Clara's personal office at Vance Logistics was a stark contrast to the glass-and-steel cathedral of Sterling & Associates. Here, the furniture was scuffed oak, the air smelled of industrial grease and stale coffee, and the walls were covered in maps of the Eastern Seaboard. It was her sanctuary, but today, it felt like a cage.
"A gala? With Thorne?" Maya stood by the window, watching a fleet of trucks depart the yard. "Clara, this isn't just a PR move. This is a blood sport. Every vulture in the city is going to be watching the two of you to see if there's a drop of blood in the water."
"I know," Clara said, rubbing her temples. She was staring at a printed copy of the leak. "But he's right. If we look fractured, the board pulls the plug, and I lose the company. If we look like a partnership, the leaker loses their leverage."
"And what happens when he puts his arm around you for the cameras?" Maya turned, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "You've spent three years being the 'Ice Queen' to keep this place afloat. Can you handle being his 'partner,' even if it's a lie?"
Clara opened her mouth to answer—to say that she was a professional, that she had no heart left to break—when a courier knocked on the open door.
"Delivery for Ms. Vance. From Thorne & Associates."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
The box was large, heavy, and wrapped in charcoal-grey paper that felt more expensive than Clara's first car. Inside, nestled in layers of white silk paper, was a gown. It wasn't the standard black-tie fare. It was a deep, shimmering emerald green—the exact color of the blazer she had worn the day they first met.
Clara lifted it out. The silk was cool and heavy in her hands. There was no lace, no sequins; just a masterclass in structure and drape. It was sophisticated, bold, and entirely formidable.
A small, cream-colored card fell from the folds.
The board expects a performance. I expect a partner. Wear the green. It suits your defiance. — E.
"Defiance," Maya whispered, leaning over her shoulder. "He's not just dressing you, Clara. He's acknowledging you."
Clara felt a treacherous warmth bloom in her chest. She hated it. She hated that he remembered the color she wore on her hardest day. She hated that he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't want something "pretty"—she wanted something that looked like armor.
"It's a tactic, Maya," Clara said, her voice a bit too sharp. "He's ensuring the 'visuals' match the narrative. It's a transaction."
"If you say so," Maya replied, but she reached into the box and pulled out a second, smaller velvet case. "Does he always include 'transactions' like this?"
Inside the case was a vintage brooch—a silver phoenix with tiny emerald eyes. It was old, the silver slightly tarnished in the crevices, suggesting it hadn't come from a modern jeweler's display.
Clara stared at the phoenix. The bird that rises from the ashes. It was a message, one far more intimate than the note. He wasn't just telling her to be defiant; he was telling her he knew she had already survived the fire.
She closed the velvet case with a snap.
"Check the server logs again, Maya," Clara said, her eyes narrowing. "And look into Sterling's junior partners. Someone leaked those files to tank this merger, and I have a feeling they didn't count on Elias Thorne playing the hero."
"Or," Maya added, "they didn't count on you being the only person who can actually get under his skin."