Corinna POV:
The morning sun hit the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cross Global Strategic Think Tank, casting long, sharp shadows across the plush carpet. I stood with my back to the heavy agarwood double doors of Meeting Room One, wearing a sharply tailored white suit. I looked down at the Manhattan skyline, a city I used to fear, a city I now held by the throat.
Behind me, the alarm system on the top floor began to flash red. The sound of a physical struggle echoed in the reception area. Graham was used to using absolute power to pave his way. It was the arrogant foundation the Rios family had built into his DNA.
A loud crash shattered the morning quiet. Graham kicked the heavy agarwood doors open with such force that they bounced off the walls.
I did not flinch. I slowly turned around. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of my heels.
Graham marched straight to the massive mahogany conference table. He was breathing hard, his jaw tight with fury. He slammed the rain-warped, blood-stained Code of Conduct folder onto the polished wood. He leaned over the table, his weight resting on his hands, and glared at me. He demanded I cancel this ridiculous rule, threatening to pull the entire Rios family funding from the project.
I looked at him the way one looks at a corpse. I did not waste my breath arguing. I simply reached out and pressed the silver button on the edge of the table.
The room darkened slightly as the holographic projector above us hummed to life. A massive three-dimensional equity structure chart floated in the air between us. The Rios family logo, which used to dominate the center pie chart, had been violently squeezed into a tiny, irrelevant sliver at the bottom edge.
Graham's eyes darted across the floating numbers. His pupils shook. He stared at the data panel in absolute disbelief. The muscles in his neck strained as his brain tried to process the mathematical slaughter.
"Lucian Lu just injected ten billion dollars into the project," I said, my voice flat and completely devoid of warmth. "He is now the primary partner. Your withdrawal threats are meaningless, Senator."
Lucian, who had been sitting quietly in the corner leather chair sipping his coffee, finally stood up. He adjusted his expensive diamond cufflinks with a lazy, victorious smile. He walked up to the table and extended his hand toward Graham, offering a handshake that was nothing but pure mockery.
Graham stared at Lucian's hand. His chest heaved. To a politician of his caliber, this was the ultimate humiliation. He refused to move his arm.
I ignored Graham's pathetic display of pride. I picked up the solid gold fountain pen resting on the leather blotter. I leaned forward slightly to sign the final equity confirmation document that would legally cement his defeat.
As I shifted my weight, the tailored sleeve of my white suit jacket slid back exactly half an inch.
Graham had been staring at my face, but his eyes suddenly darted downward. His gaze locked onto my exposed skin.
On the pale inner side of my right wrist, an ugly, raised, centipede-like scar stood out in stark contrast. It was the physical receipt of my trauma. Three years ago, to save the tiny life growing inside me, I had endured a brutal C-section in a filthy underground clinic without a single drop of anesthesia. The pain of the scalpel tearing through my flesh still haunted my nightmares.
Graham stopped breathing. The silence in the room became suffocating. I could see the gears in his head spinning out of control, violently searching his memory. When he threw me away three years ago, my skin had been flawless.
A terrifying realization hit him. He lunged forward across the table, his hand reaching out with desperate, manic energy, trying to grab my wrist to inspect the violent wound.
Lucian moved faster. He smoothly stepped into the space between us. He raised the arm holding his coffee cup, creating a solid physical barrier that blocked Graham's hand. The sudden collision caused the hot coffee to slosh over the rim. Several dark drops splattered directly onto Graham's custom leather shoes.
I realized my mistake instantly. I pulled my hand back, my fingers moving with practiced speed as I buttoned the cuff of my sleeve to the tightest notch. I looked up. For a fraction of a second, pure, unadulterated murder flashed in my eyes. I wanted to rip his throat out for daring to look at the evidence of the hell he put me through. But I buried the rage beneath a layer of solid ice.
Graham looked like a man who had just been drained of his blood. He stumbled back a step. His voice was cracked and hoarse, scraping against his throat as he demanded to know what happened to my wrist.
I reached under the desk and pressed the silent security alarm. "It is just a scratch from a car accident," I said smoothly. I used the exact lie that fit his arrogant assumption that I was just a clumsy, helpless woman without him.
The doors burst open. A dozen heavily armed building security guards flooded into the room, forming a tight circle around Graham.
Graham shoved the nearest guard hard. He refused to look away from me. He stared directly into my eyes, frantically searching for a tremor, a shift, a lie. He found absolutely nothing. I was a blank wall.
The guards grabbed his arms, forcing him backward toward the door. He did not fight them anymore. His body went limp, but his eyes remained glued to my covered wrist. The seed of that scar had already planted itself like a venomous snake biting into his heart.
He was dragged out into the hallway. The heavy doors shut, leaving the room in silence.
