voice was low and smooth, a baritone that didn't have to fight for space.
He looked her over without pretending not to. Not a leer—an appraisal. Like he'd found something he'd lost and hadn't admitted mattered.
Then he did something she didn't expect.
Karl dipped his head, took her hand, and gave her a formal, old-world kiss—close enough that his breath brushed her knuckles, though his lips never quite touched.
Up close, she caught the scent of him: clean pine and a hint of smoke. The warmth of it hit her like a small, unwanted fact.
Her heartbeat jumped once. Treacherous.
She slid her hand free and put her face back where she kept it.
"Karl," she said. "Welcome back to L.A. And congratulations—The Forgotten River took the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance."
"Thank you." He straightened and held her gaze, steady and unblinking, like he could see past her composure. "You're not the same."
No adjectives. No softening. Just a fact, said out loud.
"People change," Riva said, meeting his gaze. Her blue eyes were flat and cold. "Especially once the fog lifts. Once you… get through it."
She let the words land. No drama.
"Yeah, growth always comes with a premium." Karl said. Then he moved on—clean, direct. "I've been watching Prism. You've been busy. And Lighthouse International showing up? That's not the version of you I remember."
"It's just putting things where they belong," Riva said, even.
Then she turned the wheel. "Karl, I know we haven't talked in a while. For reasons."
A beat. She didn't look away.
"But in this town, you're one of the few people who still respects the work—and the people doing it."
Then she said it.
"I heard your next priority is Gray Sparrow—the bestseller adaptation. Good script. Real edge." She kept her voice casual, like it wasn't a big deal. "And I heard the Lawrence Creative Fund backed out after last week's evaluation."
Karl's eyes twitched. Just once.
He'd kept that quiet. Very few people knew the project had hit a wall—let alone why. Riva hadn't just heard it. She'd named the source.
"You're better connected than I thought," Karl said. No denial. Just a pivot.
He stepped half a pace closer. Not a threat. Just proximity. His blue eyes held hers like he was waiting to see what she'd do next.
"Let's be honest," he said. His voice dropped an octave, making the space between them feel dangerously small. "Tonight—are you here because you need a ally against Marcus Grey… or are you actually ready to back the work?"
The question hit clean. Right where it hurts.
Riva went quiet for a beat.
Just weighing the angle—how much to give, how much to keep.
Then she lifted her chin.
"Both," she said.
"I'm not going to pretend I don't need an ally," Riva continued, voice steady. "Marcus is a survival problem. And it's about my dignity as much as it's about money. I need my footing back before I can protect anything."
She didn't blink.
"And yes—I believe Gray Sparrow deserves to be made. Made right. I don't see a conflict there. I see the only way it happens."
Karl studied her. Something moved behind his eyes—interest, calculation, a quiet kind of approval. And something softer he didn't spell out.
Like he'd just found what he came here to see.
Richard—the older man from before—walked over with a warm smile and perfect timing.
"Karl," he said, "aren't you going to introduce me to this unforgettable lady?"
"Of course, Richard." Karl pivoted with effortless control, making the introduction like a breeze.
He shifted just enough to position himself slightly behind Riva's waist—close, protective, but not quite touching. It wasn't an embrace; it was a signal. A claim.
"This is Riva Lane," Karl said. "Co-founder of Prism Pictures. And in my opinion, one of the few producers in this town with real nerve, real vision, and… real power."
He put a little weight on real.
Then, back to her: "Riva—meet Richard Vann. Founder and Chairman of Atlas Global Capital."
Atlas Global.
Riva kept her expression a flat, calm mask, but her mind began to click. Atlas was one of those private equity giants that stayed out of the headlines unless it suited them. Global reach. Quiet, terrifying pull. The kind of money that didn't ask for a seat at the table—it bought the table.
"Mr. Vann," Riva said, offering her hand. "I've heard your name."
Vann took it. His smile stayed gentle. His eyes, however, were sharp.
"Ms. Lane," he said. "Your name—and Prism's recent moves—have been popping up in my team's weekly briefings quite a bit."
He turned to Karl, his voice easy, almost teasing, but with the heavy gravity of a mentor.
"Karl, your father told me your instincts were sharp. Looks like he wasn't wrong." He glanced between them, a look of amused calculation on his face.
"You're a hell of a lot more interesting than your old man," Vann added. "All he wants to do is buy ports and mines. You—you have a taste for more complicated assets."
Karl shot him a look—half warning, half affectionate resignation.
"Richard," he said drily, "your 'help' is always… subtle."
Vann laughed, clapped Karl on the shoulder, then gave Riva a quick wink.
"Kid," he said. "If you want something good, you don't wait for it to fall in your lap." He lifted his glass in a silent toast. "I'll leave you two to discuss the 'partnership.'"
And just like that, he was gone—melting back into the crowd like he'd never stepped out of it.
The quiet corner of the terrace belonged to them again. Whatever had been vibrating between them before was still there, only now it had an audience and a distinct hum of heat.
Riva knew this was the moment to strike.
She opened her clutch, pulled out a business card—heavy, matte stock, minimal typography—and held it out to Karl.
"Moonstone Capital," she said. "My new firm."
She kept her voice steady. She made it a pitch, not a plea.
"Based on the material and the current market, I'm confident I can get Gray Sparrow off the ground—and I can get it done right," Riva said. "I'm bringing the independent distribution resources I already control."
"And I'll put it in writing: you keep creative authority. Final cut. No one squeezes you out of your own film."
It was the only chip she could place on the table right now.
And it's the opening move of the long game she was about to play.