THE MONUMENT
POV: Elena Rostova
The book did not look like a biography. It looked like a monolith.
I stood in the center of the renovated atrium, holding the first print copy of PRIDE. The dust jacket was matte black, devoid of images. The title was embossed in silver foil, a sharp, serif font that caught the light like the edge of a blade.
PRIDE: The Kingdom He Built on Ash.
By Elena Rostova.
It was heavy in my hand. Heavier than the debt I used to carry.
"It smells of ink and money," a voice said behind me.
I turned. Silas stood there.
He was fully restored. The cast on his hand was gone, replaced by a faint, jagged scar that ran across his knuckles—a permanent reminder of the violence he had committed for me. He wore a tuxedo that absorbed the light, the velvet absorbing the noise of the room.
He walked toward me, the familiar rhythm of his gait echoing on the newly laid white marble. We hadn't replaced the rug yet. He liked the sound of my heels clicking against the stone. He said it sounded like I was staking a claim.
"It smells like freedom," I corrected, handing him the book.
He didn't open it. He ran his thumb over my name.
"Rostova," he mused. "We need to fix that."
"Fix my name?"
"It's outdated. The contract is complete. The branding should reflect the merger."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you proposing a merger, Silas?"
"I am proposing a hostile takeover," he said, his eyes glittering with that cold, silver fire. "But that is a discussion for the boardroom."
He looked around the room.
The Spire was ready.
Tonight was the launch party. Six months ago, this room had been a battlefield filled with smoke and broken glass. Today, it was a cathedral.
The West Wing office had been gutted and turned into a sunroom filled with rare orchids—my request. The thermal seals on the doors were reinforced with military-grade steel—his request.
The security was tighter than the Pentagon. No one entered the lobby without a retinal scan. The servers were ghosted.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "The sharks are downstairs."
"Let them swim up," I said, smoothing the skirt of my dress.
I wasn't wearing black tonight. I was wearing gold. Molten, liquid gold lamé that poured over my body like a statue. It had a high neck and long sleeves, but the back was open down to the dangerous curve of my spine.
It was armor.
"Turn," he commanded.
I turned.
I felt his gaze rake down my bare back. I heard him inhale sharply.
"The golden ratio," he murmured.
He stepped closer. He didn't touch me with his hands. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the base of my spine. It was a brand. Hot. Possessive.
"You look expensive," he whispered against my skin.
"I am expensive," I replied, turning back to face him. "You have the invoices to prove it."
He smirked. "Worth every penny."
The elevator chimed. Marcus stepped out, looking significantly healthier than he had six months ago, mostly because Thorne's implosion had removed 90% of the legal threats against the company.
"Sir. Madame. The guests have arrived."
"Madame?" I questioned.
Marcus offered a small, knowing smile. "Protocol, Ms. Rostova."
"Send them up," Silas ordered. "But restrict access to the East Wing. No one touches the writing room."
"Understood."
Silas offered me his arm.
"Shall we go greet the subjects?"
POV: Silas Vane
The party was a study in hypocrisy.
Three hundred of New York's elite filled my penthouse. These were the same people who had called for my resignation when the video leaked. The same people who had sold my stock when the bomb went off.
Now, they drank my champagne and called me a hero.
"The book is a revelation, Silas," a Senator told me, clutching a signed copy. "The way Elena describes your vision... it's poetic. 'A man who edits the world to keep it from hurting him.' Deep stuff."
"It is accurate," I said boredly, scanning the room.
My focus wasn't on the Senator. It was on the golden figure moving through the crowd.
Elena was holding court.
She stood by the window, a glass of sparkling water in her hand—she rarely drank alcohol anymore. She was laughing at something the Editor-in-Chief of The Times said.
She looked royal.
Six months ago, she had been a shivering mess in a wet coat, begging me for a job. Now, she controlled the room gravity. People leaned toward her, seeking her warmth.
I felt a surge of pride so intense it almost hurt.
This was what I had built. Not the tower. Her.
I had taken a broken thing, shored up the foundation, stripped away the rot, and polished the surface.
Or perhaps she had done it to herself. Perhaps she had just used my scaffolding to climb.
It didn't matter. The result was the same. She was magnificent.
And she was mine.
I watched a young man—a hedge fund manager, judging by the aggressive cut of his suit—lean too close to her. He touched her arm.
I stiffened. The old instinct flared. Target lock. Neutralize.
But Elena didn't flinch. She didn't look for me to save her.
She simply placed her hand over his, removed it from her arm, and said something that made the man turn pale and step back.
She caught my eye across the room. She winked.
I smiled. A rare, genuine smile that unsettled the Senator standing next to me.
"Mr. Vane? Are you... smiling?"
"My investment is performing well," I said.
I walked toward her. The crowd parted. They sensed the magnetic pull.
I reached her side. I slipped my arm around her waist, my hand resting heavily on the gold fabric over her hip.
"Bored yet?" I asked.
