Anastasia sat behind her father's old desk, surrounded by stacks of documents she hadn't seen in years. The once-polished wood was now littered with faded folders, loose pages, and financial reports with numbers that screamed betrayal.
It hadn't taken long—just a few minutes—for her to see it.
Laurent Corp was bleeding.
The accounts were riddled with inconsistencies. Money moved through shadowy sub-accounts, transactions signed off with initials she didn't recognize, loopholes big enough to swallow the company whole. Maxime had been patient, quiet, and deliberate. He'd been gutting Laurent Corp from the inside for months—maybe years.
And Genevieve had done nothing.
Her mother sat slumped in a high-backed leather chair across the room, staring blankly at the wall. She looked like a ghost—hollow, fragile, lost.
"You didn't see any of this?" Anastasia asked quietly, not expecting an answer.
Genevieve didn't respond.
Dante stood by the window, one hand tucked into the pocket of his suit pants, the other resting loosely against the glass as he stared out over the city. His reflection wavered against the skyline—just as untouchable as the man himself.
But then, he moved.
Without a word, he crossed the room and came to stand beside her. She ignored the sudden awareness of his presence, the way her pulse spiked the moment his shadow touched hers.
His gaze fell to the documents.
"You're missing something," he murmured, reaching across her to tap a figure in the corner of one report. "Maxime didn't just buy shares. He bought influence. Two of your board members have been laundering funds through shell companies tied to his name."
Anastasia stiffened.
"And you knew this how?"
Dante's lips curved faintly, mockingly. "Because I pay attention."
She bristled, flipping to another page. "And what exactly do you want, Dante? You didn't come here just to save the damsel in distress."
His voice dipped to a low hum. "No. I didn't."
She turned, ready to snap, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold.
There was a sharpness to his expression—calculating, expectant. He was watching her carefully. Measuring her. Not for weakness, but for worth.
"I could expose Maxime's accounts," he said, his voice soft but deadly. "His paper trail is sloppy. If I move fast, I can sink him before the board meeting."
Anastasia's breath caught.
"But…" he added, and there it was—the knife hidden behind the offer. "If I do that, you owe me."
She stared at him, her nails biting into her palm. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
His smile was all sin.
"You'll find out—when I collect."
Her jaw clenched. "No deal."
Dante's smile faded, just slightly. But he nodded. "Suit yourself."
He stepped away, retreating to the shadows near the windows. Still present. Still watching.
Anastasia turned back to the files, her stomach coiled in knots.
She had thirty minutes before the board meeting.
Thirty minutes to prove she could fight like her father did—without Dante's help. Without owing him a damn thing.
But her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the office door.
Genevieve didn't react.
Anastasia stood, smoothing her blouse, and crossed the room. She opened the door.
Juliette.
Her cousin stood poised in a navy blue blazer and pencil skirt, her dark eyes flicking past Anastasia immediately—to Dante. She blinked, her mouth parting in surprise.
"Dante Alexander Montgomery?" Her voice softened, almost breathless.
Dante didn't move. He didn't even look at her.
Juliette blinked again, then turned her gaze back to Anastasia, stepping into the room as though she belonged there.
"I heard you were back," she said. "I came as soon as I could. I—I'm sorry about what my father's doing."
Anastasia studied her.
Juliette was perfect, as always. Hair sleek, makeup flawless, the model image of supportive family. But there was a tension in her eyes—a flicker of jealousy, or maybe envy—as she glanced once more at Dante.
"I'm here to help," Juliette offered. "What's the plan?"
Anastasia arched a brow. "The plan?"
"Yes," Juliette said, brushing past her and lowering herself into one of the leather chairs. " Father's gone too far. I'll help you stop him."
Anastasia didn't answer immediately.
She walked back to her father's desk, laid a hand on the surface, and looked at her cousin through narrowed eyes.
"You do know your father is trying to take this company from me, right?"
Juliette's smile was faint. "I don't agree with what he's doing."
"But you haven't tried to stop him either."
Silence.
Anastasia's eyes burned. She was tired of playing nice. Tired of pretending everyone around her wasn't out for blood.
"I'm not saying I don't trust you," she said quietly. "But you're still your father's daughter. So no—I won't tell you everything. But I will tell you this—"
She stepped closer.
"Maxime's not getting my father's company. Not while I'm still breathing."
Juliette's smile tightened, but she nodded. "Fair enough."
Then her gaze flicked—again—to Dante.
She stood slowly, smoothing her skirt. "You haven't introduced me to your… husband."
Anastasia hesitated.
Dante hadn't said a word the entire time. He stood by the window like a statue, dark and regal, watching the city like it belonged to him.
Anastasia turned to him.
"This is Dante Montgomery," she said. "My husband." She added bitterly.
Dante finally looked up. His gaze swept Juliette slowly, dispassionately.
Juliette stepped forward and extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Juliette—Anastasia's cousin."
Dante didn't take her hand.
He merely offered a faint nod, then looked back out the window as if she hadn't spoken at all.
The rejection was swift. Brutal.
Juliette's smile faltered—but only for a second.
Anastasia felt something sharp twist in her chest.
Thirty minutes.
The boardroom awaited.
And everything was about to begin.