Julius pulled out his tablet and flipped it toward him."So here are the options if you don't show up tonight."
Lucas didn't reach for it.
He just looked out the window at the flashing city lights, jaw set. "Maybe I don't want to be the guy who shows up for parties I didn't ask for."
Julius gave a short laugh, low and sharp. "And maybe you didn't want to inherit a billion dollars and a crumbling empire, either. But here we are."
Lucas glanced at him. Julius didn't blink.
"You want to be the CEO? Be the myth? Fine. That part's yours. No one's writing that script but you."
Julius leaned forward, voice quiet now, with teeth behind it."But don't confuse control with ego, Lucas. This legacy? It's not about you—it's about what survives you."
Lucas's jaw flexed.
Julius tapped the screen, bringing up names, photos, headlines.
"Bad optics? I can fix. PR damage? I can spin. But what I can't do is stop powerful women from walking away when they decide you're not worth betting on."
Lucas didn't say anything.
So Julius kept going.
"Mila is powerful. Xinyi is dangerous. Nadia plays like a queen. Rhea is loyal—but not blindly. You're not picking arm candy. You're picking influence. Alignment. And if you burn the wrong bridge, you don't just lose a headline. You lose your leverage."
He let that sit.
"Every move matters now. Because one bad play doesn't just cost a deal—it costs the whole board."
Lucas looked over finally, voice low. "You done?"
Julius smirked. "I haven't even started. But you've got five floors till the car stops and Mila's wine gets warm. So decide, Lucas."
He pulled up one last screen.
A black-and-white photo of Cyrus Han, standing with a young woman—Mila Quon's mother—and an old caption beneath it:"The only seat he ever declined was the one he couldn't control."
Lucas stared at the image.
Julius didn't look up this time. "You can be Cyrus's son. Or you can be Lucas Pan. But you can't be both forever."
The car slowed.
Lucas didn't move yet.
He took the tablet. Read the summary. Closed it.
Then he straightened his jacket.
"I'll go," he said.
Julius smiled faintly. "Of course you will."
Lucas paused before stepping out.
"And Julius?"
"Yeah?"
"Remind me to beat you next time."
Julius's grin widened. "You can try. But legacy doesn't play fair."
Lucas look at that smug grin and stepped out of the car, the chilled wine in one hand, the bouquet in the other.
The doorman didn't ask for a name. Just opened the door with a respectful nod and a slight grin—the kind men gave to other men walking willingly into lion's dens.
The elevator ride was silent. Smooth. Private.
ATHENA didn't speak.
Even she knew this was a space best entered with ears open and mouth shut.
The doors opened directly into Mila Quon's penthouse—no hallway, no reception. Just warm lights, high glass, and the smell of Szechuan spices folded into wine and old wood.
And inside?
A curated party of ten women—and thirty male models.
The ratio wasn't a mistake.
Each of the women—power-dressed, tight in formation—turned to look when Lucas stepped in.
They didn't smile.
They assessed.
Each one was a graduate of the same private boarding school, handpicked by Mila, connected by legacy and ambition. The kind of women who laughed in four languages and made fund managers nervous.
Lucas held their gaze, offered a nod, then found her.
Mila Quon.
Standing by the bar in a black jumpsuit with a low back and sharper heels. She looked like a villain in an art film and moved like she didn't know what failure tasted like.
She waved him over with the grace of someone summoning a server.
Lucas approached slowly, watching the way she tilted her glass—not to him, but to her friends.
Like this was a presentation.
Not a visit.
"I brought wine," he said, handing over the bottle and the flowers.
Mila took them like a formality—no thanks, no smile—then casually set the bouquet on a mirrored side table where it joined a lineup of gifts clearly meant to impress. The bottle, however, she examined with a quick glance.
"Acceptable," she murmured.
Lucas glanced around, brow lifted. The room was full-on curated spectacle. The males were shirtless drifted among ten women dressed in quiet couture, sipping wine like it was blood and gossiping with battlefield precision.
"Is this your version of subtle?" he asked, dry. "Or is there a fashion show I missed the memo for?"
Mila took a slow sip of her drink. "The world's changed, Lucas. Money buys access. Influence. Art." She glanced sideways at a particularly bronze model passing by with a tray. "Why not beauty?"
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Should I take off my shirt, then? Blend in?"
Mila's gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—then returned to his face with a flicker of amusement.
"That's entirely up to you," she said, voice like silk over something sharper. "But I invited you here for your value. Not your abs."
Lucas smiled. "First time I've heard that tonight."
She motioned toward the spiral staircase. "Come upstairs."
He followed.
