MAISIE
The hot, scented water is finally starting to unknot the tension in my shoulders. I have my head tilted back against the rim of the massive tub, eyes closed, a half-full flute of champagne resting on my stomach.
Lena is across from me, one hand holding her own glass, the other scrolling through her phone, the blue light reflecting on her face.
The peace lasts for about thirty more seconds.
"Ooh, an email from the OmniCorp events team," Lena says, her voice cutting through the steam. "Invitation to their annual charity gala at the New York Public Library. Black tie. You know every investor, rival, and journalist in the city will be there."
"Uh... no," I say, without opening my eyes. The very thought is exhausting.
"Why not?" she asks, and I can hear the pout in her voice. "It's the biggest networking event of the season!"
"Because Alexander Callum will be there, holding court like the smuggest king in his smuggest castle," I say, finally looking at her. "I have no desire to be anywhere near that bastard or his shitty company's events. I want nothing to do with him. Ever again."
Lena is quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed. She looks from her phone to me. "Wait. Confirm the last name for me. The guy you dated."
"Callum," I say, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "Alexander Callum."
She taps her phone screen, her expression turning speculative. "Did he... did he have any siblings? Brothers?"
I shrug, sinking a little lower into the bubbles. "None that I knew of. He was really private about his family. Hated when I talked about mine, actually. Said I was too 'emotionally attached.'" I mimic his condescending tone perfectly.
Lena nods slowly, a strange look on her face. "What do you think the odds are that the Marcus Callum I met last night is a relative?"
I blink. The coincidence is jarring, but I shake my head. "Pretty low, honestly. Alexander acted like a spoiled, conniving only child. It's probably just a coincidence. Callum isn't that rare a name."
"Yeah... probably," Lena agrees, but the mischievous glint is back in her eyes. She lets the topic drop, but I can almost see the gears turning in her head. She switches tactics seamlessly. "Okay, forget him. You should still go to the ball."
"I'm not going, Lena."
"Maisie, listen," she says, leaning forward, making the water slosh. "Free champagne. Like, really, really expensive champagne. Tiny, delicious snacks that cost more than my shoes. And it's at the New York Public Library! The Lion statues! The marble! You love that building. Think of the people you could talk to, the investors you could charm away from OmniCorp's shadow. It's a strategic move. You can't hide from the whole world just to avoid one asshole."
I sigh, taking a long drink of my champagne. She's not wrong. It is a prime opportunity. And the thought of walking into Alexander's sanctum, head held high, is a deeply appealing "fuck you."
She sees me wavering and goes in for the kill. "Plus, you'll look smoking hot in a gown, and I will be your dedicated plus-one, ensuring your glass is never empty and running interference against any and all creeps, ex-boyfriends, or emotionally stunted billionaires."
I let out a long, defeated breath. She's boxed me in with logic, free booze, and the promise of moral support.
"Fine," I groan. "Fine! I'll go to the stupid ball."
Lena grins in triumph, raising her glass. "Yes! It's going to be epic."
I clink my glass against hers, a sense of grim determination settling over me. "Just remember, you're on creep-duty."
"Always," she promises, her eyes sparkling. "Now, let's start planning what we're going to wear to ruin Alexander Callum's night."
"Absolutely not," I tell Lena, my voice muffled by the tub's rim. "My 'relax time' quota is not nearly met. I am not getting out to look at clothes."
"Fine, you prune-resistant weirdo," she says, standing up and wrapping herself in a huge, fluffy towel. "I'm done. I feel like a raisin. I'm going to order that pizza."
I stay in the cooling water until my fingers are truly wrinkled, letting the silence and the last of the champagne bubbles settle my thoughts. Eventually, I haul myself out, dry off, and pull on my softest sleep shorts and an old, worn-out MIT sweatshirt that belonged to my dad.
I don't go to the living room. I pad on bare feet to the other wing of the penthouse and push open the familiar door.
The air in the archive room is different. It smells faintly of ozone from old electronics, the sharp tang of solder, and the comforting, dusty scent of old paper. Moonlight filters through the window, illuminating the dancing dust motes. My sanctuary.
My eyes go straight to Zeek, his boxy, clumsy form on the workbench. A smile touches my lips. Then my gaze lifts to the highest shelf, to the simple, elegant ceramic vase.
