The cold Oslo wind rattled the rooftop doors, carrying with it the scent of fjord salt and distant forest. Beneath the storm-slicked sky, Elias Thorne formerly Mr. Dime exhaled a plume of condensation and squared his shoulders. Tonight was the opening of the Draxton Summit, and his presence had been billed as a show of strength. In truth, it was a declaration: he was no longer invisible. Nor was he vulnerable.
He stepped out onto the terrace, leaving behind the echo of clinking glasses and hushed conversations. In his right hand, he held a white envelope embossed with "CONFIDENTIAL OPEN IN PRIVATE." Inside, selected guests including Clarice Saville found invitations to a secret late-night meeting. After all, if you wanted to flush out the wolves, you invited them inside the den.
He had crafted the plan with precision. Attend the gala, greet investors, embody generosity and stability. But then, those he suspected Clarice, Crick, possibly Dexter would be unable to resist curiosity. Even the most confident often peek behind the curtain.
Soft harp music drifted through the room smelling of oak and aged wine. Elias strode through clusters of dignitaries in a midnight tux, face calm, posture regal. He greeted each guest with an understated nod that sent the message: this man belongs here.
Clarice stood near a polished mahogany column. He approached her.
"Clarice," he said warmly. "Glad you could make it."
She inclined her head smoothly, eyes a touch colder than he'd remembered. "Elias. This is a lovely event."
"Worth the trip?"
"Certainly." She shifted. "But this invitation…" she touched the envelope discreetly inside her clutch. "What sort of cloak-and-dagger invitation is this?"
He returned her gaze unflinchingly. "A conversation between old friends. Tonight. The rooftop. Midnight."
She smiled thinly. "I'll come."
And she left to circulate through the crowd. Exactly as he'd expected.
Meanwhile, Dexter approached him, voice low. "Your generosity is noted but some of us wonder who the true beneficiary is."
He nodded. "Everyone gets something tonight."
Across the room, Lewis stood watchful. Earlier, he'd confirmed that security sweeps had blueberries (bug detectors) baked into the skin of dessert trays. He'd secured perimeter checks. The only unknown now was what players Clayton Saville or Clarice's presumed partner would bring.
Moments before dinner service began, a sudden commotion erupted by the vaulted entrance. Reporters had descended, not through official permission, but through the service doors. Cameras flashed and reporters shouted questions: "Mr. Thorne Clarice Saville, relationship rumors?" "With Magritte's return and father's secret are you hiding a scandal?"*
Jude intercepted, placing himself in front as shields. Lewis moved in tandem, eyes darting to identify trouble sources. Elias raised his hand, restoring silence.
The room recalibrated. Just as planned an orchestrated leak. He'd tipped that unsanctioned press presence earlier in the night. It was a test: would the crowd look to him for leadership? And they did.
He gave a brief address, composed and confident: "Let's leave where we belong: the Summit's main ballroom. My apologies I assume you all know where that is." The room complied.
After doors closed, Lewis approached. "All set for rooftop?"
"On my watch."
The city's nighttime silhouette stretched into the distance an ocean of lights against a black sea. A table, black linen, encircled by five empty chairs. As the clock clinched midnight, footsteps measured, elegant descended the staircase and approached the terrace.
Clarice emerged first. Glass in hand. Velvet gown flowing. Eyes narrowed, waiting. She gave him a nod.
Dexter followed quietly, nervous energy in his step.
Three more guests arrived: Crick smug, self-assured; Voss and Price, representing remaining board unity; and, slipping from the shadows, Neriah Sand the investigator silent and inscrutable.
He offered a seat. "Glad you answered the invitation."
Everyone sat.
He leaned forward. "You all know why we're here. This summit isn't about charity. It's about recalibrating Draxton's heart. But tonight, I've asked you here because I believe we need honesty."
Silence. Then Clarice broke in: "Honesty? Against what? A fabricated scandal? An orchestrated shipwreck?"
He didn't flinch. "Maybe all of the above. The difference is: I have evidence." He tapped a black USB stick on the table.
Crick scoffed. "You have nerve calling us liars, Elias."
"You have secrets worth exposing. But let's start with you, Clarice. Why did you invite me to Oslo? I've seen the photograph." He gestured toward the envelope unopened in her clutch. "Me on the yacht. With you. During the night I disappeared. Care to explain?"
Clarice's face paled. She sat upright. "I was... protecting you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Protecting me by letting you take the picture yourself?"
"It was meant to complicate matters. I didn't know the yacht was a trap."
"Then tell them who rigged it."
The room held breath.
Valerie stepped forward. "Clarice, this is too much. If you didn't"
Elias cut in. "Clarice or one of you planted the bomb."
Crick looked around, sweat at his collar. Dexter white-knuckled the table.
Neriah leaned forward. "The forensic has blood on Clarice's dress even faint gunshot residue on yacht fibers tied to her glove. The path leads to Valmere Holdings your shell operation."
Clarice stood, startled. "This is misinformation."
Lewis emerged behind her. "Own it. We traced Valmere's ownership to your trust Clarice."
She faltered. "I It was supposed to fund... reconstruction in Eritrea."
He smiled, calm and measured: "Funny how arms suppliers and offshore accounts maximize data for shell charities. Funny how the board remains silent when asked."
Price reached back, her eyes shimmering with guilt. "He's telling the truth."
Crick finally stuttered: "We had control issues. None of us none expected him to return so strong."
The room disintegrated into warring accusations.
Elias stood and touched the USB stick. "Board vote of confidence has a week. If you still sit in my seat at midnight, I'll start releasing documents."
Clarice collapsed to a chair. "You're mad."
"That's called leadership," he said softly.
By dawn, Oslo papers carried headlines:
"Tycoon Unveils Board's Hidden Director Scandal at Summit."
"A Charitable Façade, or Offshore Front?"
Clarice Saville, forced into retreat, left town quietly.
Dexter's influence wobbled, but without exposure, he remained a threat to be contained. Price and Voss remained quietly loyal for now.
Neriah watched Elias from the burial mist of the buffet table. He met her eyes across the room. She nodded subtly that was agreement. The battle wasn't won, but the war had shifted.
Elias Guardian sighed, rested jaw, and looked at the skyline from the airplane window. Jude slept behind him. Lewis kept watch.
"What now?" Lewis asked quietly.
He turned. "We wait. They'll rebuild. They'll plot. They'll target us again."
"They'll come."
Elias's expression was quiet, hard. "But this time, we'll be ready. The board knows I'm alive in mind, in body, and in determination."
He pocketed his phone alerts waiting.
"Magritte told them to remind me of the boy," he said. "Now they've reminded him of everything else."
He pressed play on the AirPods. Soft cello music filled his ears.
"In the end," he thought, "they can either climb with me... or fall under me."