The third floor opened into a private glass-walled office suspended like a viewing box over the city. One wall was books. The other was night. A minimalist desk glowed softly at the center. A few pieces of art—likely worth more than a downtown apartment—lined the space with tasteful ego.
Beyond a frosted glass divider, he caught a glimpse of a doorway—probably her bedroom. She didn't explain. He didn't ask.
Mila sat down behind the desk, legs crossed, eyes already on the tablet she'd left glowing.
"Your father was knee-deep in five ventures with the Quon family," she said, without preamble. "Two real estate shells in Southeast Asia, one private currency play, and a renewable startup that stalled due to board politics. I want them sorted. Either folded into something useful—or cut loose with dignity."
Lucas didn't sit right away. He walked to the glass wall and looked out at the pulsing city below.
"You're not interested in nostalgia, are you?"
"No," Mila said flatly. "I'm interested in leverage. And if you inherit chaos, I'd rather make that chaos profitable before someone else does."
He turned. "And what's in it for me?"
She looked up, that same unreadable expression on her face.
"My name. My access. And my silence—if you decide this isn't the kind of spotlight you want to live in."
Lucas finally sat across from her. "You don't think I can handle it?"
She smiled. "I think you're not sure if you want it. Yet."
Lucas didn't flinch.
But before he could speak, ATHENA's voice slid into his ear, low and precise.
"Risk evaluation complete. Quon holdings linked to three dormant Han ventures. Consolidation projected yield: 13.4% over two years. Recommend agreement—with negotiation on project equity split. Suggested phrasing: 'You bring history. I bring momentum.'"
Lucas met Mila's gaze, leaned forward slightly.
"You bring history," he said, tone smooth. "I bring momentum."
Her smile twitched—just a fraction.
"And control?" she asked.
Lucas shrugged. "That depends on who's willing to share it."
ATHENA prompted again.
"Offer: 51–49 split. You retain control of existing assets. I run public strategy. We win together, or not at all."
He added, "I'll take 49. But I run the public face. You want results? I make the press kiss your name again."
Mila studied him. Then stood.
Lucas rose with her.
She walked to him, silent, assessing. Then extended her hand.
They shook—firm, steady.
"And the paperwork?" he asked.
Mila leaned in, kissed him on the cheek. Her breath barely brushed his skin, but the message was pointed.
"My lawyers will finish the draft tonight. You'll have it within forty-eight hours."
Lucas nodded once. "Fair."
Mila didn't blink. She pivoted like she hadn't heard him and pulled up another set of files on the screen behind her—sleek charts, blinking red accounts, incomplete partnerships.
"I have three more minor ventures your father was involved in," she said coolly. "One's in litigation. One's hemorrhaging debt. One's tied to a shell company in Dubai with suspicious holdings."
She turned toward him. "I'll take over the litigation and the shell. You cover the debt. You want to play empire? It's not all ribbon cuttings and champagne."
Lucas didn't flinch. "You offering poison to see if I can swallow it?"
Mila raised an eyebrow. "I'm offering poison to see if you'll make it profitable."
"Analyzing,"ATHENA said in his ear."The Dubai asset has false negatives in the books. It's a front for a clean energy patent—acquisition value is high. Take the debt. Spin it green. Decline litigation. Let her sweat."
Lucas stepped forward.
"I'll absorb the debt," he said. "We convert it to a green development press cycle—make you look visionary, me look reckless but clever."
He tapped the screen with a single finger. "But I'm not touching the litigation. Not until I know who you're protecting in it."
Mila's smile faded—then slowly returned, more genuine this time. "Cyrus didn't raise an idiot."
Lucas met her gaze evenly. "No. He just didn't expect a challenger."
She stared at him.
And then, without warning, stepped closer.
No smirk. No performance. Just heat.
She stood close enough for her perfume to bend the air between them—something dark and faintly bitter, like night-blooming jasmine and ambition.
Her hand touched the front of his jacket lightly.
"You keep this up," she said, voice low, "and I'll stop joking."
Lucas's brow lifted. "About?"
Mila leaned in, her mouth near his ear. "About you being my next boyfriend."
She didn't kiss him this time.
But she didn't move back either.
Lucas smiled.
"I'm not cheap," he said. "And I'm not easy."
Mila smiled back. "Neither am I."
ATHENA pinged."Caution. Subject Mila Quon is showing signs of strategic arousal. Suggest emotional containment. Or escalation—if properly branded."
Lucas turned and walked toward the door without looking back.
"Send me the files," he said.
"I already did," Mila called after him.
ATHENA purred softly in his ear."Congratulations. You just outplayed a woman who doesn't play fair. You may have also accidentally turned her on. Twice."
Lucas grinned.
He didn't deny it.