The air was heavy at the top.
Though he stood in the glass-encased office of the Draxon Tower a room built like a crown over the city Elias Thorne, still living in the shell of Mr. Dime, could feel the pressure mounting beneath him. The higher he climbed, the colder it became not from wind, but from gazes, whispers, and plans made in corners behind manicured smiles.
It had been six months since his return.
Six months since the scandal, since the resurrection of a ghost long thought dead, since Lewis dragged him half-conscious, drugged, and framed through the fire.
Yet he had not only survived it.
He had thrived.
Underneath the composed facade of meetings and mergers, a war was raging. Draxon was a battlefield, and each floor carried the scent of plotting. The vultures who once preyed on him now watched from afar, unsure whether he was a ghost, a genius, or something more sinister.
Elias sipped his black coffee slowly, watching the traffic crawl below like ants in shiny shells.
Behind him, Jude entered without knocking.
"She's here."
"Who?"
"Magritte."
He turned slowly. "Show her in."
She came in wearing red. Not crimson. Not wine. Not burgundy. Red vivid, unapologetic, commanding. Her hair, a tumble of black waves. Her skin, the kind of brown that shimmered like bronze dipped in firelight. Her eyes held stories and secrets like sealed envelopes.
"Magritte," he said with a faint smile. "I didn't expect you this early."
"I don't like waiting," she said, sitting without being offered. "And I don't like repeating myself."
She tossed a folder on his desk. It was thick. He didn't open it yet.
"Let me guess," Elias said, walking to the liquor cabinet, though it was 10 a.m. "Evidence. Surveillance. A new enemy wearing an old face."
"You're learning," Magritte said, not smiling.
"I've always known," he replied. "Just never had permission to act."
She tilted her head. "You still remember the ship?"
He paused.
"No," he whispered.
And he didn't.
Not fully.
Flashes came in dreams a woman screaming, salt in his mouth, wood cracking beneath fire but no timeline, no names. Just chaos.
Magritte leaned forward. "Then let me help you remember."
She opened the folder.
Inside were photographs. A manifest. An encrypted journal. And one name scrawled repeatedly across the last page: Valerie Dexter.
His breath hitched.
"She was on that ship?"
"She was there before you boarded," Magritte said. "And she left before it sank. She's not just your betrothed, Elias. She was part of the set-up."
Jude, still by the door, shifted uncomfortably.
"You're telling me she "
"Framed you. Helped erase you. And now that you've returned, she's pretending to rebuild trust."
He stood frozen for a long time.
Magritte said nothing. She waited. Like a snake beneath still grass.
Finally, Elias sat again, taking a long breath. "What do you want?"
"To help you win," she replied.
"You already are."
"No," she said, leaning in. "I want to be part of the new empire. Not a pawn. A queen."
Elias met her gaze. His mind danced through every strategy, every betrayal, every shadowed corridor he had walked alone.
"Then prove your loyalty," he said. "Take down Valerie Dexter. Publicly. Quietly. Your choice."
A pause.
Magritte's smile returned, slow and sharp. "Consider it done."
Valerie Dexter stared out her own window, her silk robe barely brushing her thigh. She knew the trap was tightening. She could feel Magritte's scent in the air.
"She's dangerous," said the voice behind her. Dexter turned to see *Landon Crick* in a suit three sizes too expensive for his intellect.
"Everyone's dangerous," Valerie replied.
"But Magritte's a different breed," he said. "She doesn't play the long game. She *burns* the board."
Valerie walked over, refilling her champagne glass. "Then we don't give her a board."
"You think Thorne suspects?"
"I think…" she purred, sipping. "…he wants to."
Crick chuckled nervously. "You still have influence over him?"
"I don't need influence," Valerie said. "I have history. And guilt. They'll do the trick."
Crick paced, palms sweaty. "We need to strike. Before Magritte poisons him."
Valerie watched him, amused.
"Oh, Landon," she said softly. "You don't realize it yet… but she already has."
Later that night, Elias sat alone in his study. Lewis had left hours ago. Jude had retired to his quarters. Magritte had vanished like a crimson mist.
He opened the journal from the folder.
The handwriting was undeniably his.
He flipped through the pages notes on locations, trade disputes, meetings with people he didn't remember having. The last entry was dated two weeks before the accident
"Valerie is growing distant. I fear her mind is not her own anymore. I've heard whispers of a purchase made in my name. I don't know who to trust. If anything happens this book must find Magritte."
Elias closed it.
His own past had tried to warn him.
And the warning had been missed.