Tyler's POV.
The Governor's private office was draped in velvet and smelled of expensive tobacco and old lies. Governor Sterling sat behind a desk made of oak that probably cost more than a house in Oakhills. He didn't look up when I walked in.
"Tyler " he sighed, finally leaning back. "I expected Lucas. Usually, when ZigLan corp wants a billion-euro permit pushed through in a weekend, the Ice King deigns to show his face."
"Lucas is occupied with the Old Master," I said, taking a seat without being asked. I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "You have the mobility contracts. You have the environmental impact reports. What's the clarification you need, Sterling?"
The Governor smiled, with a slow, greasy expression. "The Nile Town expansion is... sensitive. Public opinion is shifting. I need a reason to tell the voters why I'm giving the Elliotts total control over the transit sector. A reason that comes with a very large, private consultation fee."
The weight of the situation hit me. This wasn't just a bribe; it was a shakedown. Sterling knew Lucas was away, and he was testing the replacement. If I folded, he'd bleed us dry. If I fought, he'd kill the project.
I stepped out onto the balcony, the Flensburg wind whipping my hair. I pulled out my encrypted phone and dialed the priority line.
"Lucas," I said when the line clicked open. "Sterling is playing dirty. He's stalling the Fernanda deal. He wants ten percent of the mobility shares under the table and a direct seat on the board. He thinks we're weak because you're away."
The silence on the other end lasted for five agonizing seconds. When Lucas spoke, his voice was a low, distorted growl that sounded like grinding tectonic plates.
"He doesn't want the shares; he wants the leverage. Tell him the 50/50 split with Fernanda is non-negotiable. Then, tell him to check his private server. The one he thinks is disconnected from the grid."*
"What's on the server, Lucas?" I asked.
"Evidence of his involvement with the Santiago port scandal. If he doesn't sign the permits by 0900 tomorrow, the TC Empire will leak the logs to the federal prosecutors. He wants to play the Ice King? Show him the winter."
The line went dead. I felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the wind. I walked back into the office, my playboy mask completely gone. I leaned over the Governor's desk, tapping a rhythm on the wood.
"Change of plans, Sterling," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "We aren't paying a consultation fee. In fact, you're going to give us a tax break on the harbor warehouses. And you're going to do it because if you don't, I'm going to spend the next ten minutes uploading your entire career to the internet."
Sterling's face went pale. "You wouldn't... Lucas wouldn't risk the scandal."
"Lucas isn't here," I whispered, sliding the permit papers toward him. "And I have much less to lose than he does. Sign."
He signed. His hand was shaking so hard the ink blotted.
I walked out of the office ten minutes later with the signed permits in my jacket. I pulled out my phone and messaged Fernanda: "Permits secured. Ships move at dawn. Meet me at the hotel tonight. We have a victory to celebrate."
But as I rode back toward the hotel, my thoughts drifted to the Blackwood Wing. Lucas was protecting an empire, and I was holding the line, just hope everything goes as planned.
...
Blackwood wing.
The note from the street felt like a physical weight in my pocket, burning against my leg as I walked through the silent corridors of the Blackwood Wing. I waited until Aunt Patricia was occupied with the inventory in the kitchen before I slipped into the library. It was Lucas's inner sanctum, a room that smelled of old parchment and expensive cologne. Usually, I stayed by the window, but today I moved toward the massive mahogany desk.
I didn't know what I was looking for. I was driven by an unsettling curiosity form the note earlier. I surge to know more about "the man before the Ice king".
I began opening drawers. Most were locked, but a small side cabinet gave way. Inside were leather-bound journals and a stack of silver-framed photographs turned face down. My heart hammered against my ribs as I flipped the first one over. It was Lucas, years younger, standing by a sleek black car. He was smiling, a real, genuine expression that reached his eyes. Beside him was a woman with blonde hair and a sharp, elegant jawline. I think this was Alice.
But the second photo was different . It was a candid shot of the same car, but there was a third person in the backseat, partially obscured by the tint. A young man, barely twenty, with a striking resemblance to the Elliott family line but with a softer, more fragile look.
I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
"Searching for ghosts, Beatrice?"
I jumped, nearly dropping the frame. It was Aunt Patricia. She stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable, her hands folded over her apron. She didn't look angry, she looked tired.
"Who was he, Aunt Patricia?" I asked, my voice trembling as I held up the photo.
Patricia walked into the room and closed the door softly. She looked at the photo, a flash of profound grief crossing her face. "That was Julian. Lucas's younger brother. The one the world and the Old Master chose to forget."