Rising To Power

Chapter 4

The meeting place was deliberate.

An old bookstore tucked away in the West Village—dimly lit, nearly forgotten, and smelling of paper, ink, and time. It had once been Malik’s sanctuary. A place where firewalls were imagined as dragons and secrets were hidden between chapters. This wasn’t just nostalgia; it was a statement. A reminder of who he used to be.

Maybelline stepped inside, her coat drawn tight against the spring wind. A bell jingled above her, soft and melancholy. The store was mostly empty. A sleepy clerk behind the counter didn’t even glance up as she moved toward the back, weaving through aisles like a ghost retracing old steps.

She found him in the philosophy section, seated at a crooked wooden table, legs stretched, hoodie up.

Malik.

He didn’t look up at first. Just tapped something on a tablet. The glow lit up his face—sharper now, leaner, with stubble along his jaw and dark curls tied back in a low bun. He’d grown older, but not softer. There was something in his posture, a readiness, like a wire pulled taut.

Maybelline froze, unsure for a moment what to say.

“Still hiding in bookstores,” she finally said, voice low.

Malik looked up. His gaze locked with hers—and for a breath, neither of them moved.

Then a small smirk tugged at his lips. “And you still walk like you own the world.”

“I used to.”

“Now you’re engaged to the man who practically owns it.”

She sat down across from him, her eyes narrowing. “You disappeared.”

“I was erased.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

There was an edge to him now. The old Malik had been a fire—quick to speak, quick to laugh, and quicker to hack into your phone for fun. This Malik was all coiled wires and shadows.

Maybelline leaned in. “You texted me. Said I didn’t know the whole story.”

Malik tilted his head. “Tell me—how much do you really know about Timothée Laurent?”

Her spine straightened slightly. “Enough to know he’s dangerous. Controlled. Calculated.”

Malik huffed. “That’s the version he sells. But he’s more than that.”

He tapped his tablet, and an image slid across the screen—an old photo. Grainy. A young Timothée standing next to a man in military uniform.

Maybelline frowned. “That’s… not in any public file.”

“No. Because he scrubbed it,” Malik said. “This man is Colonel Étienne Laurent. His father. Former intelligence officer turned private security mogul. Disappeared in the late nineties. Rumors said he was assassinated by rivals. But I found evidence that contradicts that.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Encrypted transmissions sent from a base in Marseille under the codename Spectre. The recipient? Timothée. At age thirteen.”

Maybelline blinked. “Wait. Are you saying his father’s still alive?”

Malik shrugged. “I’m saying the Laurent family operates on more levels than even the Prescotts dare to reach.”

She exhaled slowly. “And you think I need to know this because…?”

“Because your father isn’t the only one using you. Timothée doesn’t do anything without motive. This engagement? It’s part of a larger move. He’s trying to erase the Laurent name’s criminal history by marrying into the political elite.”

Maybelline was quiet for a long moment. “And what about you, Malik? Why now? Why come back?”

He looked away then, jaw flexing. “Because I know what it’s like to be used and discarded by your father.”

That silenced her.

Years ago, Malik had been the golden boy of the Prescott campaign’s digital team—a hacker prodigy who could ghost through government systems in minutes. Her father had recruited him young and promised him a future. Then he’d taken Malik’s work, cut him out, and leaked a scandal that left him blacklisted from every tech firm in the city.

Maybelline had been too young to fight him. Too scared to lose everything.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Malik’s eyes flicked to hers. “I don’t need your apology. I need your help.”

A pause.

“What kind of help?”

“I want back in. To Prescott’s systems. The servers, the emails, the off-record deals. If Cassandra’s as dirty as I suspect, we’ll find proof. And you? You’ll have leverage. Real leverage.”

Maybelline considered this. “And what’s in it for you?”

“Revenge.”

Simple. Honest. Sharp as glass.

Maybelline didn’t answer right away. She watched him, studied the lines on his face, the weight in his voice. This wasn’t just about retribution. It was about survival. About not being erased.

She reached across the table and took the tablet. Swiped through a few more images—timelines, bank transfers, surveillance footage. Cassandra’s name appeared again and again.

“She’s not just working against my father,” Maybelline murmured. “She’s working with someone.”

Malik nodded. “A ghost network. Anonymous donors. Offshore accounts. Someone’s grooming her for something bigger. Possibly your father’s seat.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. This wasn’t just family drama. This was a ticking bomb.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, rising to her feet.

Malik stood too. “Careful, May. You’re not the only one playing dangerous games. And Timothée? He plays for keeps.”

---

Back at the Laurent penthouse, Timothée was waiting.

She found him on the balcony, sleeves rolled, coat open despite the cold. He didn’t say anything when she joined him. Just handed her a file.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Background on Cassandra.”

Maybelline opened the folder. Inside were bank records, photos, and a copy of a wire transfer from an offshore account to a consulting firm linked to a known opposition party. One that had tried to sabotage her father’s campaign a year ago.

“What is she doing?” Maybelline whispered.

“Undermining him,” Timothée said. “She’s hedging her bets. If Prescott loses, she has another seat at the table.”

Maybelline’s hands clenched around the folder. “She’s always wanted the spotlight.”

“She doesn’t want the spotlight,” he said softly. “She wants your crown.”

There was a strange ache in her chest then. A hollow echo of betrayal and clarity.

“I saw Malik today,” she admitted suddenly.

Timothée didn’t react. “I assumed you would.”

“Did you know he’d reach out?”

“I hoped.”

She turned to him, stunned. “You’re using me to lure him?”

“I’m protecting you by giving you options,” he said. “The only way to survive what’s coming is to have more cards than everyone else.”

She studied his face. There was no guilt in his expression. No remorse.

“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“I don’t have that luxury.”

---

That night, Maybelline couldn’t sleep. The file on Cassandra lay open beside her. Malik’s voice echoed in her head. Secrets lived in layers. Every answer unraveled another question.

She opened her laptop and began typing, lines of code appearing faster than her thoughts. Malik had taught her some tricks back in the day—not how to hack, but how to think like one.

A soft ping. A new message: “Think fast. You’re not the only one looking into Cassandra.”

Attached was a recording—grainy surveillance footage of Cassandra at a private club. She wasn’t alone. She was speaking with a man Maybelline recognized from Prescott’s enemies list: Warren Reiss, the senator who nearly ended Prescott’s career.

Maybelline’s blood ran cold.

She tapped a secure line, encrypted and untraceable.

A single message: “I’m in. But we do this my way.”

Then she closed the tablet and leaned back.

Outside, the city slept.

Inside, war brewed.

Not with guns. Not with armies.

But with secrets. With silence. With the kind of precision only the broken and betrayed could master.

Maybelline wasn’t afraid of the battlefield anymore.

She was building it.