THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

CHAPTER 21 : A Suffocating Negotiation

“Connect me to Lane Corp,” Holt ordered his secretary, voice cold but edged with defeat. “I want to speak to the architect.”

Back in the Lane Corp boardroom, cheers erupted. Directors applauded, hugging one another. Robert Watson even clapped Matthew on the shoulder, something he had never done before.

“Incredible. Sixty-two dollars per share. Our valuation just doubled in an hour,” Watson exclaimed. “You’re unbelievable, kid.”

Matthew did not smile. He slowly released the tablet. His fingertips felt numb. The blood on his nose had dried, but the metallic taste in his mouth was strong. ARC data floated across his vision.

[Reputation: Market Defender.]

[Lane Corp Economy: Valuation up 200 percent. Liquidity stabilized.]

“Everyone out, please,” Matthew said quietly. Authority in his voice silenced the room instantly. “Except Viviane.”

The directors sobered at once. Sensing the dark aura around Matthew, they packed up and hurried out like schoolchildren fleeing a strict principal.

When the door closed, Viviane turned to him immediately. “Matthew.” She cupped his face. “You’re so pale. Your hands are ice cold.”

“Just adrenaline,” Matthew lied, his eyes dull.

[MISSION COMPLETE]

[Enemy: Reginald Holt. Temporarily Withdrawn.]

[Lane Corp Status: Secure.]

[Physical Condition: 30 percent. Immediate rest is recommended.]

The conference phone rang. The priority indicator lit up.

Matthew drew a deep breath, straightened his back, and hit the speaker button. “This is Matthew Thomas.”

Reginald Holt’s heavy voice filled the room. “You play dirty, kid. Ghost money from Asia. That’s market manipulation.”

“Call it whatever you like, Mr. Holt,” Matthew replied evenly. “In my world, it’s strategy. And you just lost one hundred fifty million dollars by underestimating this useless son-in-law.”

Silence, broken only by Holt’s heavy breathing.

“You’re dangerous. I like that,” Holt said at last, his tone shifting from anger to calculation. “I’m withdrawing my offer. But this war isn’t over. You have something I want. And I have resources you’ll need if you plan to survive sharks bigger than me.”

“What do you want?” Matthew asked coldly.

“A meeting. Face to face. No lawyers. No board,” Holt said. “Just you and me. There are things about this city you don’t know, Thomas. Things even your system can’t predict.”

Viviane shook her head anxiously, but Matthew knew he could not avoid this. To rule New York, he had to defeat its kings one by one.

“When and where?” Matthew replied.

“Tomorrow night. At The Vault. My private club in Lower Manhattan. Come alone, or don’t come at all,” Holt challenged.

“I’ll be there,” Matthew said, ending the call.

He leaned back into the leather chair, closing his eyes. His body felt like a machine out of fuel.

“You’re not going alone,” Viviane said, gripping his hand tightly. “Holt is a gangster in a businessman’s suit. And The Vault is a den of thieves.”

Matthew opened his eyes slowly. “I have to go. Holt knows something. He mentioned bigger sharks. If he knows about Archon, he’s either an asset or a threat that needs to be eliminated.”

He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled. Viviane rushed to support him, holding his arm firmly.

“Fine,” Viviane said decisively. “But tonight, you’re mine. No systems. No markets. No enemies. You’re going home, eating, and sleeping. If you die of exhaustion before Holt gets a chance to kill you, I’ll never forgive you.”

Matthew managed a weak smile, touching her cheek. “Orders received, Mrs. CEO.”

Together, they left the now-empty boardroom, leaving behind the giant screen still glowing with towering green victory charts, a digital monument to a man gambling his life one second at a time.

***

Lower Manhattan, eleven p.m.,

“The Vault” was not a place you could find on online Maps. Located thirty meters underground, inside a decommissioned Federal Reserve gold vault, it was a den for industrial titans who preferred the shadows to the spotlight.

The walls were made of half-meter-thick steel, lined with aged mahogany panels that swallowed sound whole.

Matthew Thomas stepped out of a private elevator with a single button. He wore a pitch-black Tom Ford suit, paired with a white shirt and no tie.

He looked immaculate. Yet his face was pale. Behind the thin prescription glasses he wore, a new accessory meant to conceal the flicker of data in his eyes, his head throbbed violently. His physical condition was still hovering at a critical threshold, thirty percent.

