Derek's update arrived earlier than expected. Victor admired how dedicated he was to the job. Even at this late hour when Derek should be home, he was here keeping Victor informed.
Victor had already closed the shades with a single command, watching as the motorized system glided across the windows, dimming the harsh city glare. The lighting adjusted automatically to his evening preset, a soft gold that transformed the stark modernism of his space into something almost warm, the cityscape now reduced to a distant constellation of lights punctuating the darkness.
Victor stood with his back to the mahogany desk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. The screen's blue glow illuminated the hard planes of his face as he scrolled through group chat transcripts and curated news alerts. Behind him, Derek methodically arranged paper documents across the desk's polished surface, positioning each report with the precision of a forensic investigator preparing evidence.
"It's spreading faster than we anticipated," Derek said, his voice deliberately neutral. "The leak from the company retreat is now circulating on five major social channels. Three show high engagement metrics already."
Victor's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The photos themselves weren't particularly damning; nothing pornographic or even scandalous by modern standards. A corporate retreat bonfire, executives with drinks, staged poses meant to be humorous. But the captions accompanying them had been crafted with surgical precision, each word dripping with innuendo that transformed innocent moments into something that reeked of impropriety.
"Look at this one, " Victor said, turning the phone so Derek could see. "Forty-seven thousand engagements in less than an hour."
He scrolled through the comments, feeling the familiar cold tension spreading across his shoulders. But what caught his attention were the comments from influencers whose follower counts exceeded entire news networks. He watched the narrative mutate in real time; a staged joke at a bonfire became a hazing ritual, then a "toxic Sinclair culture" exposé.
The phone's screen dimmed from inactivity. Victor set it face-down on the desk, the gesture deliberate and controlled.
"Is the source internal?" he asked, his voice betraying nothing of the anger building beneath his sternum.
Derek nodded once. "We're ninety percent certain. Initial analysis points to someone from Harrington's camp, though we haven't confirmed the exact individual yet."
Victor didn't waste energy on curses or exasperation. Those were luxuries for men with less at stake.
"Get the digital forensics team on it immediately, " he said, setting the glass down without a sound. "First priority...containment. I want this stopped before it reaches mainstream outlets. Second, identify the origin point." He paused, considering the implications. "If it's an employee, find the driving force than offer them a one-time settlement with an ironclad NDA. If it's external..." His voice cooled several degrees. "Make an example. Quietly, but permanently."
Derek wrote each instruction in his leather-bound notebook, though Victor knew he'd remember every word regardless. "Are you thinking someone else is supporting Harrington's group."
"I'm thinking family may actually be behind this, as another vain attempt to ruin my credibility."
"What about the Meridian acquisition?" Derek asked, looking up from his notes. "Their board has already requested a call for tomorrow morning."
Victor moved to the window, pulling back one section of the shade just enough to look out at the city below. Traffic flowed like illuminated blood through concrete arteries, each vehicle carrying someone with their own agenda, their own small universe of concerns.
"The deal's still viable, " he said after a moment of consideration. "But the board will want a face-saving gesture. Identify someone at mid-level management, preferably someone already on thin ice. We'll need a statement about 'evolving corporate values' and 'renewed commitment to inclusivity.' Have PR draft it tonight and send it to my inbox by morning."
Derek made another note, then hesitated, his pen hovering above the paper. "Would you prefer to preempt with a personal interview? The Times has been requesting one for their business section."
Victor turned from the window, weighing the suggestion against his instincts. The golden light caught the edge of his profile, hardening it into something almost sculptural.
"Not yet, " he decided. "Let it simmer. If Meridian's CEO tries to position himself as the moral authority, we'll cut him off at the knees next week. I have enough on him to ensure his cooperation."
Derek nodded, finishing his notes before producing a second folder, thicker than the first, bound with a black ribbon rather than the standard metal clip. "I've completed the market analysis you requested. Comprehensive background on all up-and-coming luxury designers who might be acquisition targets or competitors."
Victor kept going back to the information Derek composed about Elise Monroe. There was something that was nagging at him, something he couldn't shake. He was initially interested in trying to use his nephew to strike a deal with the young design artist that was more beneficial to the company. However, the more he read, the more he wanted to change strategies.
He slid the page free, holding it beneath the desk lamp where the light revealed details that might otherwise be missed.
