The sun had barely risen when Elias Thorne stepped into the war room of the Hyatt Crown Hall, where the clandestine summit of Duchess Corporation's internal board was to take place.
He wasn't invited.
He didn't need to be.
"You sure you want to do this?" Jude whispered, brushing imaginary lint off Elias' charcoal overcoat.
"I've never been surer of anything," Elias replied. "Today, I stop playing defense."
Magritte emerged from the elevator, dressed in navy silk, a dagger strapped discreetly to her thigh not because she planned to use it, but because some symbols reminded her she wasn't helpless anymore.
Yara followed, her expression hard.
"All eyes will be on you," she said. "The moment you speak, they'll look for a reason to dismiss you or worse."
"Let them," Elias replied, scanning the room where polished marble floors mirrored crystal chandeliers. "They're not dealing with a ruined heir anymore."
Jude nodded. "You're the man who made himself king."
Security moved in seconds after they entered, but before hands could touch arms, Elias stepped forward and presented a sealed envelope.
"Delivered from the Chief Federal Arbitration Office," he announced, letting the weight of those words settle. "By now, your legal teams have copies."
A moment passed.
Then one of the security captains stepped back and nodded.
"They'll see you."
Elias walked through the brass-trimmed doors into a space he hadn't entered in 25 years. The private inner council of Duchess Corporation. It was lined with grey-haired executives, bitter smiles, and eyes that remembered his father's fall.
"Mr. Thorne," said a man seated at the head of the obsidian table. "We didn't expect you."
"You never do," Elias said, smiling. "And that's how I always win."
Laughter. Nervous. Thin.
Elias set a leather folio down on the table and opened it.
"Effective as of this morning, the controlling interest in the Draxon Energy expansion contracts now belongs to me," he said.
A rustle of papers. A gasp from a thin-lipped woman seated at the left.
"I've also acquired voting shares through dormant trusts long believed to be void. Surprise, they weren't."
"You're bluffing," the chairman snarled.
"Then call my bluff. Vote on it," Elias offered.
A beat.
No one moved.
The woman across from him Lydia Gable, one of Duchess' most feared board tacticians leaned forward.
"Even if your claims are true, you lack the legacy seat. The seat belongs to a rightful Thorne heir not a man with a changed face, amnesia, and a scandal too ripe for national syndicates."
Elias turned slightly.
Jude stepped forward.
And laid down a copy of a document.
A birth certificate.
Two, actually.
Both showing the Thorne name. Both legally attested and witnessed by a long-dead legal authority. One was Elias. The other…
"Jude Thorne," he announced. "My brother."
More rustling. More disbelief.
"He's not here to rule. But his existence secures the line. And that's all that's required. Per the original clause of the founding charter Section 3B 'In the event that two male heirs of the Thorne line survive into majority, succession may be consolidated if one stands as the protector of the legacy.'"
Elias' voice grew cold. "I *am* that protector."
Gable stood abruptly. "This is absurd"
"You tried to erase me," Elias said softly. "And now I'm erasing you."
He dropped another folder on the table containing damning evidence of Gable's siphoned assets to off-shore proxies.
"You have 24 hours to resign."
Gasps.
One by one, the others turned toward her.
"I recommend you leave through the side door," Elias added. "Before headlines catch up."
Later, at the penthouse, Magritte sat on the rooftop lounge, legs curled under her, staring at the skyline.
"You made enemies today," she murmured as Elias joined her.
"I didn't come here to make friends," he replied.
They sat in silence.
"You and Jude… it makes sense now," she said. "The loyalty. The instinct. You feel it, even when the past is stolen."
"I still don't remember the day we were separated," Elias admitted. "But sometimes, I dream about a toy train. He says we fought over it all the time."
"I think you're starting to heal," Magritte said.
He looked at her. "Why are you still here?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "Maybe I want to see how this ends."
He reached for her hand, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't pull away.
"Magritte," he said carefully, "if I let you in, if this becomes real… will you betray me?"
She met his eyes. "No."
"Will you lie?"
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Probably. But only when it's safer for you not to know the truth."
Elias laughed softly, more breath than sound.
"That's the most honest answer I've heard all week."
Across the city, Gable stormed into a room lined with steel cases and black suits. She slammed her purse down and turned toward a man cloaked in shadows.
"He's more dangerous than I thought."
The man stepped into view.
