***
The top floor of the Diadem International headquarters didn't feel like an office; it felt like the bridge of a battleship. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline stretched out like a map waiting to be conquered, but inside, the air was heavy with the scent of expensive espresso and the cold hum of servers.
Delilah Wayne Highmore sat behind a desk of polished obsidian. At twenty-two, she was a statue of corporate perfection.
When she had taken the mantle of CEO two years ago at the age of twenty, the boardroom had been a pit of vipers.
The directors, men who had spent forty years climbing the ladder sneered at the Little Idol.
They expected a girl who was used to dancing under neon lights to crumble under the weight of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate.
They thought a Maknae would be easy to manipulate.
They were dead wrong.
Delilah had traded her stage costumes for the armor of her older sister: a sharp, charcoal-grey power suit, silk blouse, and the signature gold-rimmed spectacles that sat perched on the bridge of her nose.
The blue eyes behind those lenses no longer searched for a camera lens; they searched for weaknesses.
The blood of Highmore and McGuire didn't just run through her veins—it boiled. Within twenty-four months, she hadn't just stabilized Diadem; she had expanded it.
She ventured into the very industry that once owned her, creating an entertainment subsidiary that crushed the competition to become number one in a single year.
The assets didn't just grow; they surged into the billions. The voices that once whispered amateur in the hallways were now silent, replaced by the sound of heads bowing as she passed.
She reached for a file, her 6'2" frame shifting with a grace that was now more predatory than melodic.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence.
"Miss Highmore? Your schedule for the second quarter merger is ready for review."
Janessa Jones, Delilah's secretary, stepped into the room. She was efficient, quiet, and possessed a level of competence that had made her indispensable in record time. Janessa adjusted her tablet, her expression the perfect mask of professional devotion.
"They signed this morning," Janessa replied smoothly. "It seems they finally realized that 'the idol' has a much sharper grip than they anticipated. They've stopped whispering about your background and started worrying about their own seats."
Delilah finally looked up, her blue eyes scanning Janessa through her lenses. A ghost of a cold, satisfied smile touched her lips.
"Good. People only listen when they realize you can take away their air. If the board is quiet, it means they're afraid. Let's keep them that way."
After dismissing Janessa, the silence of the office felt heavier than the bustle of the boardroom. Hours ticked by as the sun began to dip, casting long, amber streaks across the obsidian desk.
Delilah wasn't at her computer. Instead, she was reclined on the leather sofa, the sharp lines of her corporate suit softening slightly as she leaned back. In her lap lay two things that didn't belong in a billion-dollar office: a framed portrait of her parents and a weathered, brown file folder.
She pulled a handful of black-and-white photographs from the folder. Her blue eyes, usually so cold and guarded, searched the grainy images for answers that were centuries old.
The contrast was starkthe girl who once hunted lost treasures in the deepest trenches was now hunting the ghosts of her own lineage.
The sharp buzz of the intercom shattered the silence. Delilah didn't flinch, but her grip on the folder tightened before she reached out to click the receiver.
"Miss Highmore," Janessa's voice came through, steady and professional. "Detective Park from Shentai is here for his appointment."
"Show him in," Delilah said simply. She didn't return to her desk to project power; she stayed on the sofa, a move that signaled she was perfectly comfortable in her own territory.
The heavy oak doors creaked open. A man in his thirties stepped inside. He looked like a jarring thumbprint on a clean window wearing a rumpled trench coat that smelled faintly of rain and cheap coffee, he carried the tired, cynical air of someone who spent his life looking at things people weren't supposed to see.
Detective Park stopped, his eyes momentarily traveling up to take in the 6'2" woman waiting for him. Even sitting down, her presence was overwhelming.
Delilah rose from the sofa, unfolding with a slow, deliberate grace that forced the detective to tilt his head back just to maintain eye contact. She extended a hand, her grip firm and brief a business transaction in the form of a handshake. With a slight gesture of her chin, she invited him to the armchair opposite her.
On the low table between them, a porcelain tea set sat ready. Delilah's movements were fluid and silent as she poured the steaming liquid.
There was no rattle of china, no splash of water; only the steady, elegant precision of a woman who had mastered every detail of her environment. She slid the cup toward him.
"Sixteen years ago," Delilah began, her voice dropping to a low, resonant frequency. "My parents were murdered in our ancestral home. Sixteen years of silence from the authorities. Sixteen years of 'unsolved' status."
She didn't wait for his rehearsed condolences. Instead, she reached for the brown folder and pulled out two grainy, monochrome photographs. She slid them across the table.
The first was a close-up of the floorboards. Beside the shadowed, still forms of her parents lay a single, dark rose its petals so deep a red they appeared black in the monochrome print.
The second image was of the mahogany front door. Painted in a dark, thick substance that had clearly been wet when the photo was taken, was a jagged, intricate symbol.
"These were the only things left behind," she said, her blue eyes locking onto Park's with a chilling intensity. She tapped the photo of the rose. "No fingerprints. No DNA. Just a flower and a mark. I want to know why the Shentai police spent a decade pretending these symbols didn't exist."