The dossier included a concise biography, a professional headshot, and high-resolution images of her most recent collection. She looked younger than he'd expected, late twenties perhaps, with dark hair pulled back severely from a face that seemed to challenge the camera rather than seduce it. Her eyes held a directness that was uncommon in publicity photos, where most designers affected an artistic distance or cultivated mystique.
He scanned the summary, "Notable for innovative combinations of industrial materials with precious metals. Growing reputation for conceptual risk-taking, though execution demonstrates flawless technical precision." The critical reviews were unusually effusive, even from publications known for their skepticism toward emerging artists.
Victor studied the included photographs more closely, a set of cuff bracelets with overlapping titanium wire that created moiré patterns when moved; a choker constructed of platinum links so precisely engineered it appeared both deadly and sensual. The aesthetic was simultaneously brutal and elegant, reminiscent of something he hadn't seen since...
He stopped, a connection forming in his mind.
"Pull up Tyler's most recent pitch deck, " he instructed, not looking up from Monroe's file.
Derek tapped his tablet, bringing up the requested document and positioning it beside the dossier. Victor compared the images side by side, his expression hardening as he confirmed his suspicion. The pendant featured prominently in Tyler's "original" collection bore an unmistakable resemblance to Monroe's necklace, down to the distinctive offset setting and tension-mounted stones.
"Check the dates, " Victor said, though he was already verifying them himself.
Monroe's piece had been exhibited at a regional show six months before Tyler's version appeared in the Sinclair catalog.
Victor's mind methodically reconstructed every board meeting, every enthusiastic pitch, every time his nephew had presented something "groundbreaking" and "visionary." He'd always harbored doubts about Tyler's creative abilities, but this revelation suggested something far more systematic, a pattern of theft disguised as inspiration, audacious enough to be almost impressive if it weren't so fundamentally pathetic.
He returned to Monroe's profile, absorbing each detail with renewed interest. She'd built her business from nothing, starting in a converted garage with secondhand equipment. Parents divorced when she was sixteen; mother worked as an emergency room nurse until her husband was killed in a car accident, then she switched to a high end luxury consultant. Raised by her grandmother. Self-financed education through scholarships and night jobs. The list of awards was modest, mostly second or third places in industry competitions, but the critical assessments were remarkably consistent, "Monroe's work demands your attention. Designs ahead of her time. It is impossible to look away."
Victor closed the folder deliberately, letting silence fill the room. The only sound was the faint hum of the climate system and the distant, muted pulse of the city beyond the glass. He remained motionless long enough that Derek shifted his weight slightly, a subtle indication of his uncertainty.
"Sir?" Derek prompted finally.
Victor looked up, his focus returning to the present moment. "I'm almost ashamed I missed this," he said, his decision already formed. "You noticed before I did, Derek."
"I know it's only because you've been under an extra amount of stress, sir."
"I want her working with Sinclair before Meridian approaches her. And they will approach her, Kellerman has always had an eye for emerging talent."
He paused, then added, "Cancel the outing tonight, we need to make this one personal. Not just another corporate outreach."
"Of course," Derek replied, making a mental note of tomorrow's priorities. "Anything else for tonight?"
Victor glanced at the time displayed on his desk, 10:37 PM. "That's all. I'll handle the rest myself."
After Derek departed, Victor remained at his desk, the penthouse suddenly vast and silent around him. He stood and crossed to the window wall, releasing the shade mechanism to reveal the full panorama of the city at night. From sixty stories up, the urban landscape resembled a circuit board, patterns of light and movement that followed predictable pathways, interrupted occasionally by unexpected flares of activity.
He thought of Elise Monroe, of her work, of the architectural quality of her mind, the kind that, in another era, might have designed cathedrals or fortifications, but in this one crafted objects of beauty with an edge of danger. The combination intrigued him more than he cared to admit.
He sat down and began drafting the email to Meridian himself, each sentence balanced precisely between implied threat and professional courtesy. The words came easily, a language of power he'd mastered long ago.
He needed to determine how close they were to bringing in Ms. Monroe. The best way to do this is to present them with an offer of a potential collaboration. He didn't like playing this game but sometimes he had to play dirty to stay on top.
Victor's phone vibrated against the desk. A message from an unknown number.