It was Maxwell Grant.
Gable tossed him a file.
"You'll do it?"
Grant smiled. "Already started."
The news broke before dawn.
"GABLE RESIGNS" blared the headlines on every business network across the country. Financial channels ran looping footage of her being escorted from the Duchess Corporation headquarters. A woman once feared like a monarch now faded like a ghost.
Elias Thorne watched it all from his suite. Shirtless, coffee in hand, the sunlight catching the jagged scar that ran beneath his collarbone. He didn't smile. Victories like this never felt complete not when you knew how many knives still waited in the dark.
Magritte walked in from the bedroom, her silk robe clinging softly to her figure. She looked at the screen, then at Elias.
"One queen down," she murmured. "How many kings to go?"
"Too many," he said. "But I didn't expect Gable to fall so easily."
"She didn't fall," Magritte said. "She was removed. And that means she's going to come back harder."
Elias nodded slowly. "I know."
He turned away from the screen and toward her, eyes serious. "You should stay away for a while."
"No," she said. "I stay."
He approached her, the distance between them disappearing.
"You're not obligated to me, Magritte."
"I know," she replied. "That's why I'm still here."
He touched her face gently, reverently as if afraid she might vanish. Her lips parted, not in fear, but in defiance of everything soft she'd ever been taught to suppress.
Their kiss was quiet and slow, a statement, not a promise. When they pulled apart, Magritte whispered,
"If we're doing this, Elias, then don't lie to me. Not about anything."
"I won't," he said. "Not to you."
Meanwhile, across the city, Maxwell Grant's penthouse office was a museum of stolen luxury fossilized weapons, ancient tapestries, and blueprints for chaos.
"Gable was the beginning," Grant said, pouring brandy into two crystal glasses. "But the real poison is inside Draxon. I'm ready to activate the shell accounts."
Beside him stood a woman in a blood-red suit—elegant, calculated. Her name: **Celeste Rain**. She had once been Magritte's mentor. Now, she was her silent shadow.
"He's getting stronger," she said.
"That's why we'll make it personal," Grant answered. "We destroy his allies first. Then we unravel the Thorne name… thread by thread."
At the Thorne Estate, Elias stood before a boardroom table surrounded by allies. Jude. Yara. Lewis. Valerie Dexter his ex-betrothed, who remained by his side with a loyalty even she couldn't explain.
"I want to solidify three new branches," Elias said. "Tech, Media, and Public Infrastructure. Duchess Corporation still holds the lionshare of military tech we're going to beat them by controlling access to their public channels."
Yara raised a brow. "You're going to buy the public opinion?"
"No," Elias replied. "I'm going to earn it. But it'll cost millions. Maybe billions. I need this team to tell me if it's worth the war."
Jude stood first. "You have my answer already."
Lewis nodded. "I've fought bigger with less. I say go."
Valerie looked at Elias, something unreadable in her gaze. "You built this out of nothing. Don't stop now."
Elias locked eyes with her. "Thank you, Val."
She forced a smile. "Don't thank me. Just don't forget who helped you survive."
That evening, in Elias' private library, Magritte paced, fingers trailing books and old portraits. She stopped before one of Elias' father.
"You look just like him," she said when Elias entered.
"I hope not," he replied.
She turned, the warmth in her eyes dimmed.
"You've changed," she said.
"I'm not sure I had a choice."
"Maybe not," she agreed. "But don't become the men you're trying to bury."
Elias approached her slowly, stopping a breath away. "What if I already have?"
"Then I'll dig you out myself," she whispered.
He leaned in to kiss her again but before their lips touched, his phone rang.
He looked down.
Jude: URGENT. TURN ON CHANNEL 5. NOW.
He grabbed the remote. A news broadcast flickered to life.
"…and in shocking developments, a leaked video shows Elias Thorne in what appears to be a private exchange of funds with known arms broker Anton Veck, raising questions about his rapid acquisition of voting shares and possible violations of international arms trade laws…"
Elias' eyes narrowed. Magritte went pale.
"That's… that's not you," she said.
"No," Elias replied. "But it's a damn good fake."
The anchor continued:
"…video released anonymously just minutes ago has already triggered an emergency ethics inquiry. Duchess Corporation's interim board has filed an official complaint to the Federal Economic Court…"
Elias stood in silence.
Then he turned to Magritte. "It's started."