ASH AND DUST
POV: Elena Rostova
The hour of judgment did not sound like a trumpet. It sounded like the muffled whoosh of the service elevator rising through the core of the building.
The Spire was locked down. The lobby was sealed. But Silas had granted one clearance code.
It was 9:00 PM. The city outside was a grid of electric jewels, indifferent to the fact that on the 90th floor, an execution was taking place.
I stood by the window in the office, my arms crossed, watching the reflection of the room in the dark glass. The office was dimly lit, shadows stretching long and sharp across the floor. The box of evidence—Box 404—sat on the corner of the obsidian desk like a coiled viper.
Next to it lay a single, crisp legal document. And a single dollar bill.
Silas sat in his chair.
He was motionless. He had removed his jacket, sitting in his white shirt and vest, the gun holster stark black against his ribs. He had checked the weapon ten minutes ago—a different gun, taken from the secure safe—but kept it holstered.
"He's here," Silas said. He didn't look at a screen. He felt the building. He felt the vibration of the lift arrival.
"Are you sure he'll sign?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He has no choice. His choices evaporated sixty minutes ago." Silas swiveled his chair to face the heavy steel doors. "Thorne is a narcissist, Elena. Narcissists will choose survival over dignity every time. He will sign away his soul to keep his name out of the federal indictment."
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
Aris Thorne stepped out.
I had met him at the Gala when he was a peacock—arrogant, grooming, confident in his mediocre tuxedo.
The man who walked into the office now was a ghost. His skin was gray, sweat sheeting on his forehead despite the chill of the air conditioning. His tie was loose. His eyes darted around the room, manic and bloodshot.
He wasn't alone. Marcus was behind him, pale but resolute, acting as the unwilling escort.
"Leave us, Marcus," Silas commanded.
"Sir, security is—"
"I am the security. Leave."
Marcus nodded once, looking at Thorne with open disgust, and backed into the elevator. The doors sealed.
We were alone.
Thorne walked into the room. He spotted me immediately. A sneer twisted his mouth, momentarily reviving his old arrogance.
"The muse," he spat. "Or is it the mistress? Hard to tell the difference these days."
"She is the witness," Silas said calmly. "Sit down, Aris."
He pointed to the uncomfortable leather chair opposite his desk.
Thorne didn't sit. He paced. He walked to the window, looking out at the city he had tried to claim.
"You won," Thorne muttered. "You rigged the game, and you won."
"I didn't rig the game," Silas replied, tapping the box. "I simply kept the receipts you were too sloppy to burn. The Union bribes in Jersey? Amateur work, Aris. Leaving a paper trail via email? Offensive."
Thorne turned. He looked at the box. He looked at the document.
"One dollar," Thorne said, his voice trembling. "My firm is worth three billion in assets."
"Your firm is a liability laden with debt and fraud. I am doing you a favor by absorbing the toxicity. Vane Holdings will strip it for parts. We will keep the land, fire the board, and erase the name 'Thorne' from the Manhattan directory."
Silas picked up the dollar bill. He held it out.
"Consider this overpayment."
Thorne stared at the bill. His hands were shaking violently at his sides.
"I have conditions," Thorne said.
"You have a pen," Silas corrected. He pushed the document forward. "Sign. Row B. Transfer of full ownership. Irrevocable."
I watched Thorne. I saw the way his jaw worked, grinding his teeth. I saw the vein pulsing in his temple.
He wasn't defeated. He was cornered. And cornered animals were dangerous.
"Silas," I said, a warning note in my voice.
"Sign it, Aris," Silas said, his voice dropping an octave. "And you walk out of here. You take a plane to Switzerland. You live a quiet life on the money you stole."
Thorne walked to the desk. He leaned over. He smelled of scotch and nervous sweat—a sour, metallic stench.
He picked up the heavy Montblanc pen.
He looked at Silas.
"You think you're a god," Thorne whispered. "Up here in your glass box. You think you can just edit people out of existence."
"I don't edit," Silas said. "I delete."
Thorne laughed. It was a wet, cracking sound.
"You didn't ask how I knew about the Bratva debt," Thorne said. "Did you?"
Silas went still.
"I assumed you dug it up," Silas said.
