The temperature in the room was frosty, dropping well beyond the hum of the AC that kept the space at a noticeable chill. These on-site negotiations felt far more hostile than in previous years.
"The Qalmeira defense budget doesn't allocate funds for untested, experimental tech," Ambassador Burke said, his voice dripping with aristocratic boredom as he adjusted his silk tie, completely refusing to look directly at the unknown man in the room.
It irritated Burke to his core. Every time he put forth a counter-offer or tried to steer the negotiation, the two men he had been dealing with up until this point—men who usually operated in perfect, submissive union—now constantly looked to this stranger as if he were the ultimate authority on all things Brooke Corp. Burke couldn't imagine things had changed so much at this foreign company, but the liaisons he always dealt with were suddenly no longer able to freely negotiate.
Leaning back, Burke leveled a haughty glare at Mr. Vance, the lead analyst.
"We requested heavy artillery and standard ballistic resupply. Not whatever toy your company is pushing this quarter."
Because of what he perceived as a growing insult, Burke didn't feel the need to play ball. He had no intention of even hearing about the new tech they were trying to force his government to purchase, refusing to let Qalmeira become the guinea pigs for Brooke Corp's next defense contract. Sitting beside the ambassador, his personal assistant and a high-ranking diplomatic aide remained entirely silent, though their rigid postures mirrored their superior's disdain.
Mr. Vance and his colleague, Mr. Driver, shared a brief, tense look. Their expressions hovered precariously between fear and indignation. On one hand, they were insulted by how the ambassador was treating their boss; on the other, they were terrified that Mr. Westbrook would lose faith in their efficiency because of this scoundrel, Mr. Burke. As procurement officers, their entire job was creating buzz around new tech and successfully moving products to foreign governments. If they couldn't do that efficiently today, they could kiss their six-figure salaries goodbye.
Vance's fingers twitched against his leather folder every few seconds, while Mr. Driver's eyes continually darted toward Gunner, desperately trying to read the giant sitting in absolute, heavy silence at the head of the table. They hadn't been warned beforehand that the Co-Vice President would be joining them today.
Gunner added nothing. He gave them absolutely nothing. He rested his forearms on the polished table, hands loosely clasped, his expression a mask of bored indifference. In truth, the high-stakes contract was secondary. He had only needed a legitimate, ironclad reason to be in this country—a corporate paper trail so his father wouldn't think he was shirking his executive responsibilities. He could always convince his father that his physical presence in these negotiations was its own authority, forcing the Qalmeirans to fill the vacuum with their own nerves.
"I respect your position, Mr. Ambassador," Mr. Vance said, keeping his tone perfectly level. He cast a quick, seeking glance toward Mr. Westbrook to ensure he hadn't crossed a line, but Gunner's face remained an unreadable mask. Gaining back some of his confidence, Vance continued, "We know your current border conflicts in your northern territory aren't being fought on open plains anymore. Standard ballistics won't cut it. This is a new age of warfare that requires a technological edge, and Brooke Corp is the sole proprietor of the edge you need."
Mr. Driver couldn't allow himself to remain a silent observer. He quickly jumped in. "My colleague is quite correct. The logistics being offered center on the Wraith sniper drone system. It is true this equipment is untested in battle, and by making this commitment to purchase, it benefits us. But that's just money. For you, it's soldiers. Countrymen. No war is ever won without the courage of innovation, and truly, that is what we're offering."
Mr. Driver finished, pulling his shoulders back and sitting straighter. This time, he didn't look to Mr. Westbrook for approval. He felt his groove again; he knew he had failed the pitch.
The sheer confidence in Driver's tone hung in the chilly air, momentarily freezing Ambassador Burke's dismissive sneer. The silent aide leaned forward slightly, sensing the shift in the room's gravity. Sensing the crack in the ambassador's armor, Mr. Vance immediately seized the opening to drop the technical hammer.
