By the end of Ava's second week in control, Lucan Tower had adjusted.
The panic was gone.
The shock had settled.
The board had stopped whispering in doorways and started showing up to meetings on time again.
Which, to Ava, was not comforting.
Complacency was just a slower form of attack.
She'd learned that from him.
"Morning briefing in six," Natalie said, stepping into Ava's office without waiting to be invited. Lately, no one on her side bothered with ceremony.
"What changed?" Ava asked, not looking up from the investor report she was annotating.
"Two things." Natalie held up two fingers. "One: press sentiment is still in your favor. The numbers are steady."
"And two?" Ava asked.
Natalie dropped a folder on her desk.
"And two," she said evenly, "someone just tried to move you."
Ava's eyes lifted.
The folder was labeled in that careful, neutral corporate way:
STRUCTURAL ADJUSTMENT PROPOSAL / DRAFT
Underneath, smaller: Prepared by: R. Gray
Richard Gray.
Of course.
Ava opened it. The language was dense. It always was. That was the game: hide the knife inside five pages of procedure.
She found the blade by page three.
Reallocation of public-facing strategic authority… reassessment of unilateral communication privileges… oversight committee to ensure market consistency…
Translation: take her voice, split it into a "committee," and slow her down until she wasn't dangerous anymore.
Ava let out a small breath through her nose. It wasn't quite a laugh.
"They're moving faster than I expected," she said.
Natalie didn't smile. "That proposal was timestamped 3:12 a.m. He sent it to the other board members before sunrise. He did not send it to you."
"Of course not," Ava said softly.
"And you know what that means."
"It means Richard thinks I'm either too busy to notice," Ava said, tone cool, "or too naïve to understand."
Natalie exhaled slowly. "You're going to make him regret both of those."
It wasn't really a question.
Ava closed the file and straightened.
"Yes," she said. "I am."
The meeting room wasn't officially a boardroom, which meant it was where the real things happened.
No press feeds. No analysts. No transcripts.
Just six senior executives, Richard at the head of the table, smiles too polite to be honest.
He stood when she entered, which would've looked like respect if she hadn't known him.
"Miss Hart," he said smoothly. "Thank you for joining us."
Ava walked to the table, not taking a seat yet.
"Of course," she said. "I like to attend meetings where I'm restructured."
A flicker went through the room — quiet, fast, involuntary.
Richard gave her his practiced grandfather expression. Warm. Steady. Poisoned.
"Let me be clear," he said. "No one is trying to remove you. We're suggesting support systems. You've been operating at… an impressive pace. The company wants to protect you from the pressure."
Ava tilted her head.
"That," she said calmly, "is fascinating."
Richard blinked. "How so?"
"Because it took Lucan Corporation five years to acknowledge that pressure burns people out when those people were your VPs and directors," Ava said. "But it took, what — two weeks? — for you to become deeply concerned about my well-being."
A soft cough of a suppressed laugh came from the far end of the table. Graham. Finance. Not a friend, but not blind.
Richard's jaw tightened, just once.
Ava sat then, folding her hands.
"Let's skip the part where you pretend to be paternal," she said, tone polite. "You're trying to cut my authority."
Richard didn't deny it. That was his style. He preferred to "restore balance," not "attack."
"Miss Hart—"
"You're trying," Ava continued, "to turn my voice into a vote. Because a voice moves instantly. A vote can be stalled, redirected, buried in process language. That's the play."
Someone inhaled sharply. They hadn't expected her to say it that plainly.
Richard kept his smile. "You're very sharp."
"I'm awake," she said.
He leaned forward slightly.
"And I am telling you," Richard said, his voice lowering into something that had probably frightened people for years, "that there is a correct cadence of expansion. The market understands stability."
"The market," Ava said, "understands narrative."
His eyes flashed then. Just a little.
"Lucan doesn't require a heroine," he said softly.
Ava held his gaze. "Lucan doesn't get to choose what the story requires anymore."
The silence after that wasn't shock.
It was acknowledgement.
They all understood what she'd just done.
She hadn't argued to keep her seat.
She'd claimed the room.
Richard tapped his fingers once against the table. The rhythm was patient, controlled.
"That," he said finally, "is precisely why an oversight committee is necessary. Your… confidence is inspiring. It's also dangerous."
