MAISIE
7:30 p.m. arrives, and I am a vision in liquid night. The black Valentino hugs every curve like a second skin, the plunge of the back a daring declaration, the slit up the thigh a promise of danger. I feel powerful. Untouchable.
I take the private elevator down to the garage, the soft whirring sound the only accompaniment to my racing heart. The doors slide open to reveal a scene of utter domestic chaos amidst the gleaming cars.
Lena, a stunning flame in her blood-red Alexander McQueen, is standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at Laurel. Our driver, looking impeccably calm in his black suit, is leaning against the sleek, silver Bentley Continental GT.
"—and I'm just saying, a classic vanilla bean with a raspberry coulis is elegant! It's timeless!" Lena is insisting, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.
Laurel shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips. "With all due respect, Ms. Chen, vanilla is… safe. It's a background flavor. For an event, you want a statement. A dark chocolate ganache with a sea salt caramel center. It's bold. Complex. Unforgettable."
"Unforgettably boring!" Lena retorts, then she spots me. Her eyes light up. "Maisie! Thank God. Settle this. Wedding cake. Classic vanilla bean or pretentious dark chocolate?"
I walk towards them, the heels of my black Manolo Blahniks clicking sharply on the polished concrete. I look from Lena's pleading face to Laurel's patiently amused one.
"I'm with Laurel on this one," I say, a small smile playing on my lips. "Chocolate. Every time."
Lena's jaw drops in theatrical betrayal. "You traitor! I thought we were sisters!"
Laurel, looking vindicated, smoothly opens the rear passenger door of the Bentley with a gloved hand. "A woman of impeccable taste," he says, his voice warm.
"You're both dead to me," Lena huffs, but she's smiling as she slides into the plush ivory leather interior. I follow, the dress settling around me as I sit.
"The New York Public Library, please, Laurel. The main entrance for the OmniCorp gala," I tell him.
He nods, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Of course, Ms. Rory."
The engine purrs to life, a quiet, powerful hum, and we glide out of the garage into the New York night. The city lights streak past the tinted windows, a blur of gold and white.
And the argument continues.
"It's not about being safe, it's about being sophisticated!" Lena insists, leaning forward as if to plead her case to the back of Laurel's head.
"Dark chocolate is sophisticated, Ms. Chen," he replies, his eyes on the road, his tone forever polite but unwavering. "It has depth. Nuance. Unlike vanilla."
"It's basic!"
"It is a classic for a reason, which is different from being basic…"
I lean my head back against the seat, a genuine laugh bubbling up as I listen to them bicker about baked goods all the way through Midtown. It's so normal. So wonderfully, absurdly normal, a stark contrast to the war I'm walking into.
All too soon, the iconic marble facade of the New York Public Library comes into view, illuminated by spotlights and swarming with paparazzi and glittering attendees. The Bentley joins a line of luxury cars inching toward the red carpet.
We have arrived.
– – –
AUTHOR
Alexander Callum stands near the base of one of the library's famed marble staircases, a picture of controlled elegance in his impeccably tailored Brioni charcoal suit. Every strand of his dark hair is perfectly in place. He sips a glass of champagne, his gaze scanning the crowd with a proprietor's air. This is, after all, his family's event.
His brother, Marcus, leans against the banister beside him, looking deliberately disheveled in his perfectly pressed Tom Ford tuxedo, his hair artfully messy as if he just rolled out of bed and into the suit.
"Do you think she'll show?" Alexander asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for his brother.
Marcus smirks, his eyes already doing a lazy sweep of the room. "I'd bet on it. Especially with the company she keeps. That friend of hers, Lena? She's a social creature. Too much FOMO. She'd drag Maisie here just for the free champagne and the gossip. Maisie was always a pushover for her friends."
Alexander's lips curl into a cold, knowing smile. "Sentimental crap. Always putting others before herself. A fatal flaw in business... and in life."
His gaze continues its methodical scan of the glittering crowd flowing through the library's majestic entrance hall. And then it stops.
He sees her.
For a moment, Alexander Callum is utterly, visibly bewildered. The practiced composure on his face fractures, replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated shock.
She is a silhouette of pure night, a vision in a black Valentino gown that seems to have been poured onto her body. The dress is a masterpiece of provocative elegance, with a back that plunges into a daring V and a slit that reveals a long, graceful leg with every step she takes. She is not the girl he remembers. She is a woman, formidable and breathtaking.
Beside him, Marcus lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Well, damn. They are both fucking breathtaking."
He's right. Next to Maisie, Lena is a vibrant flame in her blood-red Alexander McQueen, the dramatic shoulders and corset detailing making her look like a warrior queen.
Alexander doesn't respond. His focus is entirely on Maisie. Without a word, he thrusts his half-finished glass of champagne into his brother's hand.
Across the room, Lena is leaning close to Maisie, her eyes wide as she takes in the soaring ceilings and the grand staircases. "I mean, I know it's a library, but this is just... obscenely fancy. I feel like we should be whispering."
It is then that a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, cuts through their mini-conversation.
"Maisie."
The sound of her name, spoken in that familiar, condescending baritone, makes Maisie's spine stiffen. She and Lena turn in near-unison. Irritation flares hot and immediate in Maisie's chest, but she is a CEO now, a veteran of boardroom battles. She doesn't let it show. Instead, a cool, polished smile settles on her lips, a perfect mask that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Alexander," she says, her voice neutral.