"These aren't surveillance quads, sir," Vance picked up, leaning forward as the momentum shifted. "The Wraith system utilizes localized gravity-anchor payloads. They don't just fire high-caliber rounds from two clicks out. The projectile expands upon impact."
"It creates a kinetic pin," Driver added, his voice sharp and precise. "Once a target is hit, the drone initiates a localized gravitational lock. It is powerful enough to hold fallen targets—vehicles, heavy armor, or high-value personnel—completely pinned to the terrain. It immobilizes the threat entirely, preventing extraction or retaliation while your ground forces move in."
Right then, a muted buzz vibrated against Gunner's thigh.
He didn't rush. With slow, deliberate movements that drew every single eye in the room, Gunner reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone and unlocked the screen beneath the edge of the table.
He received a photo. The image showed the sun-drenched, ancient stones of the Piazza delle Erbe. Walking into the frame with her usual effortless, sharp elegance was Vivian. Attached to the image was a short text from his team leader:
Target has entered the zone.
A slow, lazy smirk tugged at the corner of Gunner's lips. Standing from his seat, he gave a polite, brief nod to the ambassador.
"I see I am not needed. Please continue," he said smoothly.
Without waiting for a reply, Gunner turned and walked out, leaving the occupants inside staring after him, each trapped in their own sudden rush of thoughts. Mr. Vance was left holding his breath, desperately wondering what the abrupt departure meant for their standing, while Ambassador Burke stared at the closed door, thoroughly rattled, wondering who the hell that man actually was.
"Target is moving north on 16th Street," a voice crackled through a secure, encrypted earpiece. The man speaking wore a crisp charcoal suit, his gaze fixed forward as he blended seamlessly into the midday crowd, one hand casually lifting to his lapel.
Three stories above the ancient streets, the wind whipped violently across a terracotta rooftop. A spotter lying prone near the edge adjusted the focal ring of his high-powered binoculars, tracking the dark hair and sharp profile moving through the plaza below. "I've got eyes on the Target. Entering the perimeter now."
Down on the cobblestones, a vendor arranging wooden trinkets on a canvas-covered stall paused. He reached for a small replica of the Colosseum, his lips barely moving as he spoke into a hidden collar mic. "Target has entered into a boutique on the north side of the road. Standing by."
Inside the boutique, the atmosphere was entirely different.
"There's barely any stalls this year," Vivian murmured, her fingers idly sliding over a rack of silk scarves. She turned her head slightly, complaining to the towering man standing just a step behind her. "I was expecting a lot more variety. Honestly, the lack of suitable vendors is disappointing."
Travis scanned the shop's perimeter, his posture rigid, his dark eyes shifting distractedly from the glass storefront to the reflection in a nearby mirror. "The street market doesn't officially start for another three days, Miss Vivian," he answered, his voice tight.
He wasn't looking at the scarves. He was looking at the sudden, coordinated influx of men in tailored suits locking down the street corners outside. The surveillance on them had just spiked exponentially. Travis's hand was already deep inside his pocket, his thumb flying across his phone screen with blind precision, firing off a red-alert broadcast to Vivian's entire security detail: CODE RED. COVERT SURVEILLANCE DETECTED. ENGAGE PERIMETER.
Outside, the reaction was instantaneous.
The heavy sliding door of an unmarked black van slammed open in a nearby alley. Four men in tactical suits rushed out. Two split toward the service stairs of an adjacent building, taking the steps three at a time to secure the high ground, while the others immediately began stalking the unknown spotters who were closing in around Vivian and Travis.
Inside the shop, the air turned lethal. Travis smoothly slipped his hand inside his jacket.
Click.
The distinct, metallic sound of a safety being switched off echoed in the quiet boutique.
Fletcher, standing near the entrance, frowned at the sharp noise. His eyes snapped over, meeting Travis's hard, lethal stare. Instantly, Fletcher understood the math. Travis believed they were under a coordinated attack. He thought someone was trying to abduct Ms. Kane.
