The rain in Manhattan beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sterling Global, blurring the neon lights of Times Square into smears of aggressive red and blue.
Inside the corner office, the air was dead silent.
Elena Vance, thirty-six years old and the Head of HR, stared at her phone screen. Her fingers, manicured in a severe shade of burgundy, hovered over a photo on Instagram.
It was a picture of a sun-drenched garden in the Hamptons. In the center stood Arthur Sterling, the man she had loved for ten years. He was wearing a white tuxedo that cost more than Elena's car. Next to him, clutching a bouquet of white roses, was a girl who looked no older than twenty-two. She was blonde, radiant, and heavily pregnant.
The caption read: "Finally, a family. #Blessed #NewBeginnings #Soulmate"
Elena felt a cold, metallic taste in her mouth.
Three hours ago, Arthur had texted her: "Babe, the investors in London are grueling. My phone is dying. Love you."
"Investors," Elena whispered, her voice raspy from chain-smoking.
She opened her banking app. Balance: -$312,400.
That was the "Bridge Loan" she had taken out in her own name to save Arthur's failing AI laboratory last month. She had sold her apartment, maxed out her credit cards, and pawned her grandmother's jewelry. She had been his shield, his bank, and his mother for a decade.
And his Return on Investment (ROI)? A secret wedding to an oil tycoon's daughter.
Knock. Knock.
The glass door swung open without an invitation.
Tiffany Sterling, the twenty-four-year-old Director of Talent Acquisition (and Arthur's cousin), breezed in. She held a matcha latte in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. She wore a tweed Chanel suit that Elena knew was fake—Elena could spot a Guangzhou replica from fifty yards away.
"Elena! Oh my god, are you okay?" Tiffany's voice was high-pitched, dripping with a sugary, toxic sweetness. "You look... exhausted. Is it the lighting? Or just, you know... age?"
Elena placed her phone face down. She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. The sadness in her eyes evaporated, replaced by the cold precision of a sniper scope.
"What do you want, Tiffany?"
Tiffany giggled, placing the latte on Elena's pristine desk. "Well, the Board just finished the Q4 restructuring meeting. We feel that your management style is a bit... traditional. We need fresh energy. Gen Z energy."
She slid the envelope across the desk.
"We're letting you go, Elena. Effective immediately."
Elena didn't blink. She didn't reach for the envelope. Instead, she looked at Tiffany.
Suddenly, the world shifted.
The air around Tiffany shimmered. Translucent blue numbers and text boxes began to float above the younger woman's head. This was Elena's secret—the "Data Eye." Years of analyzing financial reports and background checks had mutated into an instinct so sharp it was almost supernatural.
[TARGET: Tiffany Sterling]
Asset Value: $4,200 (Depreciating)
Cash on Hand: $200
Hidden Liabilities: $450,000 (Offshore Gambling Debt)
Risk Level: CRITICAL
Current Activity: Embezzlement via Vendor "Qinghe HR"
Elena stood up. She was five-foot-eight, and in her Louboutins, she towered over Tiffany.
"You're firing me?" Elena asked, her voice smooth as silk.
"It's nothing personal, babe! It's just business. You're thirty-six. You're... a depreciating asset. Arthur thinks you should go rest. Maybe find a nice retired man in the suburbs?" Tiffany smirked, enjoying the moment.
Elena picked up the envelope and tossed it into the trash can without opening it.
"Tiffany, does the Board know about the 'Recruitment Fees' you've been paying to a shell company in the Cayman Islands?"
Tiffany's smile froze. "Excuse me?"
Elena walked around the desk, closing the distance. "Vendor Code 8821. Qinghe HR Solutions. You've approved $200,000 in invoices for 'headhunting services' in the last three months. But Sterling Global hasn't hired anyone."
Elena leaned down, whispering into Tiffany's ear.
"If I walk out of this building with a termination letter, the IRS gets my file on you by 5:00 PM. Along with the chat logs of you discussing the kickbacks with your boyfriend."
Tiffany turned a sickly shade of grey. Her hands began to tremble, spilling matcha on the carpet. "You... you wouldn't. Arthur will kill you."
"Arthur is busy playing house in the Hamptons," Elena said, grabbing her trench coat. "I'm not signing anything. I'm taking my accrued vacation. All of it."
She grabbed her handbag—a vintage Hermès, the only real asset she had left—and walked to the door. She paused, looking back at the terrified girl.
"Oh, and Tiffany? That Chanel suit is a bad fake. The stitching on the lapel is wrong."
Elena walked out of the skyscraper and into the pouring rain.
The adrenaline faded, leaving her hollow. She stood on the curb, water soaking into her expensive blowout. She was homeless. She was in debt. And the man she had built from nothing had thrown her away like a used napkin.
Honk.
A matte-black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up to the curb, splashing water onto her ankles. The rear window rolled down silently.
A man sat in the shadows. He wore a charcoal suit that absorbed the light. His features were sharp, aristocratic, and terrifyingly cold.
Julian Blackwood. The Titan of Wall Street. The man who ate companies for breakfast.
He was holding a green apple, tossing it idly in one hand. He looked at Elena not with pity, but with the calculating gaze of a predator assessing prey.
"Elena Vance," his voice was a deep baritone that vibrated through the rain. "I heard Sterling Global just lost its only brain."
Elena wiped a wet strand of hair from her face. She didn't cower. She stared right back at him.
Above Julian's head, her Data Eye flashed with a warning she had never seen before: [TARGET: Julian Blackwood] [VALUE: $XXX Billion] [DANGER LEVEL: LETHAL]
"I'm not looking for a job, Mr. Blackwood," Elena said coldly. " I'm looking for a weapon."
Julian stopped tossing the apple. A faint, intrigued smile touched his lips. He pushed the door open.
"Get in," he said. "Tell me how you want to kill them."