POV: Elise Carter
The room was darker than expected—tastefully dim, not gloomy. The kind of lighting chosen by people who didn't want to be truly seen.
Elise stepped inside, heels quiet against the marbled floors of the Black Orchid, a private club nestled inside an anonymous skyscraper in midtown Manhattan. It was known for discretion and danger—qualities the man she was about to meet valued deeply.
"Miss Carter." The host bowed, then gestured toward a table cloaked in shadow.
She saw him before he spoke.
Victor Dalca. Eastern European magnate. Arms, oil, shipping—no one knew which fortune came first, only that each was dripping in blood and gold. He didn't smile as she approached.
"Elise Carter," he said in a voice like smoke, "reborn and already making waves."
She slid into the seat across from him, her back straight, her expression composed. "I was always made for waves, Mr. Dalca. I just forgot that once."
He studied her.
No handshake. No pleasantries.
Just a glint of something cold and sharp in his gaze.
"You brought me something," he said.
She reached into her clutch and pulled out a flash drive.
She didn't slide it across the table.
She held it.
"First," Elise said, "we talk terms."
He arched a brow. "You came to me."
"Yes. Because Tiffany Carter once backstabbed you on a logistics deal and made Adrian Blackwell cover for her. I have the proof. And I'll give it to you. But not for free."
Dalca's eyes narrowed.
"Go on."
"I want Tiffany discredited. Quietly. Your people are experts at background smears that look like organic scandal. I want whispers about false business deals, falsified invoices, overseas tax schemes. Nothing that directly leads back to me—or you. But enough to make Blackwell International start questioning her involvement in any future projects."
Dalca leaned back.
"You're not asking for a favor. You're asking for war."
"No," Elise said coolly. "I'm offering justice."
She finally placed the drive on the table.
Victor picked it up slowly, as if weighing its worth just by its size.
Then he smirked.
"Tiffany Carter made me lose ten million dollars and tried to sell me a tanker that didn't exist. I like your proposal."
He paused.
"But if I help you, Elise, and you fail—don't expect mercy."
POV: Victor Dalca
He had met many women in his life. Elegant, ruthless, clever.
But Elise Carter intrigued him.
She moved like someone with blood on her hands and a purpose to bury it beneath an empire.
He liked that.
She wasn't afraid of his reputation. Didn't flinch when he mentioned war. Didn't blink when he leaned forward and said, "Do you want her ruined or erased?"
Most women would've gasped.
Elise only met his gaze and replied, "Just her legacy. She can live in the shadows she built. Alone."
Dalca almost smiled.
He respected control more than rage.
And Elise Carter was in control.
"Very well," he said, rising. "You'll have your whispers by the end of the week."
POV: Elise Carter
Elise stepped out of the club ten minutes later, the night chill licking at her skin as her driver opened the door.
She didn't speak as the car pulled away.
She didn't need to.
In her hand was a folded piece of paper Victor had slipped into her palm.
A list of offshore accounts—ones tied to Tiffany's name under shell corporations.
She'd pretend to be shocked when the news broke.
She'd even send flowers.
But inside?
She'd savor every headline.
POV: Tiffany Carter
Two days later.
She burst into her office at the PR firm, face pale, phone pressed to her ear.
"What do you mean the London contract is frozen? I signed it last week—"
Her assistant rushed in, eyes wide.
"There's more," the girl whispered. "There's... rumors. About your financials. About off-ledger accounts in Zurich. People are saying it's you. That you laundered money for a fake startup to pad your launch metrics."
Tiffany dropped her phone.
She hadn't even touched those accounts in years.
Who still knew?
Her hands trembled.
"Elise," she hissed.
Somehow, Elise knew.
She had everything.
And she was coming for more.