Fletcher had noticed the movement of Mr. Westbrook's people blocks ago, but he had chosen to ignore it, knowing the signature of Gunner's personal security and tracking routines. He knew it wasn't a hostile threat. But seeing Travis's lethal alertness, he realized Vivian's detail was one heartbeat away from painting the cobblestones red.
Fletcher quickly shortened the distance between them, stepping deep into the shop and whispering lowly by Travis's ear. "False alarm. Those are Mr. Westbrook's men."
Travis's gaze flared, his jaw tightening as he processed the information. He glared at Fletcher for a tense, agonizing second before his thumb hammered out a secondary broadcast to the surrounding guards: FALSE ALARM. FRIENDLIES. STAND DOWN.
All over the square and across the rooftops, the kinetic energy ground to a sudden, screeching halt. Men stood face-to-face in alleys. On the roof, a guard slowly lowered a drawn weapon, inches from a Westbrook operative's chest. They were just one order away from pulling their triggers.
A synchronized chorus of electronic beeps chimed through the earpieces of Vivian's guards. Flashing irritating, venomous looks at Westbrook's team, they slowly broke formation, their adrenaline still coursing hot and heavy through their systems as they headed back to their defensive posts.
"Come on, let's keep moving. Unless you see something in here you want," Vivian said in a bored, entirely unaffected tone, turning away from the rack and leaving the shop unsatisfied.
The moment her heels hit the sun-drenched stone outside, a brilliant smile bloomed unabashedly across her lips.
Gunner Westbrook, in all his arrogant, devastating glory, was leaning carelessly against a knick-knack stall just a few yards away. A self-satisfied, lazy smirk sat on his lips. No words needed to be spoken between them. It was entirely clear what he was saying: I found you.
Looking at him, a sudden, heavy realization washed over Vivian, settling deep in her chest. She had spent years running away, hiding, being anywhere that wasn't home. But seeing Gunner standing here, halfway across the world just to catch her, she realized what had been missing all day. Springbrook. For the first time, she understood that maybe she wouldn't mind sticking around Springbrook a little more.
As she started walking toward him, Gunner moved at the exact same time. They met right in the center of the bustling piazza. Vivian looked up, tilting her head back ever so subtly to meet his eyes.
"You do know it's weird that you're here?" she asked, her voice a mix of shock and genuine flattery.
"How else would I get you to the match today?" Gunner replied, his voice a low, confident rumble.
"Most would assume a girl leaving town was probably a 'no.'"
"I don't think you'd ever say no to me," Gunner said, his smirk widening.
Vivian couldn't help but laugh. The sheer, overwhelming amount of arrogance bleeding off him was ridiculous—so obscenely ridiculous that it became charming in its own circular, inevitable way.
They walked side by side through the vibrant, sensory overload of the market. Gunner's towering, sharp-suited frame looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of vendor stalls and centuries-old architecture, a stark contrast that Vivian found quietly amusing.
"Have you ever been to Qalmeira before?" Vivian asked, glancing up at him as they navigated the crowd.
"Many times," Gunner replied smoothly, his tone carrying the casual indifference of a man whose passport was a weapon of utility.
Vivian studied his profile, feeling a familiar twinge of recognition. His extensive, purely transactional travels weren't much different from her father's global corporate marches. "But have you ever actually explored it?"
Gunner simply shrugged. The quiet gesture was answer enough. He saw cities as logistics webs, supply chains, and threat perimeters. He didn't do sightseeing.
A knowing smile touched Vivian's lips. She looked him over, remembering his particular weakness for high-end engineering. "I think I know a place that might actually catch your interest."
"Sure," Gunner said. He offered another lazy shrug, letting her take the lead. Vivian turned slightly, her eyes locking onto Travis, who was still subtly monitoring the perimeter.
"Travis, contact Mr. Klemberg."
"Right away, Miss Vivian."
