Fortune's Price

The Archer stuck the sky like a glass knife; its shiny side caught the last light of the day. Sixty-eight floors up, above the busy city, Eliza Morgan put her hand on the cool glass, watching small yellow cabs move slowly on the busy roads below. From here, everything seemed small and under control, nothing like the big mess her life was now. "Three hundred million dollars," she said softly, the number too big to comprehend, even hours after hearing it. "Three hundred million dollars or nothing." Her grandfather's ultimatum rang in her head, delivered that morning in the cold room of a lawyer's place downtown. Thomas Morgan, head of the Morgan publishing empire, had called her in for what she thought would be yet another talk on her life choices. Instead, he threw a bomb right into her well-made world. "You'll get your inheritance on two conditions," he had said, his voice rough from years of costly cigars, eyes sharp even at eighty-seven. "First, you take your place at Morgan Media as Chief Creative Officer and stop this 'struggling writer' act." That was enough to make her sick. Five years she had spent building her reputation, saying no to the easy path of family work, trying hard to make it on her own as a writer. "And secondly?" she had asked, knowing she'd not like what would come next. Thomas Morgan's thin lips had shaped what might have been a grin on someone else. On him, it seemed like a threat. "You'll get married in six months to someone I deem suitable. Someone who understands the business world and can increase our influence in the market." That thought made her lean her head on the glass now, liking its cool touch on her hot skin. Way below, the city kept on moving fast, not knowing or caring about her situation right now. "To hell with him," she said softly, moving back from the glass. Her penthouse, bought with the only bit of her trust fund she'd ever used, now felt too tight even with its open space and simple style. White walls, clean lines, and modern art were all picked out to be nothing like the heavy old feel of the Morgan mansion. Her phone rang on the stone kitchen counter. Her agent. Again. Eliza made a face, knowing just what Marianne would want to talk about. Her book's due date. The one she had missed. Again. It had been three years since her first book did okay, and she still couldn’t write the next one. The empty screen was now her foe, laughing at her every day as she sat by the window, looking at the park. Maybe her grandfather was right. Maybe she was not a writer. No. She shook her head hard. That was not true. Writing was the only thing that felt right to her, the only time she was herself. Not as Eliza Morgan, the rich girl, but as Eliza, the one who tells stories. She declined the call and went to her emails. The message from James Chen was still there, marked urgent. A big party was taking place at the Metropolitan Museum tonight. She would have said no, but it was just another fancy New York party where rich folks pat each other on the back and find new deals. But today was different. She needed a distraction. So, with the new drive and determination, she walked to her room and picked out a fancy black Valentino dress that she had bought on impulse but had never worn. If she was going to step into her grandfather's world again, she might as well look the part. An hour and a half later, her car stopped at the museum. Red carpet, cameras, the big show you see at every big event in the city. Eliza took a deep breath before the door swung open. "Ms. Morgan! This way!" The camera folks knew her right away. They always did. The shy rich girl was always big news when she showed up. She gave them a quick smile, let them snap their photos, and then went up the stairs. The big hall inside the Met looked great tonight, with lights and marble everywhere and voices of rich folks all around. "Eliza Morgan. You’re real." The voice was low and had a light accent. She spun around, ready to brush him off, but stopped. He was very tall, with wide shoulders that looked great in his suit. His hair was a mess in a cool way that was likely very pricey. But it was his eyes that held her, dark with bits of gold, just smiling at her. "Luca Devereaux," he said, holding out his hand. "We've sat next to each other at tons of these things, yet this is your first time here." She shook his hand, feeling how firm it was. "You're keeping tabs on me at these charity events, Mr. Devereaux? That's a bit much." He laughed, loud and real, making people nearby look over. "Not just you. I see all that goes on. It comes with the job." "What job has you watching how strangers act?" "Acquisitions," he replied, as if that said it all. Seeing her confusion, he added, "I take over firms, fix them, and sell them." "I see, she said as she took a sip from her glass. "So, you’re a corporate raider." He grinned. "I prefer 'corporate savior,' but sure, call me what you will." He kept smiling. "You're one to speak, Ms. Morgan, after turning down your family business? You're kind of like an anti-Cinderella." She felt a chill. Of course, he knew who she was; they all did. That's why she avoided such events. "Excuse me," she said coldly, "I need to talk to someone." She left without waiting for his response and moved through the crowd. The irony hit her: she was hiding among those she usually stayed away from, all to avoid one perceptive man. The night seemed to drag on. After two hours, Eliza had had enough. She had smiled, answered too many questions about her grandfather, and backed enough good causes to perform her duty. Just as she was about to call her ride, a stir by the door grabbed everyone's attention. Thomas Morgan had arrived. Even at his age, he held everyone's gaze. People stopped talking and watched as he walked in, a man who had always been in control and knew it. And there's Luca Devereaux. They were talking, Thomas's hand on Luca's shoulder. Seeing them together made Eliza feel a sting of betrayal, which she quickly shrugged off. She didn't know Devereaux. He wasn't bound to her. Then her grandfather saw her. The small smile he gave set off alarm bells in her head. That smile usually meant trouble. "Eliza." He came over with Devereaux. "Nice to see you out tonight." Her grandfather stressed "out," hinting at their talk that morning about her role. "Grandfather." She kissed his cheek, the act as empty as ever. "Didn't know you were coming." "I'm on the board," he said in a way that sounded too obvious. "And you've met Luca?" Devereaux looked calm, but his eyes had a hint of mischief, like he was enjoying this awkward meet-up. “Just briefly,” she replied.