The lights dimmed slightly as Lutte's presentation screen came alive with clean graphics and smooth animations.
His voice carried across the polished boardroom, rich and steady, every syllable deliberate.
"Our proposal," he began, "is to collaborate with Emberborne Technology in creating an AI-driven platform designed to optimize energy delegation and usage—making utilities more efficient, more sustainable, and more human-friendly. Imagine a system where not only corporations but also individual households can monitor and reduce their carbon footprint with an assistant interface that is intuitive, adaptive, and, above all, accessible."
He clicked through the slides, each one highlighting possibilities: efficiency models, carbon reductions, predictive allocation graphs.
"If we succeed together," Lutte concluded with a smile that wasn't just professional, "we won't just be delivering a service. We'll be building a revolution—an innovation that places green utilities at the very heart of how society lives. It is not merely profitable; it is necessary."
A quiet followed. A measured, evaluative silence. The kind that could choke the unprepared.
Asher sat at the far end of the table, posture precise, fingers steepled over the outline of the presentation.
His ruby-red hair caught the light from the windows behind him, making him look like a figure sculpted from fire and ice both.
Lutte invited questions.
The first voice to respond was Asher's. Calm. Clipped. Cutting.
"Mr. Valdes," he said, "you present a noble ideal. But ideals are not what drive Emberborne Tech. Our clientele—our primary revenue stream—lies in elite markets. Individuals and corporations who invest not for necessity but for prestige. Status. Convenience. Your system appeals to the conscientious middle-market, perhaps even governments. But not to ours."
A ripple of murmurs flickered among the other executives. Lutte did not falter.
He leaned forward slightly, warmth sharpening into something steelier.
"With respect, Mr. Emberborne, you're right. Elites buy status. But status," he gestured lightly to the screen, "has always been tied to being first. To lead revolutions, not follow them. Especially revolutions that resonate with the biggest crisis of our time: climate change. You and I both know—it is only a matter of when this becomes the standard. Would Emberborne prefer to be first? Or left to follow?"
Asher's eyes narrowed a fraction, though his expression remained marble-cool.
"Bold words. But again words are not data. Without proof—statistics, behavioral analysis, adoption forecasts—I remain reluctant to invest. Emberborne does not gamble."
The tension stretched like a taut wire. Lutte let it linger for a breath before he smiled, slow and confident.
"Then I'll collect the data. And when I return with it, Mr. Emberborne, you'll have no choice but to accept our proposal. Because when that moment comes… it will be our third time."
The phrase slid into the silence like a stone dropped into still water.
Asher did not flinch, but the hand that held the outline of the presentation trembled, almost imperceptibly.
He turned the page as though nothing had happened, voice even as glass when he replied, "We'll see, Mr. Valdes."
The meeting wound down, questions from other board members addressed, minor concerns eased.
Lutte delivered the closing with polished clarity, then stepped back as the executives began to disperse.
Asher rose. "Thank you for your presentation," he said curtly, nodding with perfect professionalism. "Emberborne will await your data."
But as he turned to leave, Lutte reached into his folder and drew out a slip of paper. One word written neatly at the top:
Contacts.
He held it out. Smiling. Not pressing—yet not letting go.
Asher's gaze flicked to it, unreadable.
"It's the third time, you know," Lutte said lightly. Then added, grin tugging at his lips, "Technically the fourth, if we count the first board meeting."
A quiet beat. The weight of choice pressed in the air.
Then, with practiced composure, Asher took the pen from the table and wrote in clean, sharp strokes.
A phone number. His personal number.
He set the paper back into Lutte's hand and leaned in just enough for his voice to drop lower, reserved only for him.
"Keep it to yourself. Or else."
Lutte tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Or else?"
But Asher did not answer. He simply straightened, turned, and walked away, each step precise, unhurried.
Lutte watched him go, the grin he'd been holding back finally breaking loose.
He folded the note once, slipped it into his chest pocket, and pressed it there with his palm.
Not that he needed it—he had already memorized the number.
He exhaled, a laugh slipping free under his breath. "Didn't get the coffee… but I got the number."
And that was victory enough—for now.
****
The car rolled smoothly out of Emberborne's glass-and-steel campus. Lutte leaned back in his seat, one arm propped against the window, the city skyline sliding by.
He couldn't stop grinning.
Arnold, watching him through the rear view mirror, finally broke the silence.
"So," he asked, "proposal went as planned?"
Lutte tilted his head, grin widening. "Half and half."
Arnold raised a brow. "Half and half? What does that mean?"
"I didn't get the treasure," Lutte said, tapping his chest pocket where the folded slip of paper sat snug. "But I did meet the prince."
Arnold groaned, shaking his head. "Impossible. Simply impossible."
Lutte laughed softly, gaze drifting back to the city.
The digits of Asher's number repeated in his mind like the chorus of a song, a rhythm he couldn't shake.
Not yet the treasure—but the prince himself was far more valuable than any immediate win.
Halfway back, a thought struck him. "Arnold, stop by Marble & Churn."
Arnold blinked at him in the mirror. "Ice cream? In the middle of victory laps?"
"Cookies and cream," Lutte answered smoothly. "I owe someone."
The shop was nearly empty, the cold hum of its freezers mingling with the warm scent of freshly baked waffles.
Lutte walked out minutes later carrying a gallon of premium cookies and cream in one hand, a pack of still-steaming Belgian waffles in the other.
When they finally arrived at the company, Shira was waiting.
She spotted the loot immediately, and without hesitation, marched over and plucked both items out of his hands as though she'd been expecting them all along.
"Your tasks are already on your desk," she called over her shoulder, walking back to her seat without missing a beat.
Lutte's laughter followed her. "Ungrateful thief," he teased under his breath, shaking his head as he made his way to his office.
On his desk, his tablet already buzzed with Shira's meticulous scheduling.
The tasks were routine—department updates, progress checks, reports from external partners.
He skimmed through them, fingers swiping with practiced efficiency.
But before settling in, he sent Shira the key takeaways from the Emberborne meeting, attaching notes she'd refine later into the official report.
He caught a glimpse of her across the office, already digging into the Belgian waffles like a queen satisfied with tribute.
Lutte chuckled. Some things, he thought, were predictable. Comforting.
He composed his own summary for the department heads, laying out Emberborne's stance and the next steps. His message ended with:
"Meeting tomorrow at noon to plan our course forward. Bring action items, not theory."
He hit send, leaned back, and for the first time since returning, let the quiet settle around him.
The company hummed on, predictable and steady. But Lutte's mind? It was still back in the boardroom.
Still in the weight of Asher's gaze. Still in the neat scrawl of numbers tucked against his chest pocket.