Marcus Delaney sat in his penthouse office, glass walls offering a sweeping view of the city. But he wasn't looking at the skyline.
He was watching people leave him.
First, it was Raymond Liu—soft-spoken, reliable. He'd canceled two meetings in a row. No explanation. No apology.
Then Sylvia Hunt, the always-loyal legal strategist, had replied to his request with a chillingly formal, "I'll need to review my obligations before proceeding."
It wasn't a mutiny.
Not yet.
But the silence was getting loud.
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Where's the leak?"
By 8 a.m., he had summoned Dev Mishra, his fixer, to his office.
"Someone's feeding her," Marcus said, no greeting. "That injunction wasn't just luck. She knew where to hit me."
Dev didn't flinch. "You think someone on the inside flipped?"
"I know someone did."
He handed over a file—a preliminary list of names. All the ones who had shifted their behavior. Pulled back. Grown distant.
"Pull financials. Track calls. I want movement logs, encrypted message scans—everything."
Dev took the file and paused. "What if it's one of the old guard? Someone you've trusted too long?"
Marcus's eyes darkened. "Then they'll regret every breath they've taken since."
Later that day, he walked into the boardroom with the confidence of a man who still believed in the myth of his own invincibility.
"Thank you all for being here on short notice," he said smoothly, settling at the head of the table.
Eyes met him. Some loyal. Some unreadable.
"I've heard whispers," he began. "Rumors. Allegations. And I want to be perfectly clear—this company stands on facts. Not fear. So if there are concerns about leadership, or direction, let's address them."
The silence that followed was sharp. Measured.
Then Langford, one of his oldest allies, cleared his throat.
"There's been… some unease," he admitted. "Some of the financials from Elektra are drawing scrutiny. The audit committee flagged anomalies—"
"They've been resolved," Marcus said coolly.
Langford hesitated. "They've been answered, Marcus. Not resolved."
The word hung there.
A shift. A fracture.
That night, Marcus drank alone in his apartment, a glass of whiskey trembling in his hand.
Anita was behind this. He knew it. She was too calm, too prepared. And the worst part?
She hadn't made a single overt move.
She was playing his game—only better.
He stared out over the dark city, rage brewing behind his stillness.
Fine.
If she wanted war, he would give her one.
But first, he needed to smoke out the traitors.
And then burn the board down before she ever got the chance to sit at the head of it.