(Isabella Moretti)
I sit at the head of the boardroom table, my fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the polished mahogany. The room smells of coffee and ambition, and the twelve suits around me shift in their seats, waiting for me to speak. They're nervous. Good. Nervous means they're paying attention.
"Gentlemen," I say, my voice steady, "the numbers don't lie. This deal with Apex Industries is bleeding us dry. We cut it now, or we lose twenty percent of our market share by Q3. Thoughts?"
Mr. Langston, red-faced and sweaty, clears his throat. "Isabella, with respect, Apex has potential. Their AI patents, "
"Are outdated," I cut in, sliding a folder across the table. "Our team ran the projections. Their tech is two years behind. We're not a charity, Langston."
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. The others glance at each other, but no one challenges me. Marco D'Angelo, our CFO, gives me a small nod from across the table, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the morning light. He's the only one I trust to back me without question.
"Then it's settled," I say, standing. "We terminate the Apex contract by Friday. I expect a full report on the transition. Meeting adjourned."
The room empties fast, but Marco lingers. "You handled that like a pro, Isabella," he says, his voice low. "Your father would be proud."
I force a smile. "Thanks, Marco." His words sting more than they should. Dad's been gone three years, and every mention of him feels like a needle under my skin. I grab my tablet and head for the door, heels clicking on the marble floor.
In the hallway, my assistant Rafi falls into step beside me, her curly hair bouncing. "You slayed in there, Bella," she says, grinning. "Langston looked like he was gonna cry."
"Langston always looks like he's gonna cry," I say, smirking. "What's next?"
She checks her phone. "Eleven o'clock with the board again. New merger proposal. Some tech project your dad was into."
I stop walking. "Dad's project?" My chest tightens. "Which one?"
Rafi shrugs. "Something about quantum processors. Vivienne's pushing it hard."
Of course she is. My mother, Vivienne Moretti, never misses a chance to remind everyone she's the real power behind the throne. I nod and keep moving, but my mind's already racing. Dad's projects were his babies. He'd spend hours in his study, scribbling notes, dreaming of tech that could change the world. Then he died. Heart attack, they said. At forty-nine. I never bought it, but asking questions in this family is like poking a hornet's nest.
The boardroom's packed again by eleven, and Vivienne's at the head now, her silver-blond hair pulled tight, her emerald eyes scanning the room like a hawk. I sit to her right, my back straight, my face blank. She's wearing her signature white suit, the kind that screams untouchable.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vivienne says, her voice smooth as silk, "today we discuss a merger with Horizon Tech. Their quantum processor could redefine our industry. Isabella, your father believed in this. I trust you'll lead it well."
All eyes turn to me. I feel the weight of her words, the way she's tying me to Dad's legacy in front of everyone. It's a trap, but I can't call her out. Not here.
I stand, clicking the remote to bring up the proposal on the screen. "Horizon's tech is promising," I say, pointing to the specs. "Their processor hits speeds we can't match. But their financials are shaky. We'd need to front eighty percent of the capital. Risky, but the payoff could be massive."
"Risk is what built this company," Vivienne says, smiling at the board. "Isabella knows that."
I grit my teeth but keep going. "I propose a due diligence team. We audit Horizon's books, test their prototype, and report back in two weeks. Agreed?"
The board murmurs approval, and Vivienne nods, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Excellent," she says. "I knew you'd see the value, Isabella."
The meeting wraps, and the room clears. I'm halfway to the door when Vivienne's voice stops me. "A word, darling."
I turn, and she's standing by the window, the city skyline framing her like a painting. "You did well today," she says, but her tone's too sharp for a compliment. "However, this merger isn't optional. You'll approve it, or I'll step in."
My stomach twists. "You'd override me? In front of the board?"
"If I must," she says, stepping closer. "This company is bigger than your pride, Isabella. Don't forget that."
I hold her gaze, my pulse pounding. "And if I find a better option?"
Her lips curve, but it's not a smile. "You won't. Trust me."
I don't answer. I just walk out, my hands shaking as I clutch my tablet. Rafi's waiting in the hall, but I brush past her. "I need air," I mutter, heading for the elevator.
By evening, I'm back at the estate, the sprawling mansion that's been home since I was a kid. It's too quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own thoughts too loud. Leo's out, probably at some club, and Vivienne's at a gala. I'm alone, and for once, I'm glad.
I wander into Dad's study, the one room nobody's touched since he died. His desk is still cluttered with pens and old notebooks, like he might walk in any second. I run my fingers over the leather chair, remembering how he'd spin me in it when I was little, laughing as I squealed.
"Miss you," I whisper, my voice catching.
I'm about to leave when I notice the corner of a box under the desk, half-hidden by a rug. It's wood, carved with swirls, the kind Dad loved. I kneel, my heart thudding, and pull it out. It's heavy, locked, but the key's taped to the bottom. Sloppy for Dad, but I'm not complaining.
Inside, there's a single item: a burnt file, the edges charred black. The label's faded, but I can make out one word: Cross.
My breath catches. Cross? As in Damien Cross, the billionaire who's been eating our competitors for breakfast? I've never met him, but his name's everywhere, magazines, boardroom whispers. Dad knew him?
I dig through the box, hoping for more, and that's when I see it: a sealed envelope, tucked under the file. My name's on it, in Dad's messy handwriting. My hands tremble as I pick it up, and I tear it open, the paper crinkling.
The note's short, but it hits like a punch:
Isabella, if something happens to me, start with Damien Cross.
I stare at the words, my pulse roaring in my ears. The room feels too small, the air too thick. Dad didn't just know Damien Cross. He left me a warning. And now I'm holding it, three years too late.
I don't sleep that night. I sit in Dad's chair, the note in my hand, reading it over and over. If something happens to me. Not when I'm gone. Not if I die. If something happens. Like he knew it wasn't just a heart attack. Like he saw it coming.
I think about Vivienne's threat in the boardroom, the way she's pushing this merger. I think about Marco's quiet nods, Rafi's worried glances. And I think about Damien Cross, a man I've never met, but whose name is now burned into my brain.
Tomorrow, I'm finding answers. Whatever it takes.