Jonathan's gaze stayed fixed on the monitor.
Emilia was still in his kitchen — destroying his kitchen — yet he couldn't look away.
"Maybe just a little more sugar," she murmured.
"Urm… miss, I don't think you should—" Joann began, hesitantly.
"Or… salt?" Emilia smirked, cutting her off. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Joann sighed, defeated.
Jonathan exhaled quietly — not quite a laugh, but something close.
He leaned back, eyes still on the screen.
"What's the worst that could happen," he echoed under his breath. "Everything."
A soft clearing of the throat interrupted him.
"Sir," Brandon said quietly, stepping forward from the side of the office.
Jonathan didn't look up. "What is it?"
"The men Leonardo attacked have been taken care of," Brandon said, tone steady as always. "They've been replaced, and security's doubled across all entry points. No one gets in without clearance."
Jonathan gave a short nod, still watching the screen.
Emilia was now holding a smoking pan like it was a live grenade.
"And, sir," Brandon continued, glancing at the tablet in his hand, "you have a meeting with the Tokyo investors in fifteen minutes."
Jonathan finally looked up. "Cancel it."
Brandon didn't move. "With all due respect, sir, you've said that every day this week."
Jonathan's eyes flicked to him — sharp, warning.
Brandon held his ground.
"They've already adjusted their schedule twice for you," he added carefully. "If we push again, they might walk."
Silence.
The kind that made the air heavier.
Then Jonathan exhaled through his nose, slow and low. "Twenty minutes."
Brandon's brows knit slightly. "Sir?"
"I'll be there in twenty."
Brandon nodded once, satisfied enough to leave it at that. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Jonathan's gaze returned to the screen — to Emilia, now laughing at her own disaster while Joann hovered helplessly beside her.
*****
Emilia frowned at the burnt mess in the pan, waving smoke out of her face.
"Okay, so maybe cooking's not my calling," she muttered. "Neither is breathing right now— Gawd, that smoke!"
Joann tried to help, but Emilia waved her off with the towel.
"I said I've got this, Joann! It's part of the process— artistic chaos."
The maid sighed, muttering something about "Sir Blacksmith fainting if he saw this."
Emilia snorted. "He won't. He's probably too busy terrorizing humans or scowling at walls."
Still, she leaned against the counter, staring at the tray like it might come alive and mock her. It was a total disaster—blackened edges, sticky middle. She poked it with a spoon, scowled again, and muttered, "If this thing talks, I'm throwing it out the window."
After what felt like hours of salvaging, scrubbing, and muttering insults at sugar, the smell in the air began to shift—less smoke, more… warmth. Sweetness. Against all odds, the next batch came out golden, soft, and suspiciously edible.
Emilia blinked. "Wait. I actually—did that?"
She tore off a small piece and popped it into her mouth. Her face scrunched instantly. "Holy sugar!" She coughed. "That's— wow— that's so sweet."
Then, slowly, her expression softened. "But… not bad," she admitted under her breath, a tiny smile forming. "Sweet, chaotic, and slightly dangerous—just like me."
Excited, she rushed towards Joann, waving a piece in the air.
"Try it! Before I change my mind!"
Joann hesitated, then took a bite—and blinked. "It's… sugary as hell."
Emilia folded her arms. "That's not a complaint."
Joann gave a small laugh. "It's actually… nice. I didn't think anything good could come out of that explosion in there."
"See?" Emilia smirked proudly. "Even my disasters come out delicious."
As Sir Gary passed by the kitchen, Emilia called, "Hey! Taste this. I'm conducting official feedback."
The man stopped, gave her the usual is-she-serious look, then tried it. He chewed slowly before nodding. "Too sweet," he said simply, "but impressive."
Emilia grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."
When Joann started gathering dishes, Emilia blocked her path with a spoon. "Nope. I made the mess, I'll clean it. Kitchen's my battlefield."
Joann raised a brow. "You sure, ma'am?"
"Yup. Let me have my moment of domestic redemption," Emilia said, already rolling up her sleeves.
As the maid left with a faint smile, Emilia glanced at the tray one last time.
She carefully wrapped a small piece in a napkin, tucking it aside with quiet purpose.
"For the scary boss," she murmured, lips curving slightly. "He deserves a sugar shock too."
***
The meeting ran long.
Too long.
Jonathan sat at the head of the dark conference table, half-listening as the Tokyo investors droned on about projections and market shares. Their voices were distant noise — static in his head.
His mind was still in that kitchen.
Still on the monitor.
Still on her.
Emilia.
