The London morning barely had time to claim the skyline before Simon found himself pacing the living room, a smile threatening his composure. The past few days had been a storm — confessions, reconciliations, truths dragged into the open — but beneath it all ran something new.
Possibility.
He paused by the window, city humming below. His message thread with Tom lay open.
We need to talk. About the future. About you.
Simon knew Phoebe would scoff at the idea of celebration, but the urge was irrepressible. He wanted a marker — something visible — to say that what they had survived mattered, and what came next would not be shaped by silence.
Tom, predictably, saw the danger first.
"Announcements attract attention," Tom warned when Simon told him. "If you introduce me as investor and executive, the news won't stop with the board. My father won't ignore it. Are you ready for that?"
Simon had weighed it carefully. Tom Harrington's name carried gravity — and investors followed gravity.
"If we wait for the perfect moment," Simon said, "we wait forever. This changes the board's confidence. It stabilises everything — for the company, for us."
Tom said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Fine. But don't mistake my presence for permission. I'll stand beside you — not behind you."
It was enough.
The invitations went out under one simple banner: New Beginnings.
Friday evening transformed the top floor into light and glass — orchids, candlelight, and the murmur of expectation. Simon moved through the room with confidence earned. Tom remained close, immaculate and unreadable.
When Simon made the introduction, the effect was instant.
"Tom Harrington — executive and private investor."
The whispers followed before applause landed.
Questions surged. Plans. Expansion. Edwin Harrington's involvement. Tom deflected with precision, offering nothing except stability — and that proved more intoxicating than answers.
Across the room, Phoebe watched with quiet satisfaction.
When a socialite — Sarah Edgecombe — attempted a calculated slight over seating, Phoebe turned it with grace, lifting an impromptu toast to beginnings that drew laughter and applause. By the time the moment passed, the board's attention had shifted.
Phoebe was no longer invisible.
By night's end, her name lingered in conversations where influence mattered.
Shane found Tom near the windows.
"I want to build something one day," he said, earnest and unguarded. "Something that matters."
Tom listened. Encouraged. Said only enough to suggest that ambition without cruelty was worth investing in.
It stayed with him.
Across the city, in Fulham, John Mathews moved through inheritance like a surgeon.
With his father dead, the old organisation lingered on habit and fear. John dismantled it patiently — replacing loyalty with efficiency, superstition with vision.
The Elites would go legitimate. Nightclubs. Property. Wealth without stains that couldn't be laundered.
Only Nikita resisted.
"You're erasing what made your father powerful," Nikita warned.
John's reply was cold. "I'm erasing what made him mortal."
They stood eye‑to‑eye, love and ambition grinding uneasily together.
John knew then: survival would require sacrifice. Perhaps Nikita would be part of it.
Perhaps not.
Back at the party, Simon lingered by the windows, watching Phoebe laugh — alive, grounded. Watching Tom navigate the board with careful authority.
This was not survival.
This was construction.
Later, alone on the balcony, Tom felt his phone vibrate.
A single unsigned message:
Be careful. Not everyone is what they seem.
London pulsed below — indifferent, electric.
Masks were slipping.
Power was rearranging itself.
And though the night glittered with promise, the real reckoning had only begun.