The next morning, Alia walked through the glass doors of Legatum Designs.

She wore a tailored black suit. The sharp cut of the blazer matched the hard line of her jaw. Her heels clicked against the polished concrete floor in a fast, aggressive rhythm.

Employees in the hallway took one look at her face and immediately stepped out of her way, lowering their eyes to their phones.

Nina jogged to keep up with her.

"Ms. Garner," Nina said, her voice tight. "Shane Boggs didn't submit the compliance report for the city bid."

Alia stopped walking. Her heels skidded slightly on the floor. She turned her head. Her eyes were completely flat.

"Pull all of Shane's project data from the last six months," Alia ordered. "Bring it to the conference room. Now."

Alia pushed open the door to the main conference room. She walked to the head of the long glass table. She dropped her leather portfolio onto the surface with a loud smack.

The rest of the team filed in silently. They took their seats.

Ten minutes passed. The door swung open.

Shane Boggs walked in. He held a paper coffee cup in one hand. He pulled out a chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor. He slump into the seat and crossed his arms.

"Traffic was a nightmare," Shane said, smirking. "Had a late dinner with some city planners."

Alia did not look at his face. She pressed a button on the remote in her hand. The projector screen dropped down behind her.

A massive Excel spreadsheet filled the screen. It was the cost analysis for the municipal planning bid.

Alia picked up a laser pointer. The red dot hit the screen, circling three different cells.

"Explain these data gaps," Alia said. Her voice was dangerously quiet. "These are severe compliance violations. If this went to the city, Legatum would face a million-dollar fine."

Shane shifted in his chair. He waved his hand dismissively.

"It's standard industry padding, Alia," Shane said. He leaned back. "You women in management get so hung up on the paperwork. You don't understand how the real networking happens."

The room went dead silent. No one breathed.

Alia smiled. It was a cold, terrifying stretching of her lips.

She looked at Nina and nodded.

Nina walked around the table, dropping a thick, bound file in front of every person in the room.

Shane opened his copy. His face lost all its color.

The file contained a log of his missed deadlines. Behind that were copies of his expense reports, cross-referenced with his personal credit card receipts.

"You expensed a weekend in Miami to the St. Metas project," Alia said. She placed both hands flat on the glass table and leaned forward. "You embezzled company funds."

Sweat broke out on Shane's forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"You can't do this," Shane stammered. He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Griffin Hinton is my uncle. The Chairman is my family. You touch me, and you're done in this industry."

Alia stared at him. She felt nothing but absolute disgust.

"Legatum Designs does not employ dead weight who can't even balance a spreadsheet," Alia said.

She reached out and pressed the intercom button on the center console.

"HR. Send security to Conference Room A," Alia said into the speaker.

Shane jumped up. His knee hit the table. His coffee cup tipped over, sending hot brown liquid spilling across the glass.

"You bitch!" Shane yelled. "I'll ruin you!"

"If you say one more word," Alia said, not moving an inch, "I will have legal file criminal charges for the embezzlement before you reach the lobby."

The door opened. Two large security guards walked in. They grabbed Shane by the arms and pulled him backward.

Shane kicked the doorframe as they dragged him into the hallway. His curses echoed down the corridor until the elevator doors finally closed.

Alia pulled a tissue from the box on the table. She wiped the spilled coffee off the glass, her movements slow and deliberate.

She threw the wet tissue into the trash. She looked up at the terrified team.

"Fix the data. I want a perfect proposal on my desk by eight tonight," she commanded.

The room emptied in seconds. Alia sat alone in the quiet room. She rubbed her temples. A dull throb pulsed behind her eyes.

Her phone buzzed on the table. The caller ID read: Arthur Kingston - City Planning Commissioner.

Her stomach tightened. She picked up the phone.

"Arthur," Alia said, her voice slipping back into professional smoothness. Even as she had just demanded the perfect proposal from her team, a nagging instinct told her Shane's arrogance wasn't just stupidity-it was a symptom of a larger rot. She needed her team sharp, regardless of what was coming.

Arthur cleared his throat. The sound was wet and nervous.

"Alia," Arthur said. He paused. "The city council had a closed-door session this morning. We are... re-evaluating the municipal project."

Alia's fingers gripped the edge of the glass table.

"We passed the technical audit two weeks ago," Alia said.

"I know," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm sorry, Alia."

He hung up.

Alia shoved her phone into her pocket. She grabbed her coat and practically ran to the elevator.

Twenty minutes later, Alia's car jerked to a stop in the red zone outside City Hall. She threw the parking pass on the dash and slammed the door.

She walked fast across the marble floor of the lobby. Her heels echoed sharply against the stone. She bypassed the security desk and headed straight for the private elevators.

She turned the corner on the second floor and saw Arthur. He was holding a leather briefcase, pressing the down button frantically.

Alia stepped in front of him, blocking the elevator doors.

Arthur jumped. He clutched his briefcase to his chest.

"Alia, you can't be here," he whispered, looking up and down the empty hallway.

Alia stepped closer. She invaded his personal space, forcing him to back up against the wall.

"Explain it to me," Alia demanded.

