The lounge on the top floor was quieter than the boardroom had been. Floor-to-ceiling glass bled the city into a thousand blurred stars, and the rain ran silver veins down the view. A grand piano sat unused in the corner, its lid gleaming under low light, while a row of leather armchairs huddled around a fireplace that hadn't been lit in months.
Lunox sat alone at a small marble table, blazer still sharp, posture unbroken. A stack of reports fanned before her like a hand of cards no one else dared to play. The steam from her black coffee curled upward, dissolving before it reached her face. She didn't notice. Her pen moved, precise strokes cutting through margins.
The doors opened without a knock.
Freya slipped in on heels that clicked lighter than Lunox's, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand, two glasses cradled in the other.
"God, it's colder in here than outside," Freya said, her voice warm enough to prove it. "Do you practice this, sis? Freezing entire rooms?"
Lunox didn't look up. "Charm doesn't close deals."
Freya laughed softly, setting the bottle down with a little flourish. "Charm makes people want to close deals. You froze them; I thawed them. Balance, remember?"
"Balance," Lunox echoed flatly, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes caught the light like polished obsidian. "You turned a boardroom into a ballroom. Do you think the market will applaud?"
Freya eased into the chair opposite her, pouring wine into glasses with a grace that looked rehearsed. She raised one, ruby liquid catching the city lights. "Maybe not. But people will. And people are the market. You just see numbers. I see the hearts beating behind them."
The pen in Lunox's hand stilled. Her jaw tightened. "Hearts don't keep the company afloat. Profit does."
"Ah, there it is." Freya sipped, eyes dancing over the rim. "The Ice Queen sermon. At this rate, you'll petrify yourself."
Something flickered in Lunox's gaze, too quick to name. She set the pen down, folding her hands together. "Better stone than ash."
Freya leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her palm. The mischievous curve of her mouth softened. "Or maybe better light than shadow."
For a moment, the rain filled the space between them. The city glowed, indifferent to sisters arguing over its throne.
Lunox reached for her coffee, though it had already gone lukewarm. She didn't drink. "One of us has to be unyielding."
"And one of us has to be alive," Freya answered gently.
The silence that followed was sharp but not cruel. It was the silence of two women carrying the same crown with opposite shoulders, neither willing to let go.
Freya lifted her glass again, tilting it toward her sister. "To balance, then. You cut, I heal. You freeze, I burn. Two sides of the same empire."
Lunox didn't raise her coffee, but she didn't look away either. Her eyes held steady, cold meeting warm, moon catching sun.
The city lights shimmered between them like witnesses.
Morning dripped into glass towers, washed in the color of wet steel. Elevators hissed open floor after floor, spilling workers into the arteries of Ather Group. Screens on the lobby walls looped business channels; headlines scrolled like knives.
ICE & SUN: TWIN HEIRESSES TAKE THE THRONE.
ATHR ▲ 0.23. MARKET WATCHES THE SISTERS.
IS THE ICE QUEEN TOO COLD TO LEAD?
The camera frames were cruel: Lunox caught mid-frown, Freya mid-laugh. Two halves of a coin, pressed together but compared apart.
In the open-plan office, whispers chased the clatter of keyboards. A young analyst leaned over his cubicle wall, phone screen glowing with the article.
"She's terrifying," he whispered, awe threaded with fear. "Like, one look and my spine turns to ice."
His neighbor smirked. "Yeah, but she doesn't blink. That's power."
Across the row, a woman tapped her pen, lowering her voice. "I'd rather work under Freya. At least she makes eye contact without making you feel like you owe her blood."
Snickers, quick and guilty. A manager walking past cleared his throat too sharply, but even he glanced at the headline before moving on.
In the executive corridor, Aurelia Boa adjusted her tablet, walking briskly past two secretaries who didn't notice her approach.
"Did you see the cover?" one whispered. "They called Lunox 'The Ice Queen' again."
"And Freya 'The Sunshine Rebel,'" the other added. "I mean, look at her dress. She's practically a fashion editorial already."
Their laughter hiccupped when Aurelia's heels clipped closer. They dipped their heads quickly, eyes back on their screens. Aurelia didn't break stride, but her lips pressed thin. She carried the whispers with her like static.
Behind the glass of her office, Lunox stood at the window. The skyline glared back at her, indifferent. A folded newspaper sat on her desk, headline bold above her father's old fountain pen. She hadn't touched either.
Her reflection overlapped with the words: TOO COLD TO LEAD?
Her jaw locked. The pen in her hand pressed hard enough to leave an imprint without ink.
Respect built on fear still feels like loneliness, she thought, a truth she would never say aloud.
She turned away before the glass betrayed more than she wanted it to.
The rain kept writing its secrets down the city's face.
The blinds were half-drawn, carving the office into stripes of shadow and light. Rain sketched restless patterns against the glass, muting the roar of the city below.
Lunox sat behind her desk, posture flawless, pen marking red across reports that didn't deserve mercy. The lamp's circle of gold light crowned her in quiet authority, but her eyes were distant, caught somewhere between numbers and memory.
The door clicked softly. No knock—Aurelia Boa never needed one. She slipped in like the answer to a question Lunox hadn't spoken, tablet tucked against her chest, heels hushed on the carpet.
"Ms. Ather," she said, voice even, warm at the edges.
Lunox didn't look up. "Report."
Aurelia approached the desk, sliding a thin file onto the glass surface. She lingered, waiting until Lunox's eyes lifted. Silver met brown. For a heartbeat too long, neither moved.
Then Lunox took the file, flipping it open. Only a few pages—resume, evaluation notes, one photo blurred by confidentiality. Too slim to carry weight. Her mouth hardened. "Unimpressive."
"Untraditional," Aurelia corrected gently.
