The boardroom still smelled faintly of cologne, burnt coffee, and tension.
Selene stood at the head of the long mahogany table, one hand resting lightly on the polished surface as the final of the executives filed out, murmuring polite farewells that felt more like reconnaissance reports. Their eyes darted between her and Julian like wary soldiers measuring the distance between two armies.
They weren't wrong.
The meeting had been brutal—two hours of veiled accusations, buried agendas, and verbal blows disguised as "strategic input." She'd deflected most of them, but the real battle had been across the table: Julian had countered her every move with surgical precision. They weren't openly at war, but the quiet undercurrent between them was sharper than any public argument could have been.
Now it was just them.
Julian lingered by the window, hands in his pockets, the city skyline stretching out behind him like a wall of glass and steel. His tie was loosened just enough to suggest the effort of the meeting, but not enough to seem unpolished. He looked composed. Controlled. Dangerous.
"You undermined me in front of the board," she said finally, her voice cool enough to frost the glass.
"You were overreaching." His reply was measured, deliberate. "Pushing for that acquisition without enough preliminary data would've given Evelyn the ammunition she's been waiting for."
Selene's lips curved in something that was almost a smile but far too cold to be mistaken for one. "And yet, by stopping me, you've given her a different kind of ammunition—proof that I can be checked."
Julian stepped away from the window, closing the distance between them. "Or proof that I can keep this company from collapsing under reckless ambition."
There it was—the spark. The challenge beneath the civility.
"You assume my ambition is reckless," Selene said, tilting her head slightly. "You forget, Julian, that I built my career on turning impossible plays into inevitable victories."
His eyes narrowed just slightly. "And you forget that one miscalculated move in this environment can be fatal. Not just for you—" his voice dropped "—but for everyone tied to you."
Her chest tightened—not with fear, but with the bitter recognition that he was speaking from a place she couldn't quite read. Concern? Warning? Or just another strategic ploy?
She didn't get to ask.
A soft knock at the boardroom door broke the tension. Camille stepped inside, her golden hair gleaming under the recessed lights, her smile the perfect balance of warmth and professionalism.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, though the glint in her eyes told Selene she knew exactly what she was walking into.
"Just finishing," Julian replied, his tone smoothing into something easier. "What do you need?"
"I wanted to confirm the guest list for the Masquerade Gala next week," Camille said. "There have been some… last-minute additions. And a few withdrawals."
Selene raised an eyebrow. "Withdrawals?"
"Yes." Camille's gaze flicked between them, settling on Selene for just a beat longer than necessary. "Marcus among them."
Selene didn't react outwardly, but she felt the jolt of irritation. Marcus backing out of a public event like the Gala wasn't just inconvenient—it was calculated. He was signaling something.
Julian, however, remained unreadable. "Noted. Anything else?"
"No," Camille said lightly. "I'll leave you to it."
She left with the same graceful ease she'd entered, but Selene knew better. Camille didn't do anything without intent. And tonight, she'd positioned herself right in the middle of whatever this was becoming.
Later That Night
Selene sat in her office long after the rest of the building had emptied. The city beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows glowed under a blanket of night, each lit window another secret, another scheme, another ambition burning quietly in the dark.
She replayed the boardroom exchange in her mind—not the words, but the looks. Julian's calm defiance. The way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when he challenged her.
She hated that part of her wondered if he was protecting her, or protecting himself.
Her phone buzzed against the desk. A message.
Marcus: "We need to talk. Not here."
She stared at the screen. Marcus rarely requested meetings. He commanded them. The phrasing alone told her something was off.
Her first instinct was to ignore it—Marcus thrived on control, and refusing him was a power play. But the strategic part of her brain whispered that not taking this meeting could cost her leverage she might soon need.
She typed a reply.
Selene: "When and where?"
The answer came almost instantly.
Marcus: "Tonight. Penthouse bar at the Lysander."
Of course. Neutral territory in public view, but private enough for the conversation to matter.
The Lysander
The penthouse bar was a shrine to wealth—polished black marble floors, low amber lighting, and windows that framed the city like a living painting. Selene spotted Marcus immediately, seated in the corner with two untouched glasses of whiskey between them.
"Selene," he greeted, his voice warm but edged. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Curiosity is a dangerous motivator," she replied, sliding into the seat opposite him.
"I hear you and Julian had quite the boardroom performance today," Marcus said, studying her over the rim of his glass. "Word travels fast."
Selene didn't bite. "You didn't bring me here to gossip."
"No." He leaned forward. "I'm pulling out of the Gala because I'm not playing that game anymore. Julian's trying to consolidate power, and Evelyn's more than happy to help him. You're the only one in a position to stop them."
"Why?" Selene asked, her tone skeptical. "You've never been interested in stopping Julian. Only in outmaneuvering him."
"This isn't about winning for me anymore," Marcus said. "It's about survival. The rules are changing."
She wanted to press him for details, but the flicker of movement behind him caught her eye—Julian, stepping into the bar. His gaze locked on her instantly, and his expression was unreadable.
Marcus noticed. His smile curved like a blade. "Looks like our conversation just got interesting."
The Collision
Julian approached, unhurried, but every step radiated authority. He stopped at their table, his presence filling the space.
"Selene," he said smoothly. "Marcus."
"Julian," Marcus replied, his tone laced with an amusement that was anything but friendly.
"I didn't realize the two of you were… catching up," Julian continued. His gaze slid to Selene, searching her face for answers she wasn't about to give him.
"We were discussing mutual concerns," Selene said, deliberately vague.
Julian's jaw tightened, but his smile didn't falter. "Careful. Some alliances are more dangerous than they look."
Marcus chuckled, leaning back. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
The tension at the table was electric, the kind that could ignite with a single wrong word. Selene broke it by standing.
"Gentlemen," she said, gathering her clutch. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."
She left them there, both watching her go, both calculating their next moves.
Back at Her Apartment
Selene poured herself a glass of wine and stood by the window, letting the city hum fill the silence. Tonight had confirmed one thing—fractures were forming. In the boardroom. In alliances. In trust.
And the most dangerous cracks were the ones she couldn't see yet.
Her phone buzzed again.
Julian: "We need to talk. No games."
She stared at the message, her lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Games were all they had left.