Under the billionaire’s shadow

Chapter 3: Dinner invitation.

Two days later, the invitation arrived on the company's letterhead:

Rose Thompson,

Mr Prescott requests your presence at the

Penthouse this evening for a private strategy

Session. 8pm.

No signature only the thin perfect sign of the P at the top. She stared at it until the letters became blurred, “strategy session” the phrase could mean anything in Richard Prescott’s world.

Rose read it twice, and she thought to herself was it a test or a trap, was it an interrogation, or an invitation she would regret accepting or was it an opportunity?

She arrived at eight sharp, by that time the rain had softened into mist, The elevator opened to a warm amber light, the candles burned low against the glass walls where the city flickered like a restless constellation, the air smelled faintly of cedar and wine.

Richard stood near the dining table, sleeves rolled, a bottle of Merlot breathing beside him as he poured the wine into glasses, You’re prompt I wasn’t sure you’d come”, he said, then he looked at her face, “You look tense.”

“I wasn’t aware this was public,” she said.

“It isn’t. But this strategy is easier when people are comfortable or satisfied.”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound short but genuine. “Touché. Wine?”

She hesitated, then accepted the glass he poured. Their fingers brushed barely a second and heat moved up her arm like a pulse of static.

She took the seat opposite him. The meal was precise steak, roasted vegetables, nothing left to chance. The conversation began with market reports, shifted to art, then unexpectedly to truth.

Because years ago Richard Prescott’s empire had crushed her sister and nothing was done about it.

“Do you like this world?” he asked suddenly. “The suits, the money, the walls of glass.”

She studied him. “Do you?”

He smiled without warmth. “It’s the only world I know.”

For a moment, their eyes held power and pain mirrored across the table. Something electric and fragile moved between them, neither of them ready to name it.

Rose played her role so perfectly, she laughed when she was supposed to, she listened when it mattered, and she never let him see the hate beneath her calm.

When dinner ended, he escorted her to the elevator. His voice dropped low. “You’re different, Rose.”

“Different how?” she asked

He leaned back, studying her. “Most people want something from me money, influence, or proximity. What do you want, Rose?”

“You make me wonder what I’ve missed,” he said.

Rose had rebuilt herself, changed her name, and walked into his shadow.

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the scent of cedar and the warmth of his gaze. Alone, Rose let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Beneath the mask of professionalism, confusion churned anger, curiosity, something dangerous she couldn’t name, Careful, she told herself, He’s dangerous in ways you don’t yet understand.

Rose planned to unravel him step by step, so she needed to get close to him, enter his circle, and gain his trust.

And somewhere above the city, Richard Prescott stood alone by the window, watching her taillights vanish into the rain, aware that for the first time in years, he no longer trusted his own instincts, and for the first time also the certainty that he built his empire felt like a glass beneath his feet.