"No." Thorne leaned closer, the pen hovering over the paper. "I didn't dig it up. I bought it."
My heart stopped.
"What?" I whispered.
"Volkov was working for me," Thorne snarled, his eyes locking on mine. "Not just recently. For months. I bought Elena's debt the day after her father died. I gave it to Volkov to hold over her. I engineered the squeeze."
He smiled, terrified and triumphant.
"I knew Vane would want the biography. I knew he looked for broken things. I needed a trojan horse inside the Spire. Someone desperate enough to let a spy-ware bot onto her laptop."
I stepped back, hitting the glass wall. The room spun.
"You..." I gasped. "You set this whole thing up?"
"I am the architect of your misery, my dear," Thorne sneered. "Vane just paid for the ticket."
He looked back at Silas.
"I built the trap, Silas. You just walked into it. You fell in love with the bait."
Silas slowly stood up.
He didn't explode. He didn't shout. He became absolute zero.
"You used her," Silas said. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"We both used her!" Thorne shouted. "Don't pretend you're noble! You blackmailed her just as hard as I did!"
"I protected her," Silas said. "You sent men to burn her alive in my house."
"And look where it got me!" Thorne slammed the pen down. "One dollar!"
"Sign the paper," Silas said. "Last chance."
"No."
Thorne reached into his jacket.
"Silas!" I screamed.
It wasn't a gun. It was a lighter. An old Zippo.
And from his other pocket, he pulled a small glass vial.
"Ash and dust, Silas," Thorne raved. "If I go down, the legacy burns."
He smashed the vial on the desk.
Liquid splashed over the document. Over Box 404. Over Silas's hand.
It smelled pungent. Chemical. Accelerant. High-grade industrial solvent.
"Aris, don't," Silas said, stepping back.
Thorne flicked the lighter.
"Burn," Thorne whispered.
He dropped the lighter.
POV: Silas Vane
The flash was instantaneous.
The solvent was volatile. It didn't just catch fire; it whooshed into a blue-white sphere of heat.
The papers on my desk ignited. The cardboard of Box 404 curled and blackened instantly.
Thorne stumbled back, laughing maniacally. "Fix that! Build a wall around that!"
I didn't look at the fire. I looked at the sprinkler system sensors on the ceiling. They were heat-activated. It would take thirty seconds for the temperature to rise enough to trigger them.
In thirty seconds, the evidence against him would be ash.
Thorne turned to run for the elevator.
"Elena, back!" I roared.
I didn't reach for the fire extinguisher.
I vaulted the desk. I ignored the heat licking at my shirt. I ignored the smell of singing hair.
I tackled Aris Thorne.
We hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he scrambled like a rat, clawing at my eyes, kicking at my shins.
"Get off me!" he screamed. "It's gone! The proof is gone!"
I pinned him. My splinted hand pressed his shoulder into the carpet. My good hand grabbed his throat.
"The paper was a courtesy," I hissed, leaning over him. The fire crackled behind me, casting chaotic, dancing shadows on the walls. "I have digital backups of everything in three servers across the globe."
Thorne's eyes went wide. "You said... Box 404... only copy..."
"I lied."
I squeezed his throat.
"I wanted you here. I wanted you to confess. I wanted Elena to hear it."
Thorne clawed at my wrist. His face turned purple.
"Please," he gurgled. "I'll sign. I'll sign!"
"The document is burning, Aris."
I looked back. My desk was an inferno. The "One Dollar" transaction was turning to carbon.
"You tried to burn my house down twice," I said, turning back to him. "You orchestrated the torture of the woman I... the woman I keep."
I squeezed harder. I felt the cartilage of his larynx shift under my thumb.
The rage was a cold, black tide. It whispered to me. End it. Snap him. Remove the flaw.
"Silas!"
Elena was pulling at my arm.
"Silas, the sprinklers! Get off him!"
I didn't move. I watched the light fade from Thorne's eyes.
"Silas, look at me!"
She grabbed my face. She forced me to look away from the dying man.
"Don't kill him," she begged. "Not here. Not like this. Let him rot in prison. Don't make yourself a murderer for him."
I looked into her eyes. The amber was reflecting the flames. She wasn't scared of the fire. She was scared for my soul.
I hesitated.
Thump.
I let go.
