The drive to the Oakhills district was silent. I sat in the back of the Maybach, the small scrap of crimson silk pressed between my thumb and forefinger. One half of my mind was calculating the move of the Santiago shipment; the other was stuck on the scent of jasmine that had lingered in my foyer.
"Sir, we're approaching the address," Brandon said. "It's a small boutique. "Kingston's Fashion mall."
"Stay in the car," I ordered.
I stepped out into the damp air of Oakhills.
I adjusted my charcoal overcoat, feeling like an alien invader.
The bell chimed as I pushed open the door. The shop was small, smelling of steam and high-quality wool. At the back, a man, likely the father, was hunched over a sewing machine. But it was the girl at the cutting table who made my pulse do that strange, jagged skip.
She froze as soon as she saw me.
Beatrice looked up, her eyes widening as they locked onto mine. In the harsh fluorescent light of the shop, she looked even more like the ghost from the hotel, but sharper.
"Mr. Elliott," she whispered. Her voice was steady, but I could see the frantic pulse in the hollow of her throat.
"You left this at the mansion," I said with a low clinical voice. I stepped forward, placing the scrap of red silk on the table between us.
"I... I'm sorry. I must have been in a hurry," she said, her hands busy with a spool of thread, trying to find a rhythm to hide her shaking.
I leaned over the table, my shadow swallowing her workspace. I wasn't here to be a romantic lead. I was here as the CEO who had been breached. "You were more than in a hurry. You looked like you were fleeing a crime scene. Is there something about the Elliott residence that disturbs you, Miss Kingston?"
"It's a very big house," she managed, her gaze dropping to the table. "It can be... intimidating for someone like me."
I studied her. She didn't look like a spy neither did She look like a plant for Spencer. I felt the Cystic Agnosia begin to throb behind my eyes, a warning that I was spending too much energy on a girl when the Nile Town expansion was at a critical juncture.
"Lucas?"
I turned. Tyler was standing in the doorway. He looked at Beatrice, then at me, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "We're on a clock, Ice King. The port authority just called about the ZigLan Rigs permits. And Grandpa is asking for a sit-down with the Star City executives. We need to go ."
I looked back at Beatrice. I wanted to stay an demand why her presence was the only thing that seemed to quiet the tremors in my nervous system. But the crown didn't allow for curiosity.
"Finish the commission for my aunt," I said, my tone returning to its icy baseline. "And stay away from the private wings of the house. I don't like trespassers, even accidental ones."
"I understand, Mr. Elliott," she said, her voice barely a breath.
I turned and walked out, Tyler falling in step beside me.
"That was... intense," Tyler chuckled as we got into the car. "For a guy who doesn't care about 'pretty things,' you looked like you were ready to audit her soul."
"She's a variable, Tyler. Nothing more."
"Right. A variable that smells like jasmine and makes you forget your own name for ten seconds." Tyler's expression shifted, becoming serious. "But you're right to move. Spencer is meeting with the Anderson group in an hour. They're trying to block the Nile Town permits by citing your 'health' again. We need to be at that meeting, Lucas. We need to be Elian in the boardroom today."
I nodded, staring out the window as Oakhills faded into the gray mist. I had a war to win.
"Drive," I commanded. "We have a kingdom to protect."
...
The boardroom of ZigLan headquarters was a theater of war, and today, the play was a tragedy. I walked in with Tyler at my side. Uncle Spencer was already there, flanked by Mr. Anderson and a row of government officials.
"The safety reports for the ZigLan Rigs in Nile Town are inconclusive," Anderson said, tapping a thick stack of papers. "And given your... documented history of head trauma and seizures, the Ministry is considering a temporary freeze on your export licenses. For the safety of the German soil, of course."
It was a blatant power grab. I sat at the head of the table, leaning back into the leather.
"Safety isn't your concern, Anderson," I said with a hoarse voice. "Your concern is the campaign donation you received from a shell company in Mexico last Tuesday. The one that's currently under investigation for money laundering."
The room went dead silent. Anderson's face drained of color. Beside him, Spencer's eyes darted between us, his mouth hanging open. He had no idea I had been tracking the money. He only saw his 'sickly' nephew, he didn't see the man who ran the shadows of Flensburg and Mexico
"I have the ledger," Tyler added, flipping open a laptop and turning it toward the officials. "Every cent, every offshore hop. If the Ministry freezes ZigLan, the Ministry goes down with us. Are we clear?"
Anderson stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "This meeting is over. We'll... re-evaluate."
As they scrambled out, Spencer lingered, his face twisted in a mask of fake concern. "You're playing a dangerous game, Lucas. You can't blackmail your way out of a disorder. Eventually, you'll break."
"I've been broken before, Uncle," I said without looking at him. "I didn't break."