Chapter 1: Woman in the elevator
The elevator whispered upward through the fifty floors of glass and steel, carrying Rose Thompson, who was in her late 20s, toward the man she had sworn to destroy. She kept her hands steady but clung to her beautiful flowery black dress, even as the faint hum of machinery seemed to echo her pulse.
Through the mirrored walls, she caught her reflection: composed, elegant, tall, extremely gorgeous, and unreadable. The mask she had perfected. Beneath the beautiful flowery black dress and calm eyes, vengeance moved like a slow fire ready to burn down Richard Prescott.
When the doors parted, the penthouse greeted her with silence and light. Manhattan glittered beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretching out like a constellation of power. At the far end of the room, Richard Prescott turned from the view.
He was exactly as the papers described: immaculate in a dark suit, posture straight, eyes sharp enough to cut through pretense. The kind of man who’d built empires while others were still learning to crawl, fierce yet very handsome, tall, and in his 30s.
“Miss Thompson,” he said, his voice smooth but wary. “You’re early.”
“I thought punctuality was a virtue,” she replied as she crossed the room, heels clicking on marble. She was very composed, every step measured. Every breath controlled.
He gestured to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “Whiskey? Or do you prefer wine?”
“I prefer clarity.”
A flicker of amusement curved into his mouth. “That’s rare around here.”
Rose smiled faintly. I bet it is.
She pretended to study the skyline while he poured two glasses of wine. The air smelled faintly of oak and the storm that lingered over the city pressing against the windows. Somewhere beneath that sound, her mind replayed an older noise: a voice very desperate, the day her sister’s name had vanished from the headlines. A scandal buried by the Prescott Corporation.
Tonight she stood in the heart of it.
Richard handed her a glass. “You’ve reviewed the proposal?”
“I heard your charity foundation’s work is impressive.” She took a sip. “You fund half the city’s hospitals.”
He watched her closely. “And yet, you don’t sound impressed.”
“I don’t believe in generosity without motive.”
His gaze didn’t move or shift from her face. “Then perhaps you understand me better than most people.”
The silence stretched. Lightning rippled against the windows.
For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face: fatigue, or maybe guilt, but then it was gone immediately as if it had never been.
Rose set her glass down. “When do we start?”
He nodded his head once and replied to her, “Tomorrow, at eight o'clock in the morning, we welcome you to Prescott Industries, Miss Thompson.”
As she turned toward the elevator, she caught the reflection of him in the glass, his tall body, calm face which was unreadable, and already studying her like a puzzle he intended to solve immediately.
Good, she thought to herself. Let him try, she smiled and left.
