Of Fire and Loss

Chapter 7: The Game of Reflections

Angèle

The night was short, populated by numbers, steel-gray gazes, and electric-blue smiles. The Helios project. The name spins in my head, a key whose lock I don't yet know. But it's my entry. My breach. And to consolidate it, to sink into it up to the marrow, I must become more than a weapon. I must become a fantasy.

My plan isn't born from desire, but from cold calculation. An equation with two variables: Néron and Rabis. The father and the son. Control and chaos. I can't confront them head-on. I must divide them, play on their weaknesses, their rivalry. I must become the object of their desire, the prize that will push them to destroy each other.

I look at myself in the mirror of my dressing room. This is no longer the grieving girl or the advisor in the strict suit. I am a chameleon. Today, for Néron, I choose an ivory silk shirt dress, severe in its cut but betrayed by the way it hugs my curves. High but discreet heels. An appearance of fragility and grace that hides a blade. For him, I'll be the perfect wife he never had: intelligent, effective, and beautiful in his image, cold and controlled.

For Rabis, the code is different. A suit, but the skirt is shorter, the jacket left open over a blouse with the first button undone. Stilettos that click with authority on the marble. For him, I'll be the prey who dares to defy the hunter, the forbidden temptation that excites his instinct for possession.

My weapon isn't my body. It's their perception of my body. It's the reflection of their own desires that I project back to them.

—

9:00 AM. Helios meeting.

Néron's office. We're alone. It's dim, only the computer screens and daylight filtering through the Venetian blinds lighting the room.

— Helios is a hostile takeover operation, he begins, his fingers brushing the keyboard to project data onto the wall. Silent. Fast. We need to be ghosts.

I nod, taking notes on a tablet. I'm focused, professional. But I stand closer to him than necessary, at a distance that borders on intimate without crossing it. When I lean in to point out a detail on the screen, I let a trail of my perfume, iris and leather, discreet but tenacious, linger. I feel his gaze on the back of my neck.

— The minority shareholders are the key, I remark, my voice a thoughtful murmur. Targeted pressure could make them fold without alerting management.

— Targeted pressure, he repeats, his gaze leaving the screen to settle on me. Explain.

I straighten up, meeting his eyes. I smile, slightly. Not a seductive smile, a smile of complicity. The smile of someone sharing a sordid secret.

— The CEO has a son. Considerable gambling debts. Information that, if leaked to his creditors… could make him very… cooperative in convincing his father.

The silence that follows is heavy with approval. His gray eyes scan my face, as if seeing for the first time the true extent of my coldness.

— Ruthless, he murmurs. I like it.

I lower my eyes for a moment, feigning a modesty that doesn't exist. — I'm merely serving your vision, sir.

I let the sentence hang, full of subtext. Your vision. Your empire. You.

—

12:30 PM. The executive cafeteria.

Rabis is there, surrounded by his cronies, laughing too loudly. I see him spot me immediately as I look for a seat. I choose an isolated table, near the bay window. I eat alone, reading a report on my tablet, displaying total indifference.

I don't have to go to him. I know he'll come.

Five minutes later, a shadow falls over my table.

— Eating alone? What a waste.