Lena's eyes dart between them, sensing the thick, unpleasant tension coiling in the air. She gives Maisie's arm a subtle, reassuring squeeze. "I'm going to… brave the bar," she announces brightly. "Champagne calls. Don't have too much fun without me." She melts into the crowd, leaving Maisie alone with the ghost of her past.
"I have to admit, I didn't expect you to come," Alexander says, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that feels more like an appraisal than admiration.
"I almost didn't," Maisie replies, her tone crisp. "Given that you're the one who sent the invitation, my automatic response was to decline."
He places a hand over his heart, his expression feigning a wound. "Maisie. You'd refuse an olive branch? You're hurting my feelings."
"I'm only here because Lena wanted to come," she states, a clear and firm boundary.
The condescension she remembers so well seeps back into his tone. He takes a half-step closer, lowering his voice. "You see? That's what I'm talking about. You're still letting yourself get pushed around. Still so… full of heart. It's your greatest weakness."
The mask slips. Her eyes flash with a fire he remembers too well. "You can fuck right off with your stupid opinions, Alexander. Go mingle with the other emotionally-stunted robots. I'm sure you have a lot in common."
He sighs, a theatrical sound of long-suffering patience. "I'm not here to fight with you, Maisie." His eyes drop to her dress, a slow, deliberate look. "I wanted to ask you to dance. You look… incredible in that dress. It seems a shame for you to just stand at the side of the room all night. A waste of a masterpiece."
The request, wrapped in a backhanded compliment, makes her skin crawl. "There is no way in hell I'm dancing with you," she scoffs, turning to walk away.
His hand shoots out, not rough, but firm, closing around her wrist. The contact is a jolt. She grimaces, her body recoiling at the familiarity of his touch.
"Calm down," he says, his voice a low, placating murmur. "I'm not forcing you to dance. I just think we should talk. Civilly. For old time's sake."
She tries to pull her wrist back, but his grip holds. "I don't have anything to say to you."
He leans in slightly, his next words a carefully aimed dart. "Don't you? Not even about the fact that Shinki Soma just walked in? I saw the deposition headlines. It seems you've made a powerful new enemy. One with far sharper teeth than I ever had. Perhaps we have more to discuss than you think."
The mention of Soma's name, here and now, freezes her in place. Alexander's grip on her wrist loosens, becoming merely a presence. He's dangled the one piece of bait she can't immediately refuse. Her mind races, calculating the potential intelligence, the strategic advantage.
Her shoulders slump in a semblance of defeat, though her eyes remain wary. "Fine," she bites out, the word tasting like ash. "We can talk. But no dance."
A slow, victorious smile spreads across Alexander's face. "Of course. Just talk." He releases her wrist and gestures toward a slightly more secluded alcove off the main hall. "Shall we?"
She nods stiffly, falling into step beside him, a queen walking into a gilded trap of her own reluctant making.
– – –
SHINKI
The air in the New York Public Library is thick with the smell of old books, expensive perfume, and ambition. Jiro and I move through the crowd, two dark shadows in our Brioni and Tomford suits, both in uncompromising charcoal black. It is armor.
I spot a cluster of potential investors from a legacy tech fund near the rotunda. I make my way over, my posture shifting into its public form: engaged, mildly intimidating, impeccably polite.
"Gentlemen," I say, joining their circle. "A fitting venue. One hopes the business discussed tonight will be as enduring as the literature."
They laugh, a smooth, practiced sound. One of them, a man named Higgins, gestures with his glass. "Soma. We were just discussing your latest... intellectual warfare with Rory Robotics. Quite the spectacle."
I offer a thin, cold smile. "Spectacles are for the public. The real work is far less dramatic. It's a simple matter of correcting a flawed business model." I give them a few, carefully curated details—enough to demonstrate my command of the situation, not enough to reveal my hand. I am engaged. I am in control.
Then I see it. A flicker of movement in my periphery. Her.
Maisie.
She is a sin in a black dress. The fabric is a void, a slash of darkness that seems to absorb the light around her, making everything else fade. It hugs her body with a possessive intimacy that sends a jolt of something hot and unwelcome through me. The back is a deep, plunging 'V' that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to trace its line. A high slit reveals a long, graceful leg with every step she takes.
And she is not alone.
A man, his hair too perfectly styled, walks beside her. His hand is on the small of her back—a casual, proprietary gesture that feels like a physical assault. My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking with a tension I cannot release.
I see her swat his hand away, a sharp, irritated movement. The action should calm me. It does not. It only fuels the fire. Who is he to think he has the right to touch her? Who is he to earn her irritation, her attention?
My eyes, against my will, follow them as they turn, disappearing into a more secluded alcove off the main hall. The library's labyrinthine layout suddenly feels like a personal enemy, hiding her from view.
"Soma?"
Higgins's voice pulls me back. I tear my eyes from the empty space where she vanished. I force my attention back to the investors, but my soul is not in this conversation. It has followed the black dress into the shadows.
I am giving rote answers about market volatility and asset allocation. The words are correct, but they are empty. My mind is a tracking device, locked onto her coordinates.
I look for Jiro, for an anchor, but he has already abandoned me to my fate, likely stationed near a bar or a strategic exit, a drink in his hand.
The conversation from yesterday hunts me, a ghost in the glittering room.
'You don't get the urge to fuck your problems, Shinki.'
I try to push her out of my head. I try to focus on the numbers, the logic, the clean, cold reason for my being here. But all I can see is the phantom image of that man's hand on her back, and the terrifying, undeniable truth that Jiro was right.
This is no longer a corporate rivalry. It is a sickness. And I am not looking for a cure.