Vivian reached down, her fingers sliding into Gunner's hand, and led him out of the market square toward the awaiting vehicle. Travis already had the rear door open by the time they arrived. They slid into the backseat, the heavy door shutting out the noise of the city, and Travis immediately pulled into the Qalmeiran traffic, knowing exactly where his boss wanted to go.
Behind them, a subtle ripple went through the street as Gunner's security detail scrambled into their own SUVs, desperately trying to keep pace with Travis's quickly disappearing car.
Inside the quiet of the cabin, Gunner leaned back, looking over at her. "Where are you taking me?"
"Trust me," Vivian said, a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips. "You don't want the surprise ruined."
Gunner relaxed into the leather seats, shaking his head slightly. He couldn't imagine what Vivian considered fun or exciting when she was the type of person who genuinely liked being carted around in such an out-of-date town car. He knew she had a stubborn preference for the classic silhouette and smooth ride of a traditional town car, but it was almost ridiculous how unyielding she was about it, refusing to upgrade to something more modern. Still, he kept the thought to himself, watching the city blur past. Whatever she chose, he would indulge her.
Thirty minutes later, the urban sprawl gave way to a breathtaking sight. They pulled up before a grand, sprawling fortress that Gunner recognized from old history lectures: the ancestral castle of the last living monarch in Qalmeira. The estate was immense, a towering testament to the height of 1600s aristocratic society, surrounded by immaculate stone walls and sweeping gardens.
As the car came to a stop, the grand front doors opened. Stepping out to meet them was a middle-aged man wearing an expertly tailored, yet utterly garish red suit. He ran a hand through his slicked-back, gelled gray hair, his face lighting up with a brilliant smile the moment he saw Vivian.
"Good to see you again, Miss Kane!" he called out in a flamboyant, theatrical voice that bridged into a melodic, feminine cadence. He held his arms open wide in a welcoming gesture.
"Always a pleasure, Marty," Vivian said with a wide grin, stepping out of the car and pulling Gunner to her side as he joined her on the gravel driveway. "This is a friend of mine. I happen to know you two share a very specific, very expensive common interest. Do you mind if we take a look?"
Marty gave Gunner a slow, appreciative once-over, his eyes gleaming with unabashed amusement. "I always have time for handsome men," he said smoothly.
Gunner stepped forward, extending a hand. "Jim Steele," he said, delivering his standard cover name without a hint of hesitation.
"Marty Klemberg," the man replied, gripping his hand briefly. He turned toward the grand entrance, waving them forward with two dramatic fingers. "Follow me."
Marty led them through an expansive, vaulted foyer adorned with towering oil paintings and gilded mirrors, marching all the way to the very back of the estate. They stepped into a hidden, private elevator that descended deep beneath the castle's foundations.
When the elevator chimed on the lower floor, Marty's personal assistant was already waiting. The assistant typed a complex security code into a sleek wall panel, and with a heavy, pressurized hiss of completion, the massive reinforced doors slid open.
Before them lay one of the largest, most staggering private car collections in modern history.
Marty gave Vivian a playful wink. "I still have a few matters to take care of up top, darlings. So, I will leave you in the capable hands of my dearest assistant, Miss Coco, who will explain the lineage of my babies." With a dramatic wave, he stepped back into the elevator, leaving them to explore.
Gunner's mouth nearly hit the floor.
He stood frozen, staring down down at rows upon rows of pristine, gleaming vehicles. There were legendary vintage classics, avant-garde concept vehicles that had never even made it to the public market, and one-of-a-kind masterpieces preserved in climate-controlled perfection. It was an absolute graveyard of automotive myths—vehicles so exclusive that a billionaire could only dream of holding the title deeds.
"This is insane," Gunner muttered, a rare, almost giddy edge entering his low voice. He was not an easy man to impress, let alone excite, but Vivian had managed to do both in the span of an afternoon.
Vivian watched him, thoroughly self-satisfied with his reaction.
The assistant, Miss Coco, cleared her throat softly, gesturing to the first row. "If you will follow me, Mr. Steele, Miss Kane. To your left, we have the crown jewel of early engineering—the Benz Patent-Motorwagen, widely recognized as the first stationary gasoline-powered automobile ever constructed."
