Chapter 151
Dorian
"Thank you very much for your presentation."
"Yes, it was… impressive."
"Enlightening."
The panel of investors smile politely, their voices dipped in the kind of civility that masks disdain. I've been in enough rooms like this to know the difference between genuine interest and rehearsed courtesy.
They stand, shake my hand, and escort me out with practiced efficiency. No one offers me a follow-up meeting. No one promises numbers.
It's the third time this month. The third time I've had to stand in a suit that feels more like a coffin, begging people to remember who I am.
Once, they used to chase me.
If this keeps up, I'll be forced to file for bankruptcy. The word alone tastes like ash on my tongue.
My empire—my brilliant, glittering empire—reduced to whispers and stolen projects. Every idea I pitch is "already in progress" somewhere else. Every strategy I devise appears in another company's portfolio within weeks.
It's sabotage. I know it. But I can't prove it.
And worse, no one cares.
*
I pour myself a drink the second I'm back in my rented office. Not the penthouse. Not the estate. An office with rattling vents and a view of a brick wall, stripped of everything except a desk too big for the room and a single lamp that hums like a dying fly.
It smells faintly of dust and effort. Desperation has a scent; I'm learning that now.
The scotch burns on the way down. Good. Reminds me I'm still here.
I catch my reflection in the glass door—just a ghost sketched in the dark. I step closer to the window, use the city's neon as a mirror. The man staring back is… altered. Lines at the corners of my mouth that weren't there a year ago.
The hollows under my eyes are darker, older. My hair—still cut just right, but it's lost that careless sheen that money gives.
No matter.
Who am I?
Dorian Black.
I say it aloud, because it steadies me.
"Dorian. Fucking. Black."
The syllables land like three nails into a plank.
Fine.
What's needed is a reset.
This city has been salted against me—doors closed by signatures I can't see. I don't need to stand here and pretend the wind isn't slapping me in the face. You don't sail into a headwind; you tack.
I open the small box on my desk. My last treasures—watches, cufflinks, a silver pen with my initials.
It hurts me to say goodbye to my collection, watches that used to open mouths at dinners, make waiters stand straighter. I lift one at random, feel the weight—cold, reassuring. Time you can hold.
They're not trophies tonight. They're exit visas.
I pull out my phone, scroll to the brokers who haven't blocked me, and send three messages:
"Need to liquidate. Quietly. Premium for discretion." I attach photos without serials. I can still make a pitch even when I'm bleeding.
My inbox is a graveyard of silence for a minute, then pings. One broker: "
Possible. Send pieces to Geneva vault. You pay freight. We take 12%."
Twelve? In this market? I almost laugh.
I type: "Eight."
He replies: "Ten. Or find a charity."
My jaw ticks. "Nine and exclusivity for six weeks," I counter.
Three dots. "Deal."
I feel something in my chest twitch, like an old motor trying to catch. There it is—the crack of blue sky I've been waiting for. A place where the Vale shadow is shorter, where the name "Greene" doesn't tilt the room against me. I start a new folder on my desktop: NEW BLACK CAPITAL.
Tagline can come later. Numbers first.
***
Zander
"What's that?" Ivan asks, narrowing his eyes as I toy with one of the very expensive watches scattered across my desk. The face catches the afternoon light, gleaming like it belongs in a museum.
I smile, leaning back. "Something that came my way last night."
Ivan pads closer, suspicion written all over his face. His hair's a little messy, falling to his shoulders like liquid gold, and he's barefoot — it's unfair how effortlessly beautiful he is even when interrogating me.
"I just know those watches cost an obscene amount of money," he mutters, eyeing the collection.
I shrug. "And what do I have, if not an obscene amount of money?"
"Then why didn't you just buy new ones?" he presses, perching on the edge of the desk like a cat stalking prey.
I tap the glass face with a fingertip. "Because it's not about new, it's about value."
The way I say it makes him tilt his head. He studies me, suspicious, that sharp green gaze pinning me down more effectively than any boardroom rival. "Zander… what are you doing?"
"Playing cat and mouse," I answer easily, lighting a cigarette I don't intend to finish, just for the aesthetic of it. My husband will, have my balls if I smoke.
His brows arch, lips quirking into a dangerous little smirk. "Really? I want in."
Before I can respond, he slides fully onto my lap, legs bracketing me, reaching over my shoulder to peek at the laptop screen. His hair brushes against my jaw as he leans in, and I have to restrain myself from turning my head and kissing him senseless.
"'New Black Capital,'" he reads aloud, slow and mocking. "That sounds pretentious as hell."
I chuckle under my breath.
"Unfortunately, it's actually really good." And it is.
Ivan clicks his tongue.
"I want to play too. Where's he going?"
"It's smart," I admit. "He was smuggled out of the country on a ship. I don't know exactly where yet, but I have people tracking him. I've got a feeling, though." I point at the screen.
He gasps.
"That place? Ugh, perfect for a creep like him."
"Yeah," I say, amused. "But only if you've got money and power. He has neither, so this is a very bad idea."
"Wait, why—ohhh." His eyes widen in sudden understanding.
"Exactly." I smirk.
Ivan leans closer, green eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Wait. Let him start. Let him grow. Do you have money to waste? Invest. And then, right when he's about to take off…" His lips curve into a wicked grin.
"…I want to push him off the plank."