The strategist finished his presentation—a series of projected rollouts for a new luxury development in the Alvaran archipelago. Polished numbers. Gleaming visuals. The kind of aspirational PR fluff the board usually nodded through.
Edgar hadn't said a word.
He leaned back in his chair now, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Pale light gleamed off his cufflink. The silence after the pitch was not long, but it was loud, Then-
"Ms. D'Argent."
His voice landed like a blade laid flat on the table. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous in its precision.
Lyra turned slightly toward him, posture straight. "Yes?"
Arielle glanced up from her tablet. Several others did the same. The room hadn't expected her to be addressed—especially not by name. Not yet.
Edgar didn't look at them.
"Brand alignment," he said. "You've reviewed the strategy doc for the Solara Tower, yes?"
She nodded. "Last night."
"Good." He tapped once on the sleek tabletop. A new image flickered to life on the glass wall behind him: a sun-drenched, hyper-modern skyscraper overlooking untouched ocean. The Solara Tower. "You're aware of the investor."
She didn't flinch. "Prince Maarek of Vhaleth. Oil magnate turned climate philanthropist. Reputation for greenwashing. Popular in the Gulf and pan-European tech markets. Problematic on paper, golden in practice."
A slight twitch of amusement touched the corner of Arielle's mouth. Just for a second.
Edgar's expression didn't change.
"Thornevale Global doesn't engage with partners who play both sides," he said. "But the Vhaleth government has approved fast-track permits. It's a four-hundred-million-dollar design contract. One signature away."
He paused.
Then: "Would you sign it?"
Silence.
No one else in the room moved. The question was too direct. Too sharp. Not hypothetical.
Not polite.
Lyra didn't look away from him.
"I would," she said calmly. "But not under Thornevale's current brand values."
His eyebrow lifted—barely.
She continued, voice steady. "If we enter that partnership now, we weaken our leverage and compromise on stated ESG integrity. But if we let the media cycle build—leak that negotiations have paused due to ethical misalignment—we shift the narrative. Position ourselves as high-ground architects. Make him come back with cleaner books."
She let it hang. Then added:
"And a bigger offer."
The room was very still.
Then Edgar leaned back slightly, studying her. Not approving. Not dismissive. Just…watching. Like he was waiting to see if she'd blink. She didn't. Not once.
"Interesting," he said at last.
He looked away. The projection blinked off.
No thank you. No praise.
But Arielle gave her a small nod.
And Lyra, sitting perfectly still, felt the tight coil of her nerves begin to loosen.
But only slightly.
Because the feeling hadn't left her—the sense that this wasn't about brand strategy at all.
It was a test.
And not just a professional one.
The projection vanished from the wall, replaced by the Thornevale insignia—a silver, stylized tower coiled in a minimalist serpent. The meeting moved on.
But her pulse didn't.
Lyra kept her expression neutral, posture straight, pen resting calmly in her right hand. She even managed to nod in time with the next set of talking points. She could've been sculpted from poise.
But beneath the surface, her mind burned.
That wasn't a business question.
Not really.
It had been a diagnostic. A cut so clean she hadn't felt the blade until he pulled it out.
She wasn't unfamiliar with power moves—especially not from legacy CEOs and empire men—but there was something different about the way Edgar Thornevale wielded his authority. He didn't posture. He didn't bully. He didn't try to dominate the room.
He owned it, simply by being there.
And he hadn't tried to trip her up with trick questions or contradictions. No, that would've made too much sense.
He'd asked something gray—something without a perfect answer.
And watched her, not for the content of her response, but for the way she carried it.
He wasn't just assessing her.
He was studying her.
Like a memory he was trying to reconcile with reality.
She glanced at him once, subtly, from the corner of her eye.
He wasn't looking at her now. He was tapping through a set of schematics on his tablet, face composed, as if she were already forgotten.
But her instincts told her otherwise.
People didn't stare at you like that and then forget you. People didn't test your ethics on the first day unless they wanted to see what you'd do under fire.
And worse—some part of her had felt the heat.
Not embarrassment. Not anger.
Recognition.
A strange ache beneath her breastbone. Not fear exactly—but a shape she didn't have a name for yet.
Lyra blinked slowly, steadying her breath.
It's fine.
She'd passed.
She didn't know what kind of game this was yet, or why Thornevale looked at her like she was someone he'd already lost.
But she knew how to survive men like that.
Smile. Stand tall. Say nothing more than necessary. Never blink first.
And never—ever—apologize for being in the room.