Gunner stepped closer, eyeing the delicate, three-wheeled carriage with profound reverence.
"And moving forward," Miss Coco continued, leading them toward a sleek, aerodynamic prototype that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi dossier, "this is a highly classified mid-century concept vehicle. It was engineered to run entirely off a closed-loop hydrogen extraction process derived from standard water. The project was completely buried by energy conglomerates before it could reach production."
"I thought the schematics for this were destroyed," Gunner murmured, tracing the flawless line of the chassis. He suddenly grabbed Vivian's wrist, pulling her forward. "You cannot imagine how much history is connected to this vehicle," Gunner said in an excited voice that was far quicker than his normal tone.
Vivian smiled, nodding her head as if she had any interest at all, but she knew he was excited. For once, he wasn't the sexy, arrogant CEO. He looked like a kid on Christmas.
Miss Coco then gestured toward a velvet-roped platform at the center of the vault. Resting beneath specialized LED spotlights was a vehicle of sheer, breathtaking elegance. "And finally, the standout of the modern collection. A bespoke hypercar variant, sold at a private sovereign auction last year for a record-breaking half a billion dollars. It is the only fully operational model of its kind in existence."
Gunner stared at the machine, completely captivated by the raw engineering power sitting in the quiet vault. He looked at Miss Coco and couldn't help but ask, "How much?"
He knew that this was not even the most valuable piece of the collection. From the hundreds of cars they were surrounded by, this one specifically—as unique and one of a kind as it was—was worthless in comparison to the others. He wouldn't feel right if he left here without at least seeing if they were open to sell, at bare minimum, this car.
"How much for this one?" he asked, holding his breath, hoping that he could take a piece of this collection home with him.
Right as the assistant began to shake his head, denying Mr. Westbrook's request, a sudden, sharp vibration echoed through the quiet space. Before a second vibration could be heard moments later, the excitement in the vault shattered simultaneously.
Gunner's phone began a heavy, frantic vibration, while the private group chat on Vivian's device lit up with a barrage of rapid-fire notifications from her friends on the Hill—Darla and Mimi.
On OpFeed, the financial algorithm was already screaming. Gunner looked down, his brow furrowing as short-form videos of breathless financial analysts began shouting over flashing green-and-red market trends on his screen: Wilson Group shares plummeting to an all-time low.
But the horrible financial news was instantly eclipsed by the bad social news. The Hill's digital ecosystem was in an absolute frenzy. A pristine screenshot of the headline from The Hill Newspaper was being shared like wildfire through the residents' private group chat.
Vivian stared at the digital front page on her screen. The bold print read: CARRIE WILSON: THE FINAL SPLIT.
"She did it," Vivian whispered, her eyes wide as she drank in the text. "People are actually going to lose their minds," she added, the realization hitting her more to herself than anyone else.
"Hopefully she settles everything quietly," Gunner noted, his voice dropping back into its low, gravelly corporate register as he rapidly scanned his incoming texts. "He's working class. They have the tendency to be messy when things don't go their way."
"We need to get back," Vivian said cleanly. The cars, the vault, and the quiet oasis of Qalmeira were already ancient history. She turned on her heel and immediately headed toward the elevator, leaving a completely bewildered Miss Coco standing in the center of the showroom, looking back and forth between the two of them in total silence.
Gunner fell into step right beside Vivian, his long strides matching her sudden, urgent pace.
"Should we take my plane or yours?" Gunner asked as the heavy elevator doors slid closed behind them, cutting off the quiet sanctuary of the vault.
Author's note:
As I told you previous, I'm not sure which day is going to be my new upload day. I meant to get this out yesterday. But this chapter is a beast. I didn't realize that it was about 7,000 words. So I had to shorten it and cut it into separate chapters. Also, my brother came down for a visit. So I decided to spend time with him. Hope you all like the chapter. Two more coming.