"Excruciatingly," she whispered. "If one more person asks me if the sex scenes are autobiographical, I'm going to stab them with a hors d'oeuvre pick."
"Tell them it's fiction," I said. "The reality would melt their brains."
"Silas," a voice grated.
I turned.
Charles Galloway, the former Chairman of the Board. He looked smaller now that he was out of power.
"Silas. Elena. Quite the turnout."
"Charles," I nodded. "I assumed you would be in Connecticut."
"I wanted to see the phoenix rise," Galloway said, gesturing to the room. "You survived the fire, Silas. But they say a house that burns once is always prone to burn again."
It was a thinly veiled threat. A suggestion that my stability was temporary.
I looked at Charles.
"Concrete becomes stronger when cured, Charles. The fire didn't weaken the structure. It tempered it."
I pulled Elena closer.
"And besides," I added, looking at her. "I have fire suppression systems now."
"I see." Galloway looked at Elena. "You wrote a dangerous book, young lady. You humanized a shark. Some people might think it's safer to get back in the water."
"Then let them swim," Elena said, her voice cool and sharp as cut glass. "Silas eats sharks."
Galloway blinked, chuckled nervously, and retreated.
Elena looked up at me.
"Ready to go?" I asked.
"Go where? It's our party."
"We made an appearance. The contract is fulfilled. I want to go upstairs."
"Upstairs?"
"The roof."
She hesitated. "It's cold."
"I'll keep you warm."
We slipped away. We didn't say goodbye. We just ghosted toward the private service elevator in the pantry—the same one the killers had used. We had reclaimed it. It wasn't a site of trauma anymore; it was just a lift.
We rode it up to the 92nd floor. The mechanical level. The roof.
POV: Elena Rostova
The wind on the roof was ferocious. It whipped my gold dress around my legs, snapping like a flag.
We stood on the helipad—a circle of concrete painted with a large white 'H'. Above us, the warning lights blinked red. Around us, the city of New York sprawled in an endless ocean of electricity.
It was terrifyingly high.
But I didn't feel the vertigo anymore.
Silas took off his tuxedo jacket. He draped it over my shoulders. It was heavy, warm, and smelled of him—cedar, ozone, and authority.
He stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
"Look," he said, pointing to the south.
"The Freedom Tower?"
"No. Look past it. The gap in the skyline."
I looked. There was a dark spot near the waterfront.
"Thorne's building?" I guessed.
"The demolition permits were approved this morning," Silas said, his voice vibrating in his chest against my back. "We are tearing it down. Vane Holdings is building a new residential complex there. Affordable housing mixed with green spaces."
"You're building affordable housing?" I laughed. "Silas Vane, are you developing a conscience?"
"I am developing a tax write-off," he corrected. "But... yes. It will be efficient. It will have light."
He rested his chin on my shoulder.
"He is gone, Elena. Thorne is in a non-extradition country with no assets. Volkov is serving twenty years at Rikers. The slate is clean."
"Is it?" I asked. "Or are there just new monsters waiting?"
"There are always new monsters. But we have higher walls now."
He turned me around to face him. The wind blew his hair back, revealing the sharp, brutal angles of his face. He looked like a king looking out over his domain.
"You finished the book," he said. "The contract is void. The debt is paid. You have your own money now. Millions from the advance."
"I do."
"So." He searched my eyes. "You could leave. You could buy your own penthouse. You could escape the Architect."
"Is that an eviction notice?"
"It is a stress test."
I reached up and touched the scar on his hand.
"I don't want to leave," I said.
"Why? I am controlling. I am obsessive. I track your caloric intake. I lock the doors at night."
"Because you lock them to keep the world out, not to keep me in," I said. "And because... I love the cage."
He went still.
"You love the cage?"
"I love who I am inside it. Outside, I was messy. I was drowning. In here... I'm sharp. I'm focused."
I rose on my tiptoes.
"And because I love the keeper."
Silas let out a breath—a sound of surrender.
"You are a masochist," he whispered.
"I learned from the best."
He kissed me. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was the wind and the cold and the height. It was the kiss of a man who had built a fortress just to protect one single, fragile thing.
"Marry me," he said against my lips.
I froze. "What?"
"Marry me. Merge the assets. Solidify the legal standing. We can sign the papers tonight. Harper has them in the car."
"You have marriage papers in the car?"
"I have had them for three weeks. I was waiting for the stock to stabilize."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was so beautifully, predictably him.
"Yes," I said. "You romantic, calculating sociopath. Yes."
He didn't smile. He just looked at me with intense satisfaction.
"Good. Then the dynasty is secure."
He picked me up. Literally swept me off my feet, the gold dress trailing on the concrete.
"Where are we going?"
"Down," he said. "To the Master Suite. I need to celebrate the merger."
He carried me to the elevator.
The wind howled behind us, but inside his arms, it was quiet.
He had built a kingdom on ash.
And I was the queen who struck the match.