The boardroom was no longer a place of negotiation; it was a courtroom.
Marcus Sterling sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled, his eyes two chips of flint. Surrounding him were the senior partners—the "Old Guard" who saw the Vance merger not as a strategic expansion, but as a stain on their pristine reputation.
"The press is calling us 'predatory,' Elias," Marcus said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The Vance family baggage is spilling out into the streets. Our investors are skittish. We're losing the narrative."
Elias stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the morning sky. Clara sat at the table, her hands folded tightly. She felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"The narrative is being controlled by whoever leaked those files," Elias said, turning around. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it that Clara hadn't heard before. "If we pull out now, we admit we didn't do our due diligence. We admit we're weak. Is that the Sterling brand, Marcus? Running at the first sign of a leak?"
"It's not just a leak, Elias," another partner interrupted. "It's the nature of the debt. Gambling? Missing funds? We can't be associated with that kind of instability."
Clara felt the heat rising in her neck. She opened her mouth to defend herself—to tell them about the three years of eighteen-hour days she'd spent cleaning up a mess she didn't make—but a sharp look from Elias stopped her.
Wait, his eyes said.
"The instability is exactly why this merger is a goldmine," Elias said, stepping toward the table. He didn't look at the board; he looked at Marcus. "Clara Vance has kept a dying giant alive for three years on nothing but grit. She has the loyalty of every driver in the Northeast. You can't buy that kind of infrastructure. You restructure the debt, you absorb the risk, and you reap the rewards of a monopoly on the logistics corridor."
"And the PR nightmare?" Marcus asked.
"We kill it," Elias said. He paused, and for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickered to Clara. "We don't just announce a merger. We announce a partnership. A deep, long-term commitment. We show the world that Sterling & Associates isn't 'absorbing' Vance. We're building something new with them."
"A commitment?" Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "Explain."
Elias leaned in, his hands flat on the mahogany table. "The rumors say we're at each other's throats. That I'm gutting her company. We change that. Effective immediately, Ms. Vance and I will be co-managing the transition publicly. We attend the industry gala on Friday. Together. We show them a united front that makes the leak look like a desperate, failed attempt to break us."
The room went silent. The "United Front" was a classic move, but the way Elias said it—the way he looked at Clara as if they were the only two people in the room—made it feel like something else.
"Are you suggesting you play the role of the devoted partner, Elias?" Marcus asked with a dry, knowing smirk. "You? The man who treats dinner like a deposition?"
"I'm suggesting we do what is necessary to protect the firm's interests," Elias replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
"And you, Ms. Vance?" Marcus turned his gaze to her. "Are you prepared to stand beside the man who's been trying to 'optimize' you out of existence?"
Clara looked at Elias. She saw the mask he was wearing, but she also remembered the pasta he had cooked, the way he had held her in the dark of the warehouse, and the secret sketch he had hidden in a drawer. He was a mystery, a rival, and currently, her only ally.
"I've survived my father's mistakes," Clara said, her voice clear and resonant. "I can certainly survive a few hours on Mr. Thorne's arm. If it saves my company, I'll play whatever part is required."
As the board began to murmur in agreement, Elias didn't look triumphant. He looked like a man who had just signed a contract he wasn't sure he could fulfill.
The meeting adjourned, and as the others filed out, Elias lingered. Clara walked up to him, the tension between them vibrating like a struck wire.
"A gala, Elias?" she whispered. "You hate galas. You told me they were 'vats of expensive noise.'"
"They are," he said, not looking at her. He was busy gathering his papers. "But the noise hides things. It'll hide the fact that we don't have a plan yet."
"Is that all it's hiding?" she asked, stepping into his line of sight.
Elias stopped. He looked at her then—really looked at her—and for the first time, Clara saw a flicker of something raw and unprotected in his eyes.
"Friday night, Clara. 8:00 PM. Don't be late."
He walked out, leaving her standing in the cold, empty boardroom, wondering if the "part" they were about to play was going to be the most dangerous thing they'd ever done.