The ink on the contract was barely dry when Elena let herself smile for the first time in weeks.
This was not just any deal, it was salvation. Maison Duvall, a prestigious French supplier, had agreed to partner with Rossi Textiles. High-quality silks at rates that would cut their expenses by nearly twenty percent. Sure, the numbers mattered, but perception mattered more. Having Duvall's name beside Rossi sent a clear message to the industry that we are still here.
It meant breathing room. Lower costs. Restored confidence.
Best of all, she would deliver something concrete to the board. They had been circling like vultures for weeks, muttering about her inexperience, her emotional volatility. Their patience wore thinner each day. But this contract? This was proof she was not drowning.
She had sealed it herself too. She flew to Paris, sat across from Director Marcel Duvall with nothing but her sharp tongue and her father's iron will. No middlemen. No family name to lean on. Just Elena Rossi, the woman they all underestimated, bringing home victory.
Standing in her office that morning, sunlight pouring across her desk and warming the mahogany like a blessing, she felt her father's ghost settle proudly on her shoulders.
"Finally," she whispered, fingers brushing the signed document's edge. "One step forward."
For the first time in months, she could actually breathe.
---
By noon, everything fell apart.
Sofia burst through the office door, pale and breathless. "Signora Rossi….the French supplier... they have withdrawn."
Elena's pen stopped mid-signature. She looked up slowly, certain she had misheard. "What?"
"They called an hour ago. Maison Duvall claims unforeseen conflicts of interest. The contract's null, effective immediately."
Elena's chair scraped violently against marble as she shot up. Heat blazed in her chest. "Conflicts of interest? We signed. I stood in that man's office, shook his hand, and signed."
"I know," Sofia stammered, hands twisting together. "I told them exactly that. They said the matter's closed. Any further correspondence goes through their legal department."
Closed. Just like that.
The room spun. Elena grabbed her phone and dialed Marcel Duvall's number. Once. Twice. Three times.
Every call bounced. Blocked.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. This was not some clerical error or misfiled paperwork. Someone had pulled strings. Someone had poisoned the well.
And she knew exactly who.
---
The boardroom reeked of polished wood and tension when Dante arrived that afternoon. He moved with that maddening calm arrogance, his bespoke suit pristine, his expression giving away nothing.
Elena was already waiting, a blade ready to strike.
After the last directors filed out from their routine vote, she blocked his path, arms crossed like steel barriers.
"You could not stand to see me win one battle, could you?" Her voice cut low and sharp as glass. "You went behind my back and sabotaged my deal."
Dante did not flinch. Did not even blink. He just set his leather portfolio down with deliberate slowness and met her gaze with infuriating composure.
"Elena," he said quietly, "not every knife in your back has my fingerprints."
Her laugh came out brittle, bitter. "How noble. Should I believe that you of all people would let me secure a contract that could keep Rossi alive? No, Dante. You thrive when I bleed. That is who you are."
Something flickered across his eyes, pain?, Anger?, before his jaw locked into its usual mask. "If I wanted you gone, Elena, you would already be gone. Do not insult me by thinking I would waste time playing games when I could end this with one move."
Her hands balled into fists. "What, you are my guardian angel now? Watching me collapse from the sidelines while whispering warnings about monsters in the dark?"
His voice dropped low enough to force her closer. "I do not enjoy watching you fight ghosts while your so-called allies sharpen blades behind you."
She faltered. Because beneath his calm was an edge, a warning that felt too precise to be acting. Something passed between them, something that almost looked like sincerity.
She steadied herself with fury. "If not you, then who? Who else benefits from cutting me down every chance they get?"
Dante leaned forward, the space between them crackling with tension. His gaze burned into hers. "Look beyond me for once. You are playing chess against more than one opponent."
Her breath caught despite herself. Deep down, she knew he was right. She had felt it, sensed the way whispers started before she even entered a room.
But admitting that meant surrendering her only remaining armor, her rage against him.
So she turned away, nails carving crescents into her palms. "Save your riddles, Moretti. I will find the traitor myself."
---
That night, her penthouse felt colder than usual. City lights glared through the glass walls like watching eyes. Elena hunched over her desk, untouched wine beside her, papers scattered like battlefield casualties.
Supplier withdrawals. Directors suddenly "unavailable." Every page reeked of sabotage.
Her phone buzzed. New email.
Anonymous sender. No subject. Just an attachment.
Elena hesitated, pulse racing, then clicked.
A grainy photograph filled her screen.
Director Marco Ferraro, her strongest board ally, the man who had consistently supported every vote, who had called her "her father's daughter" with genuine warmth was caught mid-handshake.
With a representative from Blackthorne Holdings.
Elena's chest constricted. Blackthorne. The shadowy investment group Alessia's family wielded like a velvet-wrapped dagger.
Her stomach plummeted. Ferraro, her ally, her safety net had been bought.
She pressed her palm against the desk to steady herself. This betrayal burned hotter than any business loss.
Her mind raced. Had Ferraro already betrayed her votes? Was every supportive gesture just performance to keep her guard down? How much had Alessia known?
Worse, how many others had already sold their loyalty while she had been fixated on fighting Dante?
The wine glass toppled as her elbow caught it, crimson spreading across the papers like spilled blood. She barely noticed.
Her whisper cracked the silence, ragged and small. "God help me... I'm surrounded."
Elena stared at the glowing photograph until her eyes burned. Dante's words echoed in her skull. "Not every knife in your back has my fingerprints."
For the first time, she believed him.
The knives were not just his. They were everywhere.
She was not just at war with Dante anymore. She was fighting enemies who wanted her destroyed and they were already inside her walls.
If she did not move faster, sharper, harder, she would not just lose Rossi. She would lose everything.