Rose had learned that power made noise.
It was the clicking of heels in marble hallways, the rustle of expensive fabric, the soft, practiced laugh that made people lean in closer. Selena mastered all of it. Rose had watched her in the boardroom, in charity galas, even in the quiet mornings at the estate's balcony. Selena never walked — she arrived.
That morning began like any other. The city's winter wind battered against the glass walls of Draven Corp's top floor, but inside, the conference room was warm and heavy with the scent of coffee and ambition. Rose sat three seats away from Selena, taking notes on a merger proposal she barely understood.
Selena didn't just listen; she dissected. Every time a board member spoke, her gaze swept over them like a scalpel, cutting through rehearsed speeches until all that remained was truth. She caught Rose's eye once, almost as if checking that she was absorbing every move.
When the meeting ended, they stepped into the elevator together. Selena's reflection in the mirrored walls was poised, flawless.
"You're learning," she said without turning her head.
Rose's lips curved faintly. "From the best."
"Good." Selena's voice softened — a rare thing. "But remember, kindness is often mistaken for weakness. Don't give anyone that chance."
Rose didn't realize at the time that these would be some of Selena's final words to her.
---
That evening, Selena had a charity dinner to attend. She insisted Rose stay behind.
"It's politics, speeches, and bad wine," she said, fastening a diamond bracelet onto her wrist. "You'll be bored to tears."
Rose had curled up in the library with a book when the front doors slammed open. Damien's voice carried through the marble foyer.
"Mother's been in an accident."
She dropped the book and ran out. Damien was pale, but there was no tremor in his voice, no raw edge of grief.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"Poison," he said, almost casually. "In the wine. She collapsed at the table. They couldn't save her."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. "No—"
Before she could finish, Lydia descended the grand staircase in a dress of soft gold silk, her expression perfectly composed. "The police will have questions. Don't say anything unnecessary, Rose. The media will twist your words."
Marcus appeared in the hallway's shadows. He was calm, too calm. "We should prepare for the will reading. That's where things will get… interesting."
Rose barely heard him. All she could see was Selena's face, stern yet steady, the one constant in a life that had always been shifting beneath her feet. Gone. Just like that.
---
Three days later, the family gathered in the oak-paneled office of Selena's lawyer. The scent of old paper and leather-bound law books clung to the air.
The lawyer, a narrow man with steel-rimmed glasses, began to read.
"To my children, Lydia, Damien, and Marcus, I leave my personal jewelry, vehicles, and minor estate properties…"
Rose stared at the carpet, barely listening.
"…To Rose Elara, I leave fifty percent ownership of Draven Corporation, full voting rights as Chief Executive Officer, and controlling stake in the primary estate holdings."
Her head snapped up. The silence was deafening.
Lydia's nails dug into her armrest. Damien's jaw tightened. Marcus didn't blink, but his gaze locked on Rose like a predator marking prey.
"This is absurd," Lydia said, her tone ice. "She's not even blood."
"It is," the lawyer said without looking at her, "exactly what your mother wanted."
Marcus's lips curved — not into a smile, but into something colder. "Then I suppose we'll have to… adapt."
---
That night, Vincent appeared in her room without warning. Not the half-visible flicker she'd gotten used to, but fully there, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting all day.
"I told you," he said quietly.
She stared at him. "You knew she would—"
"I knew someone wanted her gone. And now they want you gone." His gaze sharpened. "They think you stole their birthright. That makes you dangerous to them — and a target."
Her hands trembled. "What do I do?"
"You survive." His tone left no room for argument. "And you let me work."
---
The first attempt was almost laughably obvious.
One of the household staff brought in a tray of coffee during her morning meeting with the legal team. Rose reached for the cup, but the faintest, acrid tang in the air made her pause. Vincent's voice slid into her ear, low and certain.
Don't drink that.
She set it aside. Later, she poured it into the sink in her bathroom. The liquid hissed, the porcelain blistering under its touch.
---
The second was more public. A rumor appeared online — grainy photos of Rose in a hotel room with a married politician. Within an hour, her phone was swamped with messages from journalists.
Before she could even think of a statement, Vincent was beside her, his fingers brushing the side of her laptop.
"They won't find a trace of this by morning," he murmured.
And they didn't. Every image, every link, every whisper vanished as if it had never existed.
---
By the time the third attempt came, Rose had stopped telling herself it was paranoia.
She was walking to her car in the company's underground parking garage when the lights flickered overhead. A figure detached itself from the shadows — Damien, smiling like a man rehearsing a eulogy.
"You don't look much like a CEO," he said conversationally. "You look like someone who could… disappear."
Rose's pulse pounded.
Then Damien's smile faltered, his eyes shifting just past her shoulder. Vincent stepped out from the darkness, not hiding this time, not even trying to soften the threat in his presence.
"Who the hell are you?" Damien asked.
Vincent's voice was calm. "Her shadow."
The air in the garage seemed to drop ten degrees. Damien backed away, but his eyes told her this wasn't over.