Arthur wiped sweat from his upper lip. He looked terrified. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her into an empty, unlit meeting room. He shut the door.

He unzipped his briefcase. His hands were shaking. He pulled out a piece of paper and shoved it at her.

"A Wall Street capital firm stepped in last night," Arthur said.

Alia looked at the paper. It was a two-page bid summary. She scanned the numbers. Her eyes widened.

"This profit margin is negative," Alia said, her voice rising. "This doesn't even cover the raw materials. This is a suicide bid."

"They are paying entirely in cash," Arthur said, holding his hands up in surrender. "No municipal bonds. No city guarantees. They are eating the cost."

Alia gripped the paper so hard it crumpled in her fist.

"That's illegal," Alia snapped. "It's predatory pricing to create a monopoly. Why did the council accept this?"

Arthur looked at the floor. "The Mayor's office got a phone call at midnight. Whoever this firm is, they have enough power to bypass the entire legal framework. Let it go, Alia. You can't fight them."

A cold weight dropped into Alia's stomach. Six months of late nights, six months of fighting for budget approvals, wiped out by a single phone call.

She threw the crumpled paper onto the table.

"Legatum doesn't roll over," Alia said.

She turned and walked out of the room.

She pushed through the heavy doors of City Hall. The midday sun hit her face, bright and blinding. The steel and glass skyscrapers of Manhattan loomed over her, casting long, sharp shadows.

Her marriage was a lie. Her career-defining project was being stolen.

She stood on the concrete steps. She took a deep breath, letting the smell of exhaust fumes and hot asphalt fill her nose.

She pulled her phone out. She called Clara.

"I need your financial contacts," Alia said, her voice hard. "Someone just hijacked my city project. I need the name of the actual buyer behind the shell company. You have twenty-four hours."

She hung up. She walked down the steps toward her car. Her blood pumped fast, hot and aggressive. She was going to find out who did this.

The rain started at dusk. It fell in thick, heavy sheets, turning the Manhattan streets into slick, black mirrors.

Alia stood in the hallway of an exclusive private club in Tribeca. She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The light flashed green. The heavy oak door clicked open.

She walked into the private booth. The air smelled of aged leather and expensive bourbon.

Clara was sitting at the table. She wasn't smiling. A half-empty martini glass sat in front of her.

Clara pushed a thick manila envelope across the polished wood table. "I still don't know who sent me that first text with the photos," Alia said, staring at the condensation on Clara's glass. "It felt... targeted. Like someone was watching both of us." Clara nodded grimly, tapping the envelope.

Alia sat down. She unbuttoned her damp trench coat. She reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers.

"I had to call in favors from three different hedge fund managers to get this," Clara said, her voice hushed.

Alia flipped to the first page. A black-and-white photograph was clipped to the top left corner.

It was a man. His jawline was sharp, his cheekbones high and harsh. His eyes, even in the grainy photo, looked like black ice.

The name printed in bold letters beneath the photo read: Dangelo Abbott.

The air left Alia's lungs. Her chest tightened as if a heavy band had been strapped around her ribs.

"Dangelo Abbott," Alia whispered.

"He runs Aethelred Group," Clara said, pointing at the text. "He's a ghost, Alia. He specializes in hostile takeovers. He guts legacy companies, sells the parts, and destroys the competition."

Alia stared at the list of bankrupt companies on the second page.

"Why would a private equity billionaire want a municipal planning project?" Alia asked. Her fingers traced the edge of the paper. "It's too small for him."

"Because he doesn't leave survivors," Clara said. "If he wants that land, he will take it."

Alia closed her eyes. A memory hit her with physical force.

A year ago. A charity gala at the Met. She had been standing near the bar. She had looked across the room, past the crystal chandeliers.

Dangelo Abbott had been standing by the stairs. He had turned his head and looked directly at her group, his focus zeroing in on her with alarming precision. She later heard he had asked her companion who she was, having already known of her reputation as Legatum's fiercest project manager. Even from across the room, his gaze had been heavy, suffocating, like a physical weight pressing against her throat. She had felt like a piece of meat on a hook.

She opened her eyes. Her hands were trembling slightly. She placed them flat on the table to stop the shaking.

"Find out where he's going to be this week," Alia said. "A gala, a board meeting, anything."

Clara shook her head. "He doesn't do press. He doesn't do parties."

Clara's phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up, read the text, and her face fell.

"Alia," Clara said softly. "My contact at City Hall just texted. Dangelo's legal team is signing the final contract tomorrow morning. It's over."

Alia pushed her chair back. The wooden legs screeched against the floor.

She shoved the papers back into the envelope and stuffed it into her bag.

"I have to go back to the office," Alia said, her voice tight. "I have to prepare for the board's fallout."

She walked out of the club.

The rain was coming down harder now. The wind whipped the cold water against her face, soaking her hair instantly.

She opened her umbrella, but the wind caught it, bending the metal spokes. She abandoned it, running to her car through the freezing downpour.

She unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. She was shivering. Her clothes clung wetly to her skin. She started the engine, the heater blasting hot air that did nothing to warm the ice in her veins.