Year Three — Sitting at the Table
517 Words
Year Three did not change Elana’s body.
It changed her presence.
She was given a new surname that year—one that carried history, money, and quiet influence.
Voss was no longer just an alias.
It was a key.
“You won’t break Blackwood Group from the outside,” her mentor said as Elana studied the invitation resting on the table. “You break it from inside boardrooms, through trust and arrogance.”
Elana traced the embossed lettering with her finger.
A charity gala.
Black tie.
High society.
The kind of place where secrets loosened after champagne.
The ballroom shimmered with crystal and gold.
Elana stepped inside like she belonged there.
Her dress was black—simple, elegant, unforgiving. Her hair was pinned up, her posture flawless. She did not look rich.
She looked untouchable.
Men noticed. Women assessed.
No one recognized her.
Good.
She felt him before she saw him.
Adrian stood near the center of the room, immaculate in a tailored suit, Sarah at his side like a carefully chosen ornament.
He looked older.
Not in years—but in weight.
Elana’s fingers curled slowly around her glass.
So this was what survival looked like for him.
Their paths crossed near the champagne table.
For one terrible second, Adrian’s gaze lifted.
Elana’s heart stuttered.
Recognition hovered in the air like a fragile thing.
Then Sarah laughed loudly, pulling his attention back.
The moment shattered.
Elana exhaled quietly.
Not yet.
Elana did not speak much that night.
She listened.
She let men talk over her.
Let executives brag.
Let secrets slip.
By the end of the evening, three people wanted to see her again.
Two offered business cards.
One offered an invitation to a private dinner.
Her mentor’s voice echoed in her head:
Let them think they discovered you.
She noticed Ryan near the exit.
Still observant.
Still unreadable.
Their eyes met briefly.
Just a glance.
Nothing more.
Elana broke eye contact first.
She did not need him remembering her.
Behind closed doors, Blackwood Group trembled quietly.
Adrian discovered a misallocated fund buried deep within a subsidiary.
When he raised it at a board meeting, his father’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re seeing ghosts,” Mr. Blackwood said coldly.
Sarah’s hand tightened around Adrian’s arm.
He fell silent.
Elana attended more events.
Private dinners.
Art auctions.
Closed-door meetings.
She learned who drank too much.
Who cheated.
Who lied.
Power, she learned, was not dominance.
It was leverage.
Later that night, alone in her apartment, Elana stood by the window overlooking the city.
She whispered again, softer this time.
“Adrian.”
She didn’t know if the ache was grief or something worse.
Hope.
Her mentor visited her that winter.
“You’re almost ready,” she said.
“Next year, you touch money.”
Elana turned slowly.
“And if I’m recognized?”
Her mentor’s smile was thin.
“Then you make them regret it.”
As her mentor left, Elana’s phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Ryan Blackwood:
We met briefly tonight. I don’t think we were properly introduced.
Elana stared at the screen.
The past had just knocked.
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