Lunox's gaze flicked to her, sharp as glass. "Which is usually another word for reckless."
"Or fearless."
The word hung between them, warmer than it should have been. Aurelia's lips curved the faintest degree. She lowered her voice, as if the walls might steal it. "He isn't like the others, Ms. Ather. No legacy board seat. No gilded family name to lean on. Just… proof he won't flinch when challenged."
Lunox's fingers stilled on the page. Her lashes lowered. Fearless or foolish. There's little difference until the fall.
She closed the file with a soft snap. "I don't need a child auditioning for a stage he can't stand on."
"Sometimes," Aurelia said carefully, "the child is the one who grows teeth the fastest."
The silence thickened. Lunox set the file aside, but her hand lingered on it as if it had left an aftertaste. She didn't like the curiosity curling at the edges of her discipline.
Her eyes found Aurelia again. The PA's expression was composed, but something flickered there—respect, yes, but something softer hiding behind it. A loyalty that looked a shade too personal.
"Schedule it," Lunox said at last, voice clipped. "Nine A.M. sharp. If he disappoints, you'll explain why you wasted my time."
Aurelia inclined her head. "Understood."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door, tablet pressed lightly against her chest. Without looking back, she added, almost too quiet: "I don't think he will."
The door whispered closed, leaving Lunox alone with the rain and a file too thin to weigh this much.
Her hand moved toward it again before she forced it flat against the desk.
Different usually means reckless, she told herself. But the word Aurelia had left behind refused to fade.
Fearless.
The office was different at night.
The blinds were half open, letting the city bleed in — rivers of headlights threading through rain-slick streets, towers blinking like tired eyes. The air smelled faintly of paper and ink, sharpened by the storm outside.
Lunox stood near the wall where her father's portrait hung, still in her fitted blazer but the buttons undone now, revealing a pale silk blouse beneath. Her heels had been left by the desk, and she stood barefoot on the thick carpet, toes flexing slightly as if even steel had limits. A glass of untouched water rested on the sill beside her.
She looked up at the painted face — a man carved in oil and memory, stern eyes following her across the room. "You left us a kingdom of knives," she whispered, low enough that no one else could hear. "Did you expect us not to bleed?"
The door opened without ceremony. A softer rhythm of heels crossed the threshold, then stopped.
Freya leaned against the doorframe, a bottle of red in hand, her day's charcoal-gray blazer traded for a loose ivory blouse tucked into tailored trousers. She had slipped off her own heels, carrying them dangling from two fingers. Her hair, usually brushed into neat waves for the boardroom, now fell looser, a few damp strands clinging from the dash through the rain.
"Talking to ghosts again?" Freya's smile was gentle, not mocking. She lifted the bottle. "Ghosts don't drink, but sisters do."
Lunox didn't turn. "It's late."
"That's when the best confessions are made." Freya padded forward barefoot, like she was sneaking into a secret. She set the bottle on the desk, found two glasses from the credenza, and poured. The red caught the lamplight, staining the crystal like a wound.
Freya carried one glass to Lunox, pressing it lightly into her sister's hand. Their fingers brushed — cold skin against warm.
"You're carrying him on your shoulders again, aren't you?" Freya asked.
Lunox's jaw flexed. She stared at the portrait, then finally accepted the wine. "He's the reason we're still standing."
"Or the reason we're afraid to move without armor." Freya sipped her own glass, the ruby swirl catching in her smile.
The silence stretched. Rain ticked the glass in restless fingers.
Lunox's voice softened, but only slightly. "One of us has to be unyielding."
"And one of us has to be alive."
Lunox looked at her then, the weight in her gaze tempered by something quieter — exhaustion, maybe, or the smallest crack in the armor.
Freya set her glass down, stepping closer. She rested her palm against Lunox's arm. "We're two halves of the same coin, sis. You cut, I heal. You freeze, I burn. Together, we don't just survive… we reign."
For a moment, Lunox let it stand. Her eyes flicked back to their father's portrait, then down to the city lights, where tomorrow was already waiting.
Freya lifted her glass again, toasting the storm. "Relax, sis. Tomorrow might surprise you."
The lightning outside flared, painting both sisters in stark silver — the moon and the sun, side by side against the storm.
The storm thickened toward midnight.
Most of the Ather tower had gone dark, but the top floor still glowed — one long strip of light stretched across the rain like a stubborn flame.
Lunox sat at her desk again, blazer finally discarded over the back of her chair. She wore only her ivory blouse now, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows. Her hair, usually strict and perfect, had slipped into a looser fall across her shoulders. A second glass of wine sat untouched near her reports.
Freya lounged on the leather sofa, legs tucked beneath her, blouse unbuttoned one notch more than office protocol allowed, the bottle now half-empty at her side. She scrolled lazily through her phone, her bare feet tracing circles against the armrest.
The air smelled of wet stone and cork, a mix of rain and wine, empire and exile.
Lunox's phone buzzed once on the desk. A single notification lit the screen, its glow sharp against the storm's gloom. She picked it up, thumb sliding across.
Aurelia Boa – Secure Message
Candidate confirmed. 9:00 A.M. sharp.
The words pulsed once, then stilled.
Lunox set the phone down slowly, fingertips resting on it longer than needed. Her eyes flicked toward the portrait of their father, shadowed now by the storm.
Let's see what kind of fool tomorrow brings, she thought.
Behind her, Freya laughed softly at something on her feed, the sound warm, careless. "You're brooding again," she teased without looking up. "Try not to scare him off before he even walks through the door."
Lunox didn't answer.
Lightning split the skyline, throwing their reflections across the glass wall — one sister bent over work in silk and shadows, the other curled in light and wine, both watching over a city that did not yet know the shape of its dawn.
The thunder rolled, low and certain. Tomorrow had already begun.