The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Lachlan along with his wife stepped out into the air that was thick with that unmistakable sterile chill that only high towers seemed to have the kind that carried the scent of money, power, and a hint of danger.
A bodyguard in a sleek black suit stood waiting for them, his expression as hard as stone. "This way," he instructed.
Silently, they followed him down the long hallway. The floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the ceiling lights in a way that made it look like a fiery path guiding them forward. Each step they took echoed softly, swallowed by the stillness of the upper floors.
They came to a halt in front of a massive door, dark oak framed with gold trim. Without a word, the bodyguard pushed it open.
Inside was a vast room, its walls lined with glass that offered a view of the city's sleeping skyline. A long, cold table stretched across the center, the kind that was used for making decisions that could ruin lives.
Two chairs awaited them at one end.
At the opposite end sat a man.
He didn't move. He didn't need to. The very air seemed to lean toward him, as if the room itself acknowledged who truly held the power.
Lachlan felt himself freeze. His wife gasped softly, gripping his arm as her voice quivered. "...H-Honey," she whispered, her eyes wide. "That person… is—"
Lachlan's mind was a whirlwind, drowning out her words.
That's the CEO of Crown Entertainment.
Rohan Reid.
What on earth is he doing here…?
Lachlan felt his jaw tighten, a slow breath escaping him quiet, controlled, almost as if he were piecing together a puzzle that only he could see.
…Oh.
So that's how it is.
He straightened his tie, forcing his face into a mask of calculated calm. The man at the far end of the table remained still, not even blinking, just sitting there, watching, the faint city lights casting sharp shadows across his features.
Lachlan took a step forward. "Mr. Rohan Reid of Crown Entertainment," he began, his tone polite yet clipped, each word carefully chosen. "Even if there was some issue between our daughters in the past…"
He paused, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Don't you think you're taking this a bit too far?"
The air thickened with tension. His wife's hand gripped his sleeve, silently urging him to back off, but Lachlan pressed on.
"No matter how you see it," he continued, his voice growing firmer, "this whole situation—" he gestured subtly around the room, to the silent guards at the door "—can only be viewed as an act of revenge."
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, challenging a response.
Rohan remained silent.
Lachlan's words lingered in the chilly atmosphere. The silence stretched on, deep enough that the soft hum of the city outside felt like a distant thunder.
He stepped closer, his voice low but resolute. "Am I wrong, then?"
Across the table, Rohan finally shifted just a bit. His fingers tapped once against the polished surface before he leaned back in his chair, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
"But you are gravely mistaken, Mr. Barker," Rohan replied, his voice calm and unhurried, yet imbued with an undeniable authority. "As I mentioned during the press conference a few weeks ago… I have forgiven all the children."
The words came out polite, almost gentle, but there was an underlying chill in his tone. Something icy lurked beneath the surface.
Then, just like that, his smile vanished. His eyes sharpened, the warmth draining away as he leaned in just enough for the light to catch the glint in his gaze.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to a quieter, more menacing tone, "calling it revenge as an accusation would be far too mild."
He took a moment to let that sink in.
"Can't you see it for yourself?"
The atmosphere around him felt like it had frozen solid.
Lachlan sensed his wife's grip tighten once more, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Rohan's. In that fleeting moment, he realized that whatever was unfolding here had nothing to do with forgiveness.
Lachlan's composure crumbled with a single, explosive breath. He stepped forward, the polished floor betraying the tremor in his boots.
"Don't you dare underestimate me," he shot back, his voice ragged and seething with anger. "If you want to convince me this isn't about revenge, then show me some proper compensation — right now. Otherwise, I'll make sure the whole country knows that the CEO of a major corporation used a minor to settle a personal score."
His words hit like a stone thrown into still water. For a heartbeat, the room hung in the balance, caught between his fury and the soft hum of the city beyond the glass.
Rohan didn't flinch at the threat. He simply folded his hands, palms resting flat on the table, and tilted his head as if he were listening to a pleasant comment rather than a direct challenge.
"Is that a promise, Mr. Barker?" he asked, his voice smooth yet firm. "You'd be willing to drag my name through the mud just to save your daughter?"
Lachlan's nostrils flared in response. "I'd do whatever it takes."
"Admirable," Rohan replied, his tone warm but condescending. He let the word linger in the air before continuing in that same calm manner. "But think about what reputation really means. It's not just a name on a piece of paper. It's leverage. It's power. And it's fragile — easily shattered by those who know how to exploit it."
Rohan leaned back slightly, his eyes locked onto Lachlan's. A faint, cold smile crept back onto his face, controlled yet unsettling.
"In that case," he said smoothly, "let me offer you the compensation you're after — or rather, the one I've already mapped out."
Lachlan frowned, suspicion creeping in. "What are you getting at?"
Rohan's hands came together on the table, fingers steepled like a chess master poised for his first move. "You're aware," he continued, his tone casual yet purposeful, "that your clothing brand, Empress, has been gaining traction. Celebrities, renowned artists — everyone wants a piece of it. Even a simple shirt can turn heads."
Lachlan blinked, confusion etching lines on his forehead.
"Of course," Rohan said, reading him effortlessly. "But you've also noticed the rising star in England's music scene — Central Cee, right?"
Lachlan's jaw tightened. He had. Everyone had. The young artist was making waves, and the English market was paying attention.
Rohan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a rich, persuasive tone. "He's signed with Crown Entertainment. Now, here's my proposal: a special partnership between Empress and Crown Entertainment. All the profits from this collaboration — every single penny — will be yours. I'll handle the costs for Central Cee, his promotion, his logistics… everything. You get the revenue, the exposure, and the prestige, without lifting a finger beyond your brand."
Lachlan's confusion deepened, a mix of wariness and curiosity swirling within him. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat.
"Is this a trap? A hidden clause?" Lachlan thought, but Rohan pressed on before he could voice his doubts.
"Just imagine it, Mr. Barker," Rohan said, his voice smooth and convincing, his gaze sharp as a knife. "A partnership that not only boosts your brand but also connects you to the music industry at its peak, all while giving you full control over the profits. This is the compensation you asked for. I'm offering it to you on my terms, of course. But the money? That's all yours."
As Lachlan absorbed the offer, the room felt like it was closing in on him. The anger that had flared just moments ago now battled with a new feeling: the thrilling allure of opportunity — and the dawning realization that Rohan Reid wasn't just a predator… he was a brilliant strategist.
His wife's voice trembled from behind him. "Do you… take it?"
He tightened his fists, caught in a struggle between pride, doubt, and ambition. Outside the glass, the city glittered like a playground for the elite and in that moment, Lachlan Barker felt acutely aware of just how small he was in comparison.