Detective Park pulled a magnifying glass from his trench coat pocket, leaning so close to the photograph that the steam from the tea fogged his vision. He wiped his spectacles and looked again. A visible tremor started in his hand. His eyes broke away from the image, darting across the opulent office as if checking the corners for shadows.
It was the symbol of death. The mark of the Death Roses belonging to Vishkanya. It was a name whispered in nightmares the architects of the Great Genocide from centuries ago. To see it here, captured in a sixteen-year-old crime scene photo, felt like looking at a ghost that had never truly been exorcised.
Detective Park's sudden agitation didn't escape Delilah's keen eyes. She didn't press him immediately; instead, she took a slow, composed sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the porcelain cup.
"Do you recognize it?" she asked, her voice steady. "Because if the Shentai police records are empty, perhaps you should look for it in the Jianghu."
Detective Park stiffened, his breath hitching. He looked at her as if she had just pulled a gun. The Jianghu the hidden world of martial legends, blood feuds, and shadow law. It was a secret society that very few in the modern corporate world even knew existed, let alone dared to name.
"How do you..." Park started, his voice cracking. "How does a woman in your position know that name?"
Delilah set her teacup down with a faint clink. Just a week ago, the word would have meant nothing to her. But in her quest to re-establish the Highmore family's secret guards, she had ventured into the digital black market.
There, among the encrypted files and rogue mercenaries, she had discovered the truth: that beneath the polished surface of the city lay a world of violence and ancient codes.
"I make it my business to know the names of the things that go bump in the night, Detective," Delilah said, her blue eyes narrowing behind her spectacles.
"I'll update you as soon as I can. I'll take my leave, Miss Highmore."
Detective Park rose abruptly, his goodbye hurried. The air in the room had become stifling. Staying in the same space as this woman felt dangerous; her gaze was too analytical, too piercing.
He felt as though he were being stripped bare as if his own secrets would be plucked from his mind if he lingered a moment longer. He didn't wait for a formal dismissal before retreating through the heavy oak doors.
Delilah watched him go, her expression unreadable. Once the door clicked shut, she stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Below, the city was a grid of light and motion, millions of lives intersecting, yet she felt entirely apart from them.
She reached into the folder, her fingers tracing the edge of the brown paper.
She had found this file hidden deep within a locked drawer in her sister's private study.
It was clear now: her sister had started this investigation years ago. She had been close perhaps too close. The accident that had changed everything had brought her sister's work to a screeching halt, leaving the trail cold and the truth buried.
Now, the duty had fallen to her. The corporate suits and the spectacles were more than just a style choice; they were a mantle.
Delilah pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her reflection staring back with eyes that had seen the end of innocence.
"Mom, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling with a rare, raw emotion that never showed in the boardroom. "I'll find them. I'll bring the culprit down to kowtow at your graves."
The city lights blurred for a second before her resolve hardened once more. The hunt had officially begun.
Meanwhile ...
In the cavernous silence of the basement parking lot, the air smelled of damp concrete and exhaust. Detective Park moved with a frantic energy, his keys jingling loudly in his shaking hand. He threw himself into the driver's seat and slammed the door, his chest heaving. He scanned the surrounding pillars, his eyes wide and bloodshot, making sure he was truly alone.
Only then did he reach into a hidden compartment beneath the dashboard to retrieve a secondary, encrypted phone. He dialed the only number saved in the directory. After several agonizing rings, the line connected.
"Miss," Park whispered, leaning low against the steering wheel. "As you predicted, the Young Miss is making her moves. She found the evidence."
A heavy, suffocating minute of silence followed. Then, a cold, melodic voice drifted from the speaker—a voice that felt like a blade pressed against his throat.
"What evidence?"
"The emblem of the Rose," Park stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "The Vishkanya!"
Another pause followed, colder than the first. "You know what you need to do. Lead her away from the truth. Feed her false information."
"Yes... yes, of course," Park managed to gasp, but the line had already gone dead.
Park slumped against his seat, drenched in a cold sweat. Every time he spoke to his true employer, he felt like he was bargaining for his life. Her voice was an absolute zero, a chill that could freeze the blood in his veins.
He fumbled with his keys, started the engine, and roared out of the parking structure, desperate to put distance between himself and the Highmore tower.
As his taillights faded into the distance, two figures detached themselves from the darkness of the concrete pillars.
Vesper stood with her arms crossed, her eyes tracking the exit where the car had disappeared. Beside her, Jinx toyed with a small, glowing tablet that displayed a real-time audio waveform. The tracking chip they had planted on Park's car had done its job perfectly.
"What a double-agent fatso," Jinx chirped, a mischievous but deadly glint in her eyes. "He's playing a dangerous game, trying to serve two queens at once."
Vesper didn't smile. Her gaze remained cold, focused on the data. "He's a dead man walking; he just doesn't know it yet. Let's report this to Miss. She needs to know exactly what kind of snakes are slithering in her grass."
Without another word, the two women moved, their silhouettes blurring into the grey shadows of the basement until the parking lot was once again empty.
To be continued ...