Vivienne Blackwell hated being summoned.
She preferred invitations. Negotiations. Situations where she entered the room already holding advantage. But the message had been brief, precise, and impossible to ignore.
We need to speak.
No signature. No traceable line.
Only a time.
She arrived alone.
The office was not where she expected it to be—too quiet, too removed. The elevator ride had been long, soundless. When the doors opened, she stepped into a space that felt deliberately unfinished, as though comfort had been excluded on purpose.
The room was dark.
Not poorly lit—intentionally so.
A wall of glass stretched across the far end, framing a forest beyond the building. Trees dense and unmoving, their silhouettes pressed together like conspirators. No city lights. No signs of life. Just an expanse of shadow and depth that made Vivienne's skin prickle.
A man stood with his back to her.
Tall. Still.
She could see only his outline against the window, hands clasped behind him as if he were admiring the view.
"You took your time," he said lightly.
His voice was smooth. Amused. Almost warm.
Vivienne lifted her chin. "I don't respond well to theatrics."
A soft chuckle. "And yet, here you are."
She stepped farther into the room. That was when she noticed the wall to her right.
Photographs.
Not framed. Not displayed. Pinned.
Lucien Blackwell—entering his building. Lucien seated at the head of a boardroom table. Lucien walking alone at night, shadows stretched long at his feet.
Mara—mid-conversation, expression sharp. Leaving a meeting. Speaking into her phone.
And then—
Vivienne's breath caught.
A woman.
Soft features. Unassuming posture. Standing behind a flower counter, hands dusted with pollen. Another image—her walking alone at night. Another—Lucien beside her, close enough that Vivienne's stomach twisted.
"What is this?" Vivienne demanded.
The man laughed quietly. "Context."
He finally turned, but the light refused to touch his face. His features remained hidden, a deliberate absence where identity should have been.
"You said you could help me," Vivienne said sharply. "You said Lucien was vulnerable."
"He is," the man replied pleasantly. "Just not where you keep striking."
Vivienne bristled. "I've done everything you asked."
"And you've done it beautifully," he said. "Truly. The contracts. The authorizations. Using Elliot was inspired."
Her lips tightened. "My son deserves what was taken from him."
"Of course he does," the man said smoothly. "And he will have it."
Hope—dangerous and sharp—flared in her chest.
"You're certain?" she asked.
The man moved then, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of the light.
"I wouldn't be here otherwise," he said. "Lucien's grip is… impressive. But empires change hands all the time. With the right pressure."
Vivienne glanced again at the photos of the woman. "That florist—"
"Is incidental," the man said lightly. "For now."
His tone made Vivienne uneasy, but ambition drowned the warning.
"You said Elliot will take over," she pressed. "That once Lucien falls—"
"He will," the man interrupted gently. "And when he does, blood will matter again. The board will be desperate for familiarity. A name they recognize. A narrative they can sell."
Vivienne swallowed. "My son."
The man smiled. She could hear it in his voice.
"Your son," he agreed.
Outside the window, the forest remained still—dark, watching.
Vivienne straightened, resolve settling back into place. "Then tell me what you need next."
The man turned back toward the glass, studying the trees as if they were listening.
"Patience," he said. "And one more favor."
She waited.
"Continue as you are," he said lightly. "Be visible. Be angry. Be predictable."
Vivienne frowned. "Predictable?"
"Yes," he said softly. "Lucien expects you to be emotional. Let him."
He glanced toward the photographs again—toward the woman with flowers, toward Lucien standing too close.
"I'll handle the rest," he added, almost cheerfully.
Vivienne hesitated only a moment before nodding.
"Very well."
When she turned to leave, the man spoke again.
"Oh, Vivienne?"
She paused.
"This is the fun part," he said, voice dark with amusement. "Try not to rush it."
The elevator doors closed behind her.
The office returned to silence.
The man stood alone before the window, forest stretching endlessly below.
He reached out and adjusted one photograph—the florist—tilting it slightly, as if aligning it with something only he could see.
"Almost," he murmured.
Behind him, Lucien Blackwell's world remained unaware.
But not untouched.