I carefully lift it down. It's heavier than it looks. I sink into the old, cracked leather swivel chair—his chair—and cradle the vase in my lap.
"Hey, Dad," I whisper, my voice rough.
I tell him I miss him. For the ten-thousandth time. It never gets easier to say, or less true.
Then I tell him everything. The words spill out in a quiet, steady stream in the moonlit room.
I tell him about Shinki Soma. The hostile takeover bid that landed on my desk. The fury, the fear. I tell him about our counter-attack, the lawsuit, the brilliant, desperate idea to paint him as a predator.
"And it worked, at first," I murmur, running my thumb over the smooth glaze. "But he's... he's so smart, Dad. It's infuriating. He didn't just fight the lawsuit. He used it. He's telling all our shareholders that me fighting for the company is proof I'm too emotional to run it."
I take a shaky breath, the injustice of it a fresh wound. "And now... now there's going to be a deposition. I have to sit in a room with him. Under oath. He'll get to pick me apart. Ask about you. About everything."
The silence of the room absorbs my words. I look out the window at the sleeping city.
"I'm going to go see Mom and Skye for Christmas," I say, changing the subject to something that hurts in a different way. "In Edinburgh. It's... it'll be good. I think."
I swallow hard, the next words the hardest to say. "I wish you were coming with us. I wish you were here to tell me what to do. You'd know how to handle this Soma bastard."
I sit for a long moment, just holding the vase, listening to the hum of the city and the absence of his voice.
"And there's this stupid ball in two nights," I add, my voice tired. "OmniCorp is hosting it. Alexander will be there. The whole circus. Lena convinced me to go. Said it was 'strategic.'"
I fall silent. The tears I cried earlier are all gone, dried up by anger and champagne. Now I just feel a deep, tipsy weariness, a heavy sadness that's too familiar to fight anymore.
I don't move. I just sit there in the dark, in his chair, holding what's left of him, until the exhaustion and the alcohol pull me into a fitful, thoughtless sleep.
– – –
SHINKI
The only sound in my office is the soft scratch of my pen on a legal pad and the low hum of the ventilation system. I am annotating a margin in a quarterly report, my focus absolute, when Franklin enters without knocking. His footsteps are quiet on the polished concrete.
I don't look up.
"They've filed for a deposition," Franklin states, his voice cutting through the silence. He stops in front of my desk. "Rory Robotics' legal team. It's been scheduled."
My hand stills. The pressure in my grip increases infinitesimally, and the graphite pencil in my hand gives way with a sharp, clean snap. I look down at the two broken pieces, then drop them into the trash bin beside my desk.
Franklin, unfazed, looks at his tablet. "The notice outlines the standard requirements. It will be held at the offices of Sterling & Gould. Both parties, along with our respective legal counsel, will be present. The testimonies will be from you and Ms. Rory, regarding the allegations of corporate sabotage and defamation."
The fucking red-haired demon. She didn't waste a second.
"When?" I ask, my voice flat.
Franklin meets my gaze. "Today. At noon."
My eyes flick to the sleek clock on my wall. 10:57 AM. A little over an hour. She's trying to catch me off guard. A clumsy, emotional power play.
A cold, sharp smile touches my lips. It won't work.
I push my chair back and stand. "Then it appears we have almost no time. We should be going."
Franklin gives a single, professional nod. My eyes find Jiro, who has been a silent statue by the door. He meets my gaze, his own expression grim, and gives a slight nod. He's ready.
I reach for my suit jacket, draped over the back of my chair. I shrug into it, not bothering to fasten the button. My top button is already undone. I don't pick up a tie. I deliberately stuff my hands into my trouser pockets, letting the jacket hang open.
It's a calculated look. A signature. Making the corporate world feel like my relaxed, personal domain. It projects an unnerving calm, as if I'm heading to a casual lunch, not a legal battle that could determine the fate of a billion-dollar company.
"Let's go," I say, my tone implying we're merely stepping out for a coffee.
I lead the way out of my office, Franklin falling into step beside me with his tablet, Jiro a solid, silent shadow behind us.
My mind is already in that deposition room, running scenarios, preparing for the storm of sentiment and fire I am about to face across a polished table.