Dorian
The sun rises over a city that never sleeps. Neither have I.
The chaotic desperation of last night has burned away, leaving something else in its place—a chilling, absolute clarity. I move through my morning routine like a machine. Shower. Shave. Suit.
I close my cufflinks and adjust the black tie. The suit for today is pitch-black; it reflects the state of my heart and feels more like armor.
A cup of dark coffee is steaming on the counter. I take a sip and walk towards the glass window. For a moment, I watch the distant skyline and then I check my phone.
No other messages from Della.
I close my eyes for a second. The image of her before the fire—the ruby sparkling on her skin, her eyes drowning in mine—is seared into my soul. Leah will pay for every second of Della's pain, for the five years she stole from us.
My actions today aren’t for revenge, not really. They are for her. They are the clearing of poisoned ground so that something new, something whole, might have a chance to grow.
I am no longer the man reacting to the storm.
I am the storm.
* * *
At precisely 9 a.m. Leah sweeps into my office. Wearing a cream-colored suit, her blonde hair coiled in a perfect, severe knot at the nape of her neck, she smells of expensive perfume and smug satisfaction.
"Dorian, darling." Her voice drips with sugar and venom as she shuts the door. "Julian said you were eager to see me. I can't imagine why."
I don’t rise. I don’t smile. I remain behind my desk, my hands steepled in front of me, and simply watch her.
To my right, Maddox, my lead counsel, rests a single leather folder on the table.
Leah’s eyes flicker toward him, her smile tightening almost imperceptibly. The presence of a lawyer unnerves her.
Good.
"Sit, Leah," I say, my voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
She glides into the chair opposite me, crossing her legs with deliberate grace but her hand smooths her skirt twice before she speaks.
"Alright. What’s all this about? If it's about your little girlfriend running off, I'm afraid I can't help you. Some people just don't have staying power."
I ignore the bait. I slide Maddox’s folder across the vast expanse of my desk. It comes to a stop directly in front of her.
She looks from the folder to me, her brow arching. "And what is this?"
"That," I say, my voice still cold and even, "is a dissolution of our partnership agreement. In full. It includes a buyout of all your shares in our joint venture at the valuation stipulated in our original contract. It's all there. Sign it."
Her laughter is sharp, brittle.
"Is this a joke? Dorian, you can't be serious. I saved your company. Half of what you have is because of my capital, my connections."
"And you were compensated for it. Handsomely." My tone doesn’t waver. "That compensation ends now."
Her mask finally cracks. Color floods her cheeks, and her eyes glitter with fury.
"You can't do this! I'll fight you. I'll drag you through every boardroom and courtroom in this city. I will ruin you."
"No, you won't," I reply, leaning forward slightly. For the first time, I let the ice in my voice drop to something colder, something lethal. "You seem to be under the impression that this is a negotiation. It isn’t. This is a consequence."
Her throat works, a single swallow, sharp. Her shoulders stiffen, but her hands betray her—curling into claws on the folder as if she could tear it apart. Her gaze lances me, wild with defiance, but there’s a flicker beneath it. A fracture.