"Dangerous," Ava repeated. "To whom?"
"To the company," he said smoothly.
"No," she said. "To you."
No one even tried to hide their reaction this time.
"A vote," Ava said, tone calm. "If you intend to formalize this oversight structure, you're calling a board vote, yes?"
Richard nodded once.
"Then call it," Ava said. "Call it today. Put it in writing, record the minutes, and make sure every name is attached. I want each of you to sign your own fear."
They weren't ready for that.
That was Ethan's tactic:
Force them to declare what they would've preferred to keep implied.
Graham cleared his throat. "Miss Hart, with respect—"
"Respect," Ava said, almost gently, "is earned, not announced."
Graham shut his mouth.
Ava stood.
"The public supports this direction," she said. "The markets support this direction. The exit of Ms. Grant and the restructuring of investor relations stabilized our volatility. You're not arguing based on results. You're arguing based on comfort."
She let that sit. Let it sink.
Then she said, quiet and precise:
"And Lucan doesn't exist for your comfort."
When she left the room, none of them followed.
"Do you want to know how that played?" Natalie asked later, falling into step beside her in the hall.
"I already know," Ava said.
Natalie arched an eyebrow. "Tell me."
"Half of them are going to stall instead of vote, because they don't want their names on record," Ava said. "The other half are going to start looking for leverage to use against me because I humiliated Richard in front of witnesses. He'll take that personally."
Natalie nodded once. "Accurate."
They walked.
"But you didn't mention the third group," Natalie said.
Ava glanced at her. "Which group is that?"
"The ones who are going to quietly start moving toward you," Natalie said, voice low. "Not because they believe in you, but because momentum smells like safety."
Ava let out a slow breath.
"Is that loyalty?" she asked.
"No," Natalie said. "That's survival. Don't confuse them."
Ava almost smiled.
"That," she said softly, "is why you're still here."
Natalie allowed herself the ghost of a grin. "Someone has to tell you when you're starting to sound mythical."
They reached Ava's office. Natalie paused in the doorway.
"One more thing," she said.
"What?" Ava asked.
"He called."
Ava felt it like a pulse in her throat. "Ethan?"
Natalie nodded. "He didn't ask for a callback. Just left something."
"What was it?" Ava asked.
Natalie tilted her head. "You."
Ava blinked. "Excuse me?"
Natalie recited, word for word, voice level.
"He said: 'Tell her they will not attack her first. They will test her isolation. That's how they break new leaders. Not force. Silence.' And then he hung up."
Ava said nothing.
Isolation.
Of course.
That would be the next move.
Not a scandal. Not a revolt. Not an attack.
They would starve her.
They would cut off informal support, slow internal response times, "forget" to loop her in on key calls, delay resource approvals, force her to fight ten small fires without calling any of them a fire.
Not an obvious assassination.
A quiet suffocation.
The corporation's favorite tactic.
Her throat felt tight for one heartbeat.
Then she said, "Good."
Natalie blinked. "Good?"
"It means they're afraid to face me directly," Ava said.
And for a moment — just a moment — she felt something close to satisfaction.
The hours between six p.m. and midnight were always when Lucan Tower felt most honest.
The sound of shoes disappeared. The curated voices and public smiles, gone. The building hummed the way machines do when they're not being watched.
Ava stayed.
Not out of image. Out of need.
There was work to do, and there was something else she wasn't ready to admit out loud: she didn't like the silence of her apartment right now. The tower, even empty, still carried a pulse. Home did not.
She pulled up Ethan's contingency file again.
It didn't comfort her.
It unsettled her.
Because the more she read, the more she could see how far ahead he'd been playing.
Not for himself.
For her.
He had mapped likely countermeasures. He had predicted which board members would fracture first under pressure, which reporters could be weaponized for and against her, which internal pipelines would become chokepoints if anyone tried to starve her team of resources.
He'd charted not just her ascent.
He'd charted her defense.
And at the bottom, a small handwritten line — not strategy. Not numbers.
Just:
They will try to take things from you that feel like they're yours. They're not. Nothing in this building is yours but your name. Do not trade it. For anything.
Ava closed her eyes.
Something in her chest pressed hard against her ribs — not pain. Heat.
