The victory was bought with blood.
Three days later, the narrative shifted seamlessly from financial scandal to hero worship. Bennett had won. The acquisition was complete. The Randolph stock soared.
But the footage playing on the lobby screen showed a different reality: Bennett, unconscious, being loaded into an ambulance outside the stock exchange. He had collapsed from exhaustion and a stress-induced arrhythmia immediately after signing the papers.
"A Warrior for His Legacy," the headline read.
I sat in the hushed luxury of the hotel lobby, waiting for the car that would take me to the airport. My flight was in four hours. I watched the screen as Elia stepped up to a podium, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry with a lace handkerchief.
"Bennett fought for us," she told the cameras, her voice trembling perfectly. "He promised me he would win, and he did. We are going to get married as soon as he recovers."
I turned away. It was a circus, and I was no longer in the audience.
"Kelsey."
The voice didn't just startle me; it froze me.
Bennett was standing at the entrance of the hotel lobby. He shouldn't have been there. He should have been in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors.
He was deathly pale, his left arm in a sling, a bandage peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He looked like a ghost who had forgotten how to rest.
He walked toward me, ignoring the alarmed stares of the concierge.
"You're leaving," he said. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation. He looked at the suitcases next to me.
"My flight is tonight," I said. I didn't stand up.
"I won," he said. His eyes were feverish, bright with an unhealthy, manic energy. "Did you see? I crushed them. I did it for the family."
"You did it for Elia," I corrected quietly.
He winced, as if I had poked a fresh bruise. He reached into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out a small black box.
"I bought this on the way here," he said, his breath coming in short, painful rasps. "I made the driver stop. It's a promise ring. Or a... a reconciliation gift. Whatever you want to call it."
He opened the box. A sapphire the size of a quail egg sat on a velvet cushion. It was gaudy. It was expensive. It was exactly the kind of thing Elia would kill for.
"I don't want it," I said.
"Why are you doing this?" His voice rose, cracking under the strain. "I almost died, Kelsey. I was in that boardroom for forty-eight hours straight. I bled for this money. And I'm here, standing in front of you, asking you to come home."
"Home?" I looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the lines of selfishness etched around his mouth. I saw the blindness in his eyes. "Bennett, you didn't come here because you missed me. You came here because you need an audience for your victory lap. Elia is busy talking to the press, so you came to find the only other person who knows who you really are."
He flinched. "That's not fair."
"Keep the ring," I said. "Give it to Elia. It matches her ambition."
He slammed the box shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet lobby.
"You're punishing me. That's what this is. You're playing hard to get because I hurt your feelings at the gala. Fine. I'll wait. But don't think you're walking away with anything more than what's in these bags."
"That's the plan," I said.
He stared at me, his chest heaving. Then he laughed, a short, bitter bark.
"You'll be back," he said. "Paris is expensive. You'll run out of money in a month, and you'll come crawling back. And maybe, if you're nice, I'll let you stay in the guest house."
He turned and walked away, limping slightly. He looked victorious and broken all at once.
I watched him go. I waited for the hurt, but it didn't come. I felt nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a quiet, hollow relief.
My phone buzzed. A notification from the airline.
Flight AF007 to Paris: On Time.
"Ma'am?" The driver was standing beside me. "We should load the bags."
"Yes," I said, standing up. "Let's go."