“Mr. Thomas,” greeted a massive guard in a suit strained at the armpits. “Mr. Holt is waiting in the Cigar Room.”

Matthew gave a brief nod and followed the guard down a dim corridor. The scent of expensive leather and tobacco burned his nostrils. On either side, he recognized faces that often appeared on the front pages of The Wall Street Journal, whispering to beautiful women or corrupt politicians.

The guard pushed open a pair of heavy double doors. Inside, Reginald Holt sat alone on a Chesterfield leather sofa, surrounded by thick cigar smoke. On the table before him lay a bottle of Macallan 1926 and an antique revolver, casually placed atop a stack of documents.

“Come in, Architect.” Holt’s voice was deep and resonant as he remained seated. “You’ve got some nerve, showing up alone after humiliating me in the market yesterday.”

Matthew stepped inside with a faint smile. The door closed behind him with a heavy metallic click. He did not sit immediately. His eyes swept the room as he activated the ARC system.

[SYSTEM ARC ACTIVATED]

[Environmental Analysis: Soundproof room. Cellular signal: Blocked, local jammer detected. Security: Two guards behind a one-way mirror.

[Target Status: Reginald Holt. Emotions: Anger 60%, Curiosity 30%, Fear 10%.]

[Asset Weakness: Detected.]

“Sit,” Holt ordered, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Drink?”

“Mineral water,” Matthew replied flatly, then took his seat with his back straight.

Holt chuckled softly, a dry, dismissive sound. He poured water into a crystal glass and slid it toward Matthew. “You’re disciplined. I like that. But discipline alone won’t keep you alive in this shark tank, son.”

Matthew took the glass but did not drink. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss my drinking habits, Mr. Holt. Say what you want.”

Holt set his cigar into a custom ashtray on the table. He leaned forward, eyes locked onto Matthew’s. The intimidating aura of a property baron who had crushed thousands of rivals radiated off him.

“I have an offer for you,” Holt said coldly, tapping the stack of documents beside the pistol. “An alliance. Merge Lane Corp with Holt Industries. I will allow your wife to remain CEO, under my supervision, while you keep your current position.”

Matthew did not blink. “That isn’t an alliance. It’s annexation. A surrender.”

“It’s protection!” Holt snapped, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make it shake. “You think your little stock market victory makes you safe? You just caught the attention of people far more dangerous than me, Matt. Without my protection, you’ll be eaten alive by global cartels within a month.”

“And in return?” Matthew asked.

“In return, you give me access to that predictive algorithm of yours,” Holt said, grinning greedily. “I know you have something. No human can predict market movements that accurately without insider information or military-grade technology.”

Matthew smiled faintly. The smile never reached his eyes. He set the glass down gently on the table. “Mr. Holt, there’s one thing you misunderstand,” he said softly.

“And what’s that?” Holt asked.

“I don’t need your protection, and I certainly don’t need your money.” Matthew leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “I came here to give you a final warning.”

Holt’s face flushed with rage. He grabbed the antique revolver from the table, rolling it between his fingers. “You’re awfully arrogant for someone standing in my territory, surrounded by my people. I could make you disappear tonight, and no one would ever find your body.”

“You could try,” Matthew replied calmly, “but before you pull that trigger, you might want to check the status of your primary cobalt mine in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

Holt’s hand froze. His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“The North Kivu mine,” Matthew continued, his voice as cold as a death announcement. “The crown jewel of your commodities portfolio. It accounts for sixty percent of Holt Industries’ net worth. You’ve staked everything on it because cobalt prices are rising, haven’t you?”

“That’s classified corporate information,” Holt hissed. “How do you know that?”

Matthew ignored the question. His eyes glowed faintly with a blue pattern only he could see.

[Market Signal Key Activated]

[Target: Global commodities market sentiment]

[ARC Prediction: Military coup in mining region within seventy-two hours. Asset nationalization by the new junta.]

[Action: Release targeted rumors into Bloomberg Terminal news algorithms.]

[Cost: 50 Vitality Points. Warning: Extreme neurological danger.]

Blood began to drip from Matthew’s nose. This time, he did not wipe it away. He let the red droplets fall onto the expensive wooden table, creating a chilling visual contrast.