The boardroom victory still rang in Elena's ears—the murmurs, the reluctant nods, the way the vote had tipped just enough in her favor to keep her seat.
But victories like that never lasted.
Silas Thorne didn't even wait for the last director to leave.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his smile thin and satisfied in a way that made Elena's spine tighten.
"If you're staying," he said smoothly, "you'll clean up the mess."
Elena didn't answer. She already knew what was coming.
"The Annual Tech Gala is tonight," Silas continued, glancing at his watch as if her fate were just another calendar item. "Our largest private investor—Henry Sterling—is threatening to withdraw his funding. He's citing 'moral risk.'"
The phrase landed like poison.
"If Sterling pulls out," Silas said, voice lowering, "the banks follow. The stock collapses. The company dies."
He met her eyes, unapologetic.
"Charm him," he said. "Or resign."
The penthouse was no longer a home.
It had been stripped down to function, to strategy.
The living room lights were brighter than usual, washing the space in cold clarity. Dresses lay draped over sofas and chairs like fallen banners—silks, velvets, satins, sequins. Red, black, emerald, ivory. Each one a different version of the woman the world expected Elena Vance to be.
Su-yin ignored them all.
She sat cross-legged at the glass table, porcelain cup cradled in her hands, steam curling upward from jasmine tea. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp—fixed on the large television screen dominating the far wall.
Julian stood beside it, remote in hand, shoulders tight.
"Teach me," Su-yin said calmly. "You taught me your markets. Your numbers. Now teach me the men who guard the coin purses."
Julian swallowed and clicked the remote.
The screen filled with the image of a heavyset man in an aggressively expensive suit. His face was flushed, his smile broad and careless, like a man accustomed to being obeyed.
"Marcus Vane," Julian said. "Runs one of the biggest hedge funds on the East Coast. Loud. Loves attention. Publicly claims neutrality, but he's shorting us hard."
He hesitated before adding, "He's also the one who leaked the rumor that you were… unqualified."
Su-yin leaned forward slightly, studying the image. The eyes. The mouth. The way the man's confidence looked worn rather than earned.
"A Glutton," she said after a moment.
Julian blinked. "What?"
"Not only of food," she continued softly. "Of fear. Of recognition. Men like him attack first because they are terrified of being irrelevant."
She took a sip of tea.
"If I feed his ego, he will gorge himself until he forgets why he came to fight. Next."
Julian clicked again.
The second image was quieter, colder.
Henry Sterling.
Steel-gray hair cut precisely. A face carved by restraint rather than indulgence. His suit was understated, but unmistakably expensive—old money announcing itself without effort.
"This is the problem," Julian said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sterling controls nearly forty percent of our external funding. He's conservative. Reputation-obsessed. He hates scandal."
"He hates losing control," Su-yin corrected.
Julian nodded. "He thinks you turned Vance Tech into a tabloid headline. He won't be flattered. He values integrity. Tradition. Appearances."
"Integrity," Su-yin repeated, tasting the word like something bitter.
"A man who builds his house on virtue," she said, "always keeps his sins underground."
Julian exhaled sharply. "He's planning to announce tonight that he's pulling out. Publicly. If he does, the market opens tomorrow with us already dead."
Su-yin's gaze didn't leave the screen.
"And the last?"
Julian hesitated before clicking again.
The final image appeared: younger, sharper, devastatingly handsome. His expression was one of detached amusement, like a predator watching an injured animal without hurry.
"Gabriel Cross," Julian said quietly. "CEO of Nexus Corp. He's not an investor. He's a scavenger. If Sterling walks, Cross buys us for scraps."
Su-yin stood.
She walked slowly toward the screen, heels silent against the marble floor. She raised a hand and traced the outline of Gabriel Cross's jaw—not touching the glass, but close enough to feel deliberate.
"The Glutton," she murmured."The Judge.""And the Vulture."
She turned back to Julian, her smile thin and knowing.
"A standard court."
"You're worried," she continued, "that I cannot speak in your language of quarterly earnings and dividend forecasts."
Julian didn't deny it.
"But these men," she said calmly, "are older than your markets. I have known them in every century. I have served wine to a hundred Henry Sterlings who believed morality was a weapon."
She crossed the room and reached for the dresses.
Her fingers brushed past red silk. Black satin. Emerald lace.
She stopped at midnight blue velvet.
"Vane wants to feel powerful," she said."Cross wants to be entertained.""And Sterling…" She lifted the dress. "Sterling wants to be proven right."
Julian frowned. "Right about what?"
"That I am exactly what they called me."
She handed him the dress.
"It's modest," Julian said, surprised. "High neck. Long sleeves. No… drama."
"Exactly," Su-yin replied.
"The world expects a seductress. A woman begging forgiveness with skin and softness." Her eyes gleamed. "So tonight, I will give them none of that."
She turned back toward the screen one last time.
"I will dress like a nun," she said quietly, "and walk like a Queen."
Julian felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"So what's the plan?" he asked.
Su-yin picked up her tea, finishing it in one slow sip.
"We do not beg," she said."We do not explain."
She set the cup down with a soft click.
"We make him feel rude."
She reached for her heels.
"Prepare the car, Julian," she said, voice calm, lethal. "Tonight, we do not hunt for gold."
She smiled.
"We hunt for Face."