The skyline had darkened again, though it was barely afternoon. A storm gathered above the spires of Draxon Tower symbolic, Elias thought, of the days ahead.
He was already on the move.
The extraction of Magritte had gone as planned, though her cryptic words about a brother raised new questions. Elias filed them away. He didn't have time for loose ends not yet. Right now, all energy had to funnel toward the core: Draxon's crumbling executive sanctum.
"Jude," Elias said, stepping into the reinforced elevator of a nondescript midtown building. "Schedule a clandestine meeting with the Safe Board. I want everyone except Scarth, Landon, and Valerie. We'll convene at Concord Point in three hours."
"Understood."
Jude's voice, usually sharp, held a tremor. "Elias do you remember the yacht?"
Elias paused.
His knuckles tightened around the polished steel rail.
"I don't," he said. "But it's coming back. Flashes. Panic. Screaming. Cold water. I remember my own hand reaching for someone else's wrist. But there was no grip. Just... the sea."
Jude was quiet for a beat.
"I remember the rescue story," Jude said. "I was told you were pulled out by a civilian ship. You had hypothermia. No ID. They flew you to a private hospital under an alias. No one believed it was really you. You didn't even know."
"And no one came looking?" Elias asked, eyes narrowing.
"They told us you were dead," Jude replied softly. "Somebody wanted you dead. And I think they still do."
Valerie stood alone in the Winter Gallery, one of the tower's most luxurious private chambers. Outside the window, dark rain began to streak across the glass.
She clutched a crystal of brandy in her hand, untouched.
"Elias Thorne…" she whispered.
Footsteps behind her.
"You should be more careful saying that name," said a dry, amused voice.
It was Dexter Ross.
No relation to Landon Ross, though many assumed otherwise.
He stepped into view, impeccably dressed, eyes unreadable. A man who had seen too much and smiled too little.
"He's not bluffing anymore," Valerie muttered.
"No," Dexter agreed. "He's evolved. And he's making you nervous."
Valerie turned to him, anger sparking. "You think I'm afraid of a prodigal prince with a memory lapse?"
"I think you're afraid of a man who no longer plays by the rules," Dexter said. "And you should be."
Valerie set the glass down.
"There's still one path forward," she said.
Dexter raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking about her, are you?"
Valerie's lips curled.
"She's the only one who ever made Elias doubt himself."
Dexter's voice was suddenly hard. "You bring her in, you'll start a war."
Valerie leaned forward.
"It's already begun."
A high-security bunker beneath an abandoned train station, Concord Point was originally designed to be Draxon's fail-safe boardroom in times of internal crisis. Few knew it still existed.
Now it was alive again.
Elias sat at the head of the obsidian table. Around him were eight people trusted veterans, silent partners, hidden owners. These were the men and women who actually shaped Draxon's legacy, not the flashy public faces.
"We have a mole," Elias began. "Possibly two. Maybe three."
He handed out sealed envelopes.
"Inside, you'll find segments of the Black Accounts our deepest reserves. I've rerouted all funding chains. Any attempt to access them now requires my voice and biometrics. This makes me the single point of failure... and the single path forward."
A murmur rippled around the table.
"Which brings us to our real issue," Elias continued. "We're not just dealing with greedy executives. We're dealing with a coordinated attempt to collapse Draxon from within and install a figurehead who'll sell it to the highest bidder."
"Who?" asked one of the board members a woman named Dema, sharp-eyed and cold.
"Landon Ross is the face," Elias said. "But the shadow behind him? We still don't know."
Someone else leaned forward. "And what do we do when they push back?"
Elias smiled darkly.
"We don't push," he said. "We pull."
The Trap is Set, Three hours later, Landon Ross received a private invitation.
Anonymous.
'Tonight. Pavilion Club. Come alone. Or watch the empire fall.'
He stared at the message.
The Pavilion Club was a members-only rooftop bar built atop the Arcadium Hotel. No security cameras. Private elevators. The perfect place to settle matters... or die.
He thought for a long time.
Then he picked up his coat.
At the Pavilion Club, Landon arrived at midnight.
The rain had stopped. The city breathed beneath him.
The club was empty lit with blue neon and candlelight. A lone figure sat at the end of the long terrace, under a canopy.
Elias.
Wearing a charcoal suit and an unreadable expression.
Landon approached slowly.
"You called."
"I did," Elias said. "Have a seat."
Landon didn't.
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"So are you," Elias replied. "But mine has better odds."
"You don't even remember who you are," Landon hissed.
Elias leaned forward.
"I remember enough. I remember drowning in a sea someone pushed me into. And I remember every attempt you've made to bury me since."
"You can't prove anything."
Elias smiled and placed a small chip on the table.
Encrypted.
Real-time footage from the last board meeting. And a voice log of Valerie admitting her plans to remove him illegally.
Landon paled.
"I haven't released it yet," Elias said. "But I will. Unless you disappear."
"What do you want?" Landon asked.
"Everything," Elias said. "Control of Draxon. Your offshore codes. And the name of the woman who coordinated my disappearance."
Landon was silent.
Then he said two words that changed everything:
"…Magritte Thorne."
The world tilted.
Elias felt the floor slide beneath him.
Magritte? His own aunt?
Landon's eyes were watching him, hungry.
"You didn't know," he said. "Did you?"
Elias stood.
He didn't answer.
But as he walked away, his heart thundered—not with fear, but with fury.
Someone had rewritten his history.
And he was going to find out why.