Of Fire and Loss

Chapter 5: The First Breach

Angèle

The report landed in Néron's inbox at 11:58 AM. Two minutes early. A calculated delay to show my reliability, not my eagerness. The day passed in a muffled hum, every colleague throwing me furtive glances, a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. The scene with Rabis and his father's intervention put me in the spotlight. I'm the new prey, and everyone's waiting to see which predator makes the first catch.

6:00 PM. The open space empties, lights go out one by one. I stay, pretending to finalize notes. I don't want to leave. Here, in the belly of the beast, I feel closer to my goal. And I know, viscerally, that the real battle isn't fought during business hours.

My phone vibrates, shattering the silence. A message. Not a saved number, but I recognize it. From the assistant, Élise.

Mr. Valesco senior wishes to see you in his office. Now.

My heart lurches unpleasantly in my chest. Now. 6:07 PM. The hour when employees leave and secrets rise to the surface.

— On my way, I reply.

The trip to the top floor in the glass elevator is an ascent into the unknown. The city lights up below, a carpet of black diamonds. I repeat my mantras to myself. Control. Restraint. Observation. I'm not prey. I'm a mirror. I reflect back the image they want to see.

The elevator doors open into the absolute silence of the penthouse. No receptionist, no assistant. Only the dim light emanating from Néron's office.

The door is ajar. I push it open.

He's not behind his desk. He's standing in front of the bay window, his back to me, holding a stemmed glass with an amber liquid. The room is bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. He seems immense, silent, master of this world he contemplates.

— Close the door, Angèle.

His voice is different. Deeper, less velvety. More direct. It resonates in the empty room. I obey. The click of the lock seems irrevocable.

— Sit down.

He turns around at last. He's taken off his jacket and loosened his tie knot. The simplicity of the attire makes him more… human. More dangerous. His gray eyes capture the dying light.

— Your report, he begins, walking slowly towards his desk without sitting down. He stops in front of it, dominating the space between us. It's brutal. Ruthless. Exactly what I need.

He takes a sip of his cognac.

— Most new hires try to prove their worth by proposing… ethical solutions. They want to show they're 'good soldiers.' You… you identified our competitors' weak points and suggested maneuvers to push them into bankruptcy. Why?

This is the test. The real one. He's not testing my skills, he's probing my soul.

I cross my legs, adopting a confident posture.

— Economic warfare has no room for ethics, sir. Only results matter. You didn't hire me to be a good soldier, but to be a weapon. I assume that's why you chose me.

A slow, real smile stretches his lips. He appreciates the answer.

— A weapon, he repeats, as if to himself. Yes. That's exactly it.

He puts down his glass and crosses the room to stand in front of my chair. Too close. Personal space doesn't exist for him. I breathe in his scent, a mix of sandalwood and something metallic, cold. The scent of power.

— And a weapon must be wielded with precision. Rabis… handles his tools poorly. He breaks them out of enthusiasm.

— I'm not a tool, I retort, looking up at him. I'm a strategy.