He wasn't here.
He wasn't answering.
He had handed her the machine and walked away.
And still, somehow, she didn't feel abandoned.
She felt… chosen.
That was almost worse.
Because being chosen meant she had no way to fail quietly anymore.
If she fell, it wouldn't just be hers.
It would prove them right about him.
And that, she realized, was the one outcome she could not tolerate.
At 11:47 p.m., her office phone lit up red.
Not her cell. The hardline.
Internal. Secured. Restricted to the highest level.
She frowned.
"Natalie?" she said as she picked up.
But it wasn't Natalie.
"Miss Hart," Richard Gray's voice said smoothly, almost pleasant. "Working late, I see."
She leaned back in her chair, every muscle in her body going still.
"Mr. Gray," she said. "That line is not typically used for… casual conversation."
A polite chuckle. "Of course not. I thought I might extend a courtesy."
"By calling me without documenting the outreach," Ava said. "How thoughtful."
Richard ignored that. "I wanted to let you know the vote you so confidently requested won't be occurring tomorrow. We believe it would be premature."
"Premature," Ava repeated.
"In light of questions around your readiness," Richard said, voice the smooth temperature of glass. "You're talented, Miss Hart. Very. No one's questioning that. But influence at this level fractures easily without… experience. If you overextend, you'll break. We've seen that pattern before. It would be… unfortunate."
There it was.
Not threat.
Positioning.
We're not blocking you, Ava. We're protecting you.
Classic.
Ava smiled into the empty room.
"Richard," she said quietly, "do you know what the most interesting thing about you is?"
A beat. "I'm listening."
"You think you're warning me," she said. "You're not. You're telling me your angle. And I appreciate that."
"I don't follow," he said, still pleasant.
"Oh, you do," Ava said. "But I'll say it out loud anyway, in case you'd like me to slow down for you."
Silence on his end. She continued.
"You're not afraid I'll break," she said. "You're afraid I won't. You're afraid I'll make you irrelevant while you're still sitting in the building. You can survive being replaced. What you can't survive is being made decorative."
A soft intake of breath hissed through the line.
She didn't give him room to recover.
"So here's what's actually going to happen," Ava said. "Tomorrow, you're going to announce to the rest of the board that you'll be collaborating with my office to 'ensure smooth continuity of narrative.' You'll make it sound like you've chosen alignment. You'll make it sound graceful. You'll make it sound like mentorship."
"That's—" he began.
She cut him cleanly. "You'll do it," she said, "because the alternative is I walk into the next investor briefing and tell them you're refusing structural transparency because it makes you personally uncomfortable. And once that's in the air, Richard, you're not legacy anymore. You're friction. And friction gets replaced."
The line stayed quiet.
Ava could hear his breathing now. Controlled. Tighter.
Finally:
"You think you can move me," he said, voice low.
Ava let the quiet stretch for one beat. Then she said:
"I already did."
The click when he hung up wasn't angry.
It was careful.
Measured.
Like a man pulling his hand away from heat he hadn't expected to feel that fast.
Ava sat there alone in the low light of her office, the city humming below like an engine.
Her heart was still going too fast. Her throat tasted like adrenaline.
But she wasn't shaking.
That surprised her.
That — more than the call, more than the meeting, more than the title on her door — was when she understood:
They weren't testing her voice anymore.
They were testing her threshold.
How much she could absorb without splintering.
How much she could carry without asking to set it down.
How alone she could be without asking for a witness.
Ethan had warned her.
They will test your isolation.
She hadn't understood what that meant until now.
It didn't mean they would abandon her.
It meant they would try to convince her she was already abandoned.
That she'd already been left behind.
That no one was still with her.
And she realized, with a slow, steady calm that scared her with its clarity, that they were wrong.
Because she was not alone.
She had walked into a fortress and made it breathe.
She had walked into a boardroom and made it listen.
She had walked into his orbit and made it hers.
This was not about being protected anymore.
This was about being inevitable.
Ava leaned back, eyes on the skyline.
"Try," she whispered to the glass. "Try and isolate me."
Lucan Tower glowed back at her, endless and awake.
And for the first time since she had stepped into that building, she felt something close to inevitability settle into her bones.
Not comfort.
Not safety.
Authority.
— To be continued —