Thorne sucked in a ragged, desperate breath, coughing violently. He rolled onto his side, retching.
I stood up. I dragged him by the collar of his expensive jacket, hauling him away from the fire.
HISS.
The sprinklers detonated.
Water—foul, stale water that had been sitting in the pipes for years—rained down on the office. It drenched the desk, extinguishing the flames instantly in a cloud of white steam. It drenched us.
I stood under the deluge, breathing hard, watching Thorne curl into a fetal ball on the wet carpet.
Elena stood beside me, water plastering her hair to her face.
"He owes me two hundred thousand dollars," she said, looking down at Thorne with cold fury. "Plus interest."
I wiped the water from my eyes. A dark, grim smile pulled at my lips.
"We will take it from his pension."
I reached into my soaking wet pocket. I pulled out my phone. It was waterproof.
"Marcus," I said.
"Sir? The alarms—"
"Cancel the alarm. It was a containment exercise. Send security to the West Wing office. We have a trespasser. And bring the secondary contract."
"The... backup, sir?"
"I always have a backup, Marcus. Bring it."
I hung up.
I looked at Thorne.
"You wanted ash, Aris," I said. I pointed to the sodden, blackened mess on the desk. "There is your ash."
I knelt down beside him.
"Now, you are going to give me the dust."
POV: Elena Rostova
The cleanup was silent.
Security dragged Thorne out. He was broken, weeping, a shell of a man. He had signed the backup copy of the transfer agreement with a trembling hand, water dripping from his nose onto the paper.
The office was ruined. The carpet was soaked. The smell of wet smoke was everywhere.
Silas refused to leave.
He stood by the window, looking out at the city. He was drenched. His shirt was translucent, clinging to his skin. His hair was slicked back.
I walked over to him.
"You lied to him," I said. "About the backups."
Silas turned.
"About the digital copies of the evidence?"
"Yes."
"I lied," Silas admitted. "There were no digital copies. Box 404 was the only physical evidence linked to the original whistleblowers. If that fire had consumed it... I would have had nothing legal to hold over him."
I stared at him. "You gambled everything?"
"No."
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wet, charred lump of paper.
It was the contents of Box 404.
"I swapped them," he said. "Before he arrived. The box on the desk was filled with shredded copier paper and receipts."
"You... you swapped the evidence?"
"I anticipated he might try to destroy it. I needed him to think he destroyed it. It made him careless. It made him confess about the Bratva connection."
He tossed the charred fake evidence into a waste bin.
"The real files are in the safe in the bedroom."
I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. It was the laughter of pure, unadulterated shock.
"You are insane," I said, stepping closer to him. "You are absolutely, brilliantly insane."
"I am thorough," he corrected.
He looked at me. Water dripped from his nose.
"He said I used you," Silas said. His voice was quiet. Uncertain.
"He said a lot of things."
"He was right. I bought you to capture a feeling. I manipulated the debt to keep you here."
"I know," I said.
"And you stayed."
"I know."
I took his splinted hand. The gauze was soaked, the tape peeling.
"I stayed because you're the only one who sees the world the way I do," I whispered. "Full of cracks that need fixing."
Silas looked at the ruined office.
"This room is a loss," he noted. "Water damage. Smoke damage. We have to gut it."
"Good," I said. "I hated the black walls anyway."
"What do you suggest?"
"Light," I said. "More light. And maybe a lock on the door that actually works."
Silas pulled me to him. He was cold and wet and smelled of fire, but his arms were solid.
"We have to rebuild," he murmured against my wet hair. "Again."
"That's what we do," I said. "We build on ash."
He kissed me.
It wasn't a desperate kiss this time. It wasn't hungry. It was a promise.
"One dollar," he mused, pulling back. "I bought his legacy for one dollar."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the crisp dollar bill that Thorne had rejected. It was damp, but intact.
He handed it to me.
"Your commission," he said.
I looked at the dollar.
"This is the start of the fortune," I smiled.
"No," Silas said, looking at the city below, the lights reflecting in his steel eyes. "You are the fortune."
He turned us away from the window, away from the destruction.
"Let's go upstairs. I need a shower. And I need you to rewrite the ending of your book."
"Why?"
"Because," Silas said, opening the door. "The autopsy is canceled. The patient lived."