“Hello, people of America. Welcome to the Gala Night hosted by LangCorp, in honor of our collaborative future with the economic giants of Echelon Eight!” The host’s voice thundered through the opulent hall, smooth as silk, but brimming with carefully restrained excitement. Spotlights fanned across the room. Applause rose—eager, rehearsed. The world’s cameras were watching. “Tonight,” the host continued, pacing slowly across the crystalline platform, “we welcome guests from every industry—tech, fashion, oil, defense, and of course, diplomacy. This room holds more net worth than half the globe. Please, enjoy the shows!” Smoke hissed. Lights cut the sky in beams of gold and amethyst. The entrance hall of the Echelon Dome—the most secure, most opulent event space in the entire country—was now a living pulse of wealth, glamour, and silent war. A drone flew across the ceiling, beaming live footage to giant curved screens. A crowd of nearly two thousand had gathered inside—royalty in ta

Gasps swept through the room like a rising tide. Heads turned. Murmurs cracked the silence like static. Lena’s wineglass tilted in her trembling hand. Rowan Kane stepped out from the shadows. Tailored black. No lapel pin, no tag. Just presence. Heavy, unshakable, and sharp like steel. His shoes struck the stage like measured thunder—silent but echoing. It wasn’t just the cut of his suit or the calm in his gait. It was something more. Something that curled around the room’s throat and demanded breath. He said nothing as he joined her, his hands tucked in his pockets like he didn’t need this spotlight—like it was chasing him instead. And Victoria… she didn’t look at him the way friends looked at friends. No. Her smile was smaller now. A secret tucked behind her lips. The kind of smile that women who were never questioned wore. Like she knew something no one else did. He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. But Victoria Lang did. She met him halfway, stepping down from the podium with the

Rowan stood there, his face unreadable, like he was carved from stone. The crowd’s whispers buzzed like flies, but he didn’t flinch. Lena’s words—slave trade, fraud, liar—hung in the air, sharp and heavy, waiting to draw blood. She stared at him, her chest heaving, daring him to crack. He didn’t. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, slow and deliberate, pulling out a single black card. He held it up, letting the stage lights catch the faint shimmer of gold text: Echelon Eight – Global Infrastructure Recovery Taskforce. The hall went quiet, like someone had sucked the air out of it. Rowan turned to the crowd, his voice steady but not loud, like he was explaining something obvious to a room full of kids. “Ms. Aston’s talking about wire transfers, contracts—things she doesn’t understand. Those are part of a classified project. LangCorp, Echelon Eight, and the United Nations. We’re not moving slaves. We’re moving solar grids, clean water, schools. Real progress. The kind Mr.

Dominic stepped closer, his voice softer, almost kind. “Lena, you’ve got three days to fix this Apex Holdings mess. Three days to save your career. You can’t do that if you’re chasing shadows. Let Rowan go. Let him have his moment. It’s not worth losing everything.” She spun to face him, eyes blazing. “Let him go? After he humiliated me? Let me think he was nothing, all those years, while he was—what? Playing me for a fool? You think I’m gonna let that slide?” He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re not hearing me. He’s got Echelon Eight behind him. Victoria Lang. You keep pushing, you’re not just fighting him—you’re fighting them. And nobody fights Echelon Eight and wins. The plan was to get him fired. You have set the trajectory. Let it ride. Do not disturb the motion!” Her lips parted, but no words came. For the first time, she felt it—the weight of her gamble. Calling out Rowan in front of everyone, waving that document, accusing him of crimes she wasn’t even 100

Megan, though, wasn’t smiling. Her eyes locked on Dominic, a dead stare that screamed, ‘You didn’t do this.' Her lips pressed tight, her posture rigid, like a queen watching her throne slip to a rival. She’d clawed her way to the CFO dream—used every inch of her cunning, her charm, her body with Dominic in his office, his home, her home. And now, her daughter, leaping from step 10 to step 95 in one single leap, demanding Presidency? Megan’s pulse thrummed in her neck, her mind a tangle of pride and poison. She was supposed to be happy, right? She’d molded Lena into this—her golden ticket, her weapon. But this? This felt like being outplayed in her own game. Granger rubbed his temples, his voice low, defeated. “I’ll… I’ll get the paperwork ready by Monday. You’ll get an email, Lena. President. And Megan, CFO. Congratulations in advance.” He shook his head, caught between dread and resignation. He’d been CEO for years, a master of the game. He had been a businessman all his life, a