The threat hung in the air, cold and absolute. The Kronos side of the table went very still. Croft’s mask of neutrality slipped, revealing a flicker of unease.
The meeting ended shortly after, the air thick with unresolved tension but with a new, clear hierarchy established. Xan had drawn a line in the sand. He had chosen a side. Hers.
Back in the sanctuary of his office, with the door closed, Elara let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.“Throw Croft to the wolves like that.”
Xan poured two glasses of water from a crystal carafe, handing one to her.“He made it personal. He attacked my judgment and your credibility in a public forum. In my world, that’s an act of war.” He took a long drink.“Besides, he did it. I’m sure of it.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“Not yet.” He set his glass down, his grey eyes meeting hers.“But I will. In the meantime, we have a new understanding, you and I.”
“And what’s that?”
“That the enemy of my enemy is my temporary, highly irritating, but necessary ally,” he said, a ghost of a wry smile touching his lips.“The truce stands. For now.”
Elara looked at him—the arrogant, ruthless, and now, unexpectedly, loyal man she was shackled to. The hatred wasstill there, a deep-rooted thing. But it was now intertwined with a thread of something else, something far more dangerous: trust. The reluctant truce had just been forged in fire, and it was stronger than either of them wanted to admit.
Chapter 8:
The First Crack
The days that followed were a study in controlled chaos. The leaked memo had backfired spectacularly for Ian Croft. Xan’s very public defense had solidified Elara’s position and painted a target on Croft’s back. The Kronos employees, sensing the shift in power, became cautiously cooperative, if not friendly. The Aethel team, while still wary, were reassured by Elara’s steadfastness.
Their work continued in a state of heightened tension, but the dynamic had shifted. The arguments were still fierce, but they were shorter, more efficient. They were no longer fighting to destroy each other’s ideas, but to refine a shared strategy. The hybrid model—dubbed“Project Chimera” by a cynical Mark—was taking shape, a creature with two heads that somehow managed to move in the same direction.
Late one evening, almost a week after the leak, they were reviewing partnership proposals. Elara was slumped in a chair, massaging a knot in her neck, while Xan paced, dictating notes to his tablet.
“We need a manufacturing partner who can scale globally, not just regionally,” he stated.“The German firm is too limited.”
“They have the highest ethical production standards,” Elara argued, her voice tired.“The Indonesian plant you’re favoring has three separate labor violation complaints pending.”
“Which are unproven and will likely be settled for a fraction of the cost savings,” he countered, not looking up from his tablet.
“Cost savings?” She let out a short, bitter laugh.“Is that all you see? A number on a spreadsheet? These are people, Xan. Their lives. Their dignity.”
He stopped pacing and finally looked at her.“Their dignity doesn’t pay our shareholders. Or save your project.”
“It should!” she shot back, surging to her feet.“What is wrong with you? Did your father replace your conscience with a calculator when you were a child?”
The words hung in the air, sharper and more personal than she’d intended. She expected a cold, cutting retort. Instead, he just looked at her, and for the first time, the polished, impenetrable armor of Alexander Lyon seemed to crack.
A shadow crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of something raw and weary. He turned away from her, walking to the window to look out at the dark city.
“My father,” he said, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it,“didn’t believe in consciences. He believed in legacies. In building something that lasts, no matter the cost.” He was silent for a long moment.“When I was twelve, he fired our head of housekeeping, a woman who had been with our family since I was born. She’d made a single, costly error in planning a major event for his associates. I begged him not to. I told him she was kind, that she remembered my birthday. He looked me in the eye and said,‘Sentiment is a weakness, Alexander. And weakness is a cancer. Never let it into your house, or your company.’”
Elara stood frozen, the anger draining out of her, replaced by a stunned, unexpected pity. The story was a tiny key, unlocking a sliver of understanding about the man he had become.
“He was wrong,” she said softly.
Xan didn’t turn around.“Was he? Sentiment didn’t save her job. Logic and bottom lines are the only currencies he understands. They are the only currencies that work in his world. So yes, Elara, I see the numbers. Because in the end, the numbers are the only thing that matter. They are the only thing that ever have.”
He turned then, and the mask was back, but it was less sure now, the edges blurred by a confession he clearly hadn’t meant to make. The crack was sealed over, but she had seen what was beneath. Not a monster, but a product. A boy trained by a ruthless king to be an even more ruthless prince.
“We’ll go with the German firm,” he said, his tone all business again, but lacking its usual finality.“The PR hit from the labor complaints isn’t worth the savings. It’s a logical decision.”
He walked back to his desk, dismissing the moment.
But it was too late. The first crack had appeared in the fortress of his arrogance, and Elara had seen a glimpse of the man trapped inside. The enemy was becoming complicated. And a complicated enemy was a dangerous thing. It was the first step toward seeing him as something else entirely.
