The air in Draxon's executive wing grew thicker by the hour. Though the corridors were sterilized by luxury and silence, beneath the gleam, tension slithered like a snake through every polished corner.
Mr. Dime still living as Elias Thorne walked through the marble-tiled hallway, his shoes clicking with precise rhythm, his tailored charcoal coat slicing through the cold air like a blade. Rumors swirled like wildfire since the board's failed attempt to oust him using the scandal with Duchess Corporation's liaison. But instead of falling, he rose. Stronger, sharper, quieter.
They didn't expect him to counter the scandal with evidence of their own affairs literal and financial. They didn't expect him to expose a hidden embezzlement scheme from the same executives that tried to frame him. And they certainly didn't expect him to turn the narrative into a restructuring plan that boosted shareholder confidence overnight.
Today, however, there was something different in the air. Something that warned him: not everyone had played their hand yet.
He stepped into his office. Jude, his personal assistant, was already waiting.
"Morning, sir. There's a memo from the Department of Security. You've been advised not to attend the Gala next Friday."
"Of course I'll attend," Dime said without looking up. "That's exactly why they don't want me there."
Jude hesitated. "Sir... there's chatter about an incident being planned. I couldn't trace the source, but it's serious."
Dime finally looked up, eyes sharp. "Get Lewis. Tell him to arrange a secondary route and double my protection detail. And Jude, pull every internal correspondence from the past 72 hours. If someone inside this company wants me gone, they'll have left a trail."
"Yes, Mr. Thorne."
That evening, Magritte appeared. Like smoke curling from a forbidden candle, she entered the penthouse with silence in her steps and shadows in her eyes. She wore a navy suit and a silver pin shaped like a fox, her face unreadable.
"Magritte," he greeted. "You show up when the air's about to break. What have you heard?"
She sat across from him, crossed her legs, and pulled a small leather-bound notebook from her coat.
"There's a new syndicate inside your company. Not the board. Not Dexter. Something deeper. Silent partners foreign interests that benefited from your downfall. You've disrupted too many of their financial flows."
Dime leaned back, digesting the words.
"Names?"
"Two. One is a shell Valmere Holdings. The other is someone you've already met but underestimated: Clarice Saville."
He blinked. "The charity executive?"
"She's no philanthropist. She's an investor with roots in offshore laundering, hiding behind public causes. She funds half the operatives tied to the Duchess scandal. She may be your new enemy."
He closed his eyes. The pieces were starting to align. Clarice had smiled too much during their meetings. Asked too few questions. Offered too much help too quickly.
"You'll need to use their weight against them," Magritte said. "Let them invite you closer, then burn the house down."
He opened his eyes slowly. "I'll do more than that. I'll turn their house into mine."
The next morning, Dime entered the strategy council meeting. Dexter, Valerie, Crick, and a few other top-level executives sat around the glass table.
"We need a new direction," Crick began, falsely confident. "The public perception hit after the Duchess story is "
"Handled," Dime interrupted. "Public confidence is up 13%. Our competitors have stayed quiet. We're not here to discuss perception. We're here to restructure marketing around our equity shifts."
Dexter folded his arms. "And how exactly do you plan to convince shareholders to stay on board with this... surge of control?"
Dime smiled faintly. "By showing them results. Which is why we're hosting a private summit next month in Oslo. You're all invited. Clarice Saville will be a keynote guest."
Crick blinked. "She agreed to that?"
"She thinks it's her game. She'll walk right into it."
Later that night, Dime met with Lewis in the underground garage, away from recording devices and eyes.
"I need you to find out who Valmere's real owner is. Magritte's lead is solid, but I want confirmation. Also, we need to sweep the Oslo venue. Room by room. Leave nothing unchecked."
"You think they'll strike there?"
"They won't get the chance. This time, I'm setting the trap."
A week passed. The summit was announced, invitations sent, and preparations made.
Dime spent nights reviewing files, blueprints, call logs. His memory of the shipwreck, though still incomplete, began surfacing in shards. A woman's voice. Laughter. A violent wave. A betrayal.
Jude entered one evening with a sealed envelope. "From Clarice. An RSVP. And... something else."
Inside was a photograph. Blurry, old, water-stained.
It was Elias Thorne. The real Elias. On the ship. Arm-in-arm with Clarice.
Dime stared at the photo long after Jude left. The memories clawed at him. Then something clicked.
Clarice wasn't just an enemy. She was part of the past. A part of Elias' disappearance.
And she thought he didn't remember.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself. "But I will. And when I do... it's over."