Selene had always been told what to do right from when she was old enough to hold a teacup the "right" way. When to smile, when to lower her gaze, how to speak so no one would question her intelligence yet not feel threatened by it.
She learned early that power in her world came not from truth but from perception, so when she was told to face Maxwell Hale again for breakfast the next morning, she went along with it even if all she wanted to do was punch him in the face. Instead, she smiled the way she was taught, gracefully and composed, as if the man sitting across from her hadn't already picked at the cracks from her identity the night before. As if his voice didn't echo something hauntingly familiar she couldn't quite place.
Maxwell, of course, was the picture of civility. Cold coffee. Crisp shirt. His hair, dark and slightly tousled, looked almost careless, except Selene knew better; nothing about Maxwell Hale was accidental. Not the expensive watch peeking from beneath his cuff. Not the precise way he folded his napkins. And definitely not the way he looked at her now.
" Sleep well, Selene?" His tone is polite but his eyes sharp.
"You seemed more settled this morning. "Almost like you've been practicing," he added, letting out a slight chuckle.
She stilled for half a second. Just long enough for him to notice.
Then she picked up her tea and smiled. "Wouldn't you if you were marrying a man known for surveillance tech and emotional void. "
He didn't laugh. He didn't have to. The twitch at the corner of his mouth was enough.
Let him think he was winning. Let him underestimate her.
This time she'd re-write the scripts.
"Your grandfather used to sit in that chair every time he visited, remember?"
Selene calmly takes another sip of her tea. "Of course. And you used to hide your right hand under the table after dessert because you burned it after lighting your mother's birthday candle."
Maxwell froze for a beat, the twitch in his jaw betrayed him
" You remember that?"
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, then it disappeared.
"Funny that was not in any Thorne file I reviewed."
The dining room door slammed open.
"Well, if it isn't the ghost of scandals past," Amara said, striding in with sunglasses, coffee, and zero interest in peace and quiet.
"Amara." Selene warned under her breath.
"Relax, I just wanted to meet the man marrying my best friend for corporate leverage, Maxwell Hale, right? Wow, you're much more handsome than the surveillance reports say."
Maxwell coughed," I guess I'll just leave you ladies to catch up." He turned to Selene. "We should do this again sometime"
Selene nodded once. "Of course, maybe next time you'll actually drink your coffee."
Maxwell's gaze lingered on her a second too long, as if trying to read something off her skin. Then he left.
Amara slid into the chair across from her. "I don't like him."
"You're not supposed to," Selene said softly.
"You're supposed to fear him just like everybody else."
"But you don't?"
" I can't afford to."
As Amara chatted nearby, Selene's mind drifted back to a memory she tried hard to forget.
She saw her mother standing in a quiet room, looking tired but strong. Vincent was there too. His face was serious and cold.
" You don't have a choice," he said softly but firmly.
" Everything depends on what happens next. "This has to stay secret for the good of the family. " Her mother nodded, but Selene could see the fear in her eyes.
The memory made Selene's chest tighten. The truth she carried was heavy, and now it was harder to keep hiding.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him was the only noise Maxwell allowed himself to acknowledge. The hallway fell silent. His polished shoes moved swiftly across the marble floor, a quiet rhythm of control.
He entered his study and closed the door gently behind him.
Inside his private study, everything was neat, cold, and clean. Glass walls, clean shelves, nothing sentimental.
Except one thing that shouldn't be there.
At the far end of the wall, a picture framed and covered in glass.
It was an old newspaper clipping. Yellowed with age. It showed Vincent Thorne shaking hands with his father at a press event. The start of their business partnership.
Vincent looked proud in that photo. Too proud.
Maxwell stared at it for a moment. His face remained calm but his jaw clenched.
Then he walked towards it.
He slid the glass case open and removed the clippings, folding it once, then again. His fingers were steady.
There was no fireplace in this room. But he opened a small drawer beneath the bar, pulled out a silver lighter, and clicked it on.
The edges curled black almost immediately.
He watched it burn, his eyes never leaving the flames as the face of Vincent Thorne darkened, shriveled, and then vanished.
A knock came at the door.
He didn't answer.
He waited until the fire reached his fingers, then dropped the paper into a glass. He brushed a bit of ash off his cuff.
Then he turned, and his expression turned unreadable again.
There. That felt better.
Another knock followed, slower this time.
He stood, smoothed his sleeves and opened the door.
It wasn't a staff member or a security.
It was Loren Price, Vincent's former legal advisor, the man who vanished the day after the Thorne deal collapsed.
His suit was rumpled. He didn't smile, he didn't come inside.
He just held up a flash drive between his two fingers.
"You'll want to see what Vincent left behind," he said.
Maxwell took the flash drive without a word.
Whatever was on it, he had a feeling it wasn't meant for him, but it was definitely about him.