The Carrington library was colder than usual. The fire crackled in the hearth, but it was just for show. This wasn't a space for comfort, it was a room built for command.
Raymond Carrington sat at the head of the long wooden table, dressed in charcoal-gray, the golden pin on his collar gleaming like a badge of judgment. He didn't look up when his daughters entered.
Seraphina Carrington—Phyna, as only he dared call her—strode in first. The silk train of her blouse whispered behind her like entitlement itself. She looked amused. Bored, even. She sank into the chair and crossed her legs.
Thea followed quietly, her steps measured, her presence muted. No jewelry. No makeup. Just a navy dress and a leather notebook clutched tightly to her chest. She sat down without a word, spine straight, gaze lowered.
Raymond spoke without preamble.
"Your mother's memorial is done. Grief, however convenient, is no longer an excuse for idleness."
Thea blinked. Phyna raised an eyebrow.
"I assume this isn't a family bonding session?" Phyna asked.
He looked at her now, his tone softened by a thread of dangerous indulgence. "No. This is business. And it's long overdue."
He rose, pacing slowly to the floor-length windows behind him, hands clasped behind his back.
"You bear the Carrington name. But neither of you has proven worthy of it."
He turned abruptly, his gaze landing first, unforgiving, on Thea.
"You, Theadora, have spent a decade wrapped in sorrow and silence. You hide behind your mother's memory and do nothing with the legacy you were given."
Thea flinched, pain flickering in her eyes.
Then he turned to Phyna. His expression changed, not softer, but amused. Tolerant. As though her recklessness entertained him.
"And you, Seraphina, think inheritance is your birthright. You barely scraped through school. You bounce from runways to yacht parties and treat this family's empire like your Instagram bio."
Phyna's smile widened. "Well, you raised me, didn't you?"
Raymond allowed the ghost of a grin. "Unfortunately."
Thea observed the exchange with growing clarity. He was stricter with Phyna in words—but beneath it lay a grudging admiration. Or perhaps something worse: expectation.
He returned to his chair.
"This ends now."
Both daughters straightened.
"You've got six months. I don't care how, start something. Build something. Prove you're more than a last name. You must show stability, discipline, and growth. Not one month of flash and flair. Six months of results."
Thea's brows furrowed. "What kind of results?"
"A sustainable career. Or a working enterprise. And above all—independence. No Carrington name, no Carrington funds. Only what I give you today. No favors. No shortcuts."
He turned to Phyna, eyes narrowing. "No jets. No stylists. No scandals. No headlines."
"I'll survive," she said, running a manicured finger along the edge of her wine-colored nail. "Maybe I'll open a nightclub. Or a perfume line."
Then his gaze swung coldly to Thea.
"And you, obedience is not the same as competence."
Thea's voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. "I never wanted your wealth."
"And you've done nothing to deserve it," he replied flatly.
Phyna let out a laugh. He didn't stop her.
"You will each receive the same seed funding," Raymond continued. "Submit monthly progress to my executive office. At the end of six months, I will decide who earns a permanent seat at the board table. The other will be… dismissed."
The room fell silent.
"Well. This just got interesting."
"This is not a game," Raymond snapped at Phyna.
But Thea, unexpectedly, felt calm. All her life, she had feared being cast away. Now, the threat felt like a gift or maybe a mirror. One she could finally look into without flinching.
She nodded. "Alright."
"Sure about that, little mouse?"
Thea met her sister's gaze with a stillness that was new. "I've never been more sure."
Her fingers trembled slightly beneath the table, out of sight.
Raymond stood, satisfied. "Your challenge begins tomorrow."
He started toward the door, then paused.
"One last thing. This is not charity. There will be no second chance."
Phyna swept out of the room with a victorious flick of her hair. "I'll call my stylist. Time to weaponize a pantsuit."
Thea lingered.
Raymond raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
She hesitated. "Just one thing…"
He said nothing.
"Thank you."
He didn't respond. He only watched her with the expression of a man who never stopped calculating.
She turned and walked out, not quietly, but cleanly. Like someone who'd already written the ending.
Behind her, Raymond sat again. He reached for a pen, flipped open a file labeled Succession Candidates, and drew a sharp underline beneath one name:
Seraphina Carrington.
But even Raymond Carrington, cold strategist that he was, felt the first stir of unease.
Thea might surprise them all. She didn't shine the way he measured cleverness. But she was Carrington, through and through.
Jane Hayes didn't feel her heels anymore. Her heart beat slammed in her throat as the elevator spat her out. Her ID badge bounced against her chest as she moved swiftly past the security desk, murmuring apologies.
She was late. Again. And this time no excuse would land.
The morning had unraveled fast—her mother's appointment dragged, the prescription line stalled, and Fallon had insisted Jane stay until she fell asleep again. By the time Jane sprinted to the downtown train and bolted across Midtown, the clock had already betrayed her.
She reached the executive suite and pushed open the frosted-glass door.
A voice sliced through the air. "Nice of you to join us."
Jane winced. "I'm sorry, Alyssa."
Alyssa Grant didn't look up. Thirty-something, immaculate, terrifying in heels, she ran the executive office like a warship. Jane had been assisting her for nearly a year, yet the woman remained a mystery —equal parts mentor and menace.
"I had to take my mom to the hospital," Jane offered, breathless. "She's—"
"No need." Alyssa raised a hand. "Just be here when you're expected. You're in the executive wing now. There's no zone for lateness."
Jane nodded, throat tight. "Understood."
Alyssa turned back to her screen. "You missed the morning brief. I'll catch you up."
Jane slid into her chair and opened her notepad, pen hovering as Alyssa spoke.
"The CEO is traveling to Switzerland next week. Major conference. A possible partnership is on the table—very high-level."
Jane's pen slowed. "Mr. Davis?"
"Yes. He's requested one assistant to accompany him. Someone organized. Capable. Efficient. He'll be reviewing performance files by the end of the week."
"From us?"
Alyssa nodded. "Admin pool. He'll choose."
Jane let out a dry chuckle. "Well… I'm definitely not on that list."
Alyssa looked up. "Why?"
Jane gestured vaguely. "I blend in with the furniture, Alyssa. And even if he did pick me… I can't leave. Not with my mom's condition. A week in Switzerland isn't even an option."
Alyssa tilted her head, studying her. "He'd need someone who doesn't crumble. You pay attention. That's more I can say for the others."
She thought to herself, "A week in Switzerland? That sounded like someone else's life. The kind she used to daydream about, before oxygen tubes and hospital bills."
Shrugging it off, she said to Alyssa. "That's kind. But reality doesn't bend just because someone sees you."
"No," Alyssa said. "But sometimes opportunity doesn't knock. Sometimes it barges in and demands an answer."
Silence fell again, filled only by the tapping of keys.
Jane returned to her work, sorting inventory reports and typing up meeting summaries, but her thoughts kept straying—to her mother, to the quiet resignation in her voice that morning, the finality that hung between them.
She couldn't leave. But some traitorous part of her wanted to.