Barefoot, chaotic, somehow managing to make even disaster look alive.
He'd spent a week pretending business was his priority. Pretending Leonardo's return hadn't already turned his empire into a chessboard. But the truth? Every move he made lately had been reaction — not strategy. And he hated that.
"Mr. Blacksmith?"
The sound of his name pulled him back.
He looked up — eyes sharp, unreadable.
One of the men cleared his throat nervously. "We were asking if you'd approve the new logistics route through Singapore."
Jonathan gave a curt nod. "Do it. And make sure security is doubled. I don't want any third-party handling."
The man nodded quickly. "Of course, sir."
Jonathan leaned back, tapping a finger once against the table. "That'll be all."
The investors hesitated — it wasn't over, but one look at him told them it was. They gathered their files, offering rushed thanks as they filed out.
As soon as the door closed, Jonathan's jaw flexed. He loosened his tie slightly and exhaled through his nose. The kind of exhale that sounded like the start of a storm.
Brandon stood a few feet away, tablet in hand. "You handled that well, sir."
Jonathan didn't respond. Just reached for his phone.
It buzzed before he could unlock it — a secure line flashing red.
He answered immediately. "Speak."
"Boss— it's Red harbor." The voice on the other end was shaky. "The shipment's gone. We lost two men, one's missing. The docks are a mess."
Jonathan stilled. His hand tightened slightly around the phone. "How?"
"They were waiting for us. They knew the route, the timing—everything."
Jonathan's jaw flexed once. "Who touched it?"
A beat of silence. Then—
A low, reluctant voice. "Fernando."
That name alone changed the air.
Jonathan's stare went blank for a moment — not empty, but too focused. Like his brain had gone deadly quiet.
Of course it was Leonardo. He'd promised chaos, and here it was.
"Pull everyone out," Jonathan said finally, voice low, measured. "No retaliation. Not yet."
"Boss?"
"I said not yet."
He ended the call. The room felt smaller suddenly — quieter, colder.
Brandon, who'd been standing by the doorway, didn't need to ask. He could read it in Jonathan's face.
"Fernando," he said under his breath.
Jonathan reached for his jacket, sliding it on with that effortless composure that usually came before something violent.
Brandon took a careful step forward. "Should I—?"
Jonathan cut him off, his tone quiet but final. "No. You stay. Handle the investors' follow-up, and make sure production reports from the Stuttgart plant are on my desk before midnight."
Brandon blinked thrown for a moment. "Stuttgart, sir? I thought you—"
"I'll deal with something else." His tone left no room for questions which Brandon understood.
Jonathan tapped his comm. "Tyga."
The reply came almost instantly, voice deep and rough through the earpiece. "Boss."
"Get the car."
A pause — then, "On my way."
Jonathan adjusted his cufflinks, checking his watch. "Tell security to clear the basement exit," he added to Brandon before walking past him.
"Yes, sir," Brandon said, already pulling out his tablet.
The elevator doors closed behind Jonathan — sleek, metallic, soundless.
By the time he reached the underground level, the lights reflected off a line of his company's latest model — The BC Valkyrie, jet-black with mirror finishes and a low, predatory hum. His creation.
Tyga leaned against the car, sleeves rolled up, gun holstered at his side. He straightened as soon as Jonathan approached.
"Red harbor", Tyga asked
Jonathan didn't bother answering as he got in the front seat.
"Drive," he said coldly. "You've got eight minutes."
Tyga's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
"Yes, boss."
The engine came alive with a roar that echoed through the underground bay, and the BC Valkyrie shot forward, devouring the night.
Ten minutes later, the BC valkyrie pulled up to the Marseille docks — the air thick with salt, smoke, and blood.
Two bodies lay covered under black sheets, the rest of his men standing stiff, eyes down.
Jonathan stepped out, the crunch of his shoes on gravel louder than any word spoken.
He didn't ask what happened. He already knew.
Leonardo had left his signature all over it — the chaos was too precise, too clean.
"Who was in charge?" Jonathan asked.
A man stepped forward, trembling slightly.
"D-Dimitri, sir. He's gone. We found his comm by the containers."
Jonathan's jaw tightened. "Find Dimitri. Burn what's left. Clean it all up and Compensate the men's families."
Tyga glanced at him. "And Fernando?"
Jonathan's eyes cut to Tyga — cold, flat. He let the silence hang for a beat, then spoke, slow and quiet, the kind of voice that made men remember their place.
"Don't you ever question me." He stepped closer until Tyga could feel the words on his skin. "Else you won't have a tongue left to form words"
Tyga's throat worked, "understood boss".