The city pulsed awake beneath a sky the color of damp steel. Morning drizzle blurred headlights into white rivers, umbrellas bloomed and collided across the pavement, and the crowd moved with the jittery rhythm of rush hour. Steam curled from manholes. The air smelled of rain, exhaust, and roasted beans bleeding from cafés that never slept.
Lunox Nyxvale Ather cut through it like a blade.
Her black pantsuit was tailored within an inch of perfection, the hem of her trousers never daring to touch the wet pavement. A slim leather briefcase swung from her hand, and her hair, tied into a sleek bun, did not surrender a single strand to the wind. Her heels clicked sharp against the concrete, defying puddles, defying everything.
The crowd parted for her, though not consciously—there was simply something about her posture, her gaze fixed forward, that made people move aside. The rain streaked her shoulders but didn't seem to dare ruin the silk sheen of her blouse beneath the jacket.
Until someone didn't move.
The collision was small but sharp, shoulder against shoulder, enough to jolt her briefcase and send a file sliding halfway from its clasp. She stopped, hand snapping to catch it before it spilled into the puddled street.
"Watch where you're going," she said, voice as clipped as the rain on glass.
The man she'd struck didn't flinch.
He stood just a step away, taller by a margin that forced her eyes up, rain sliding careless down the dark overcoat clinging to his frame. He wore it open, a white shirt beneath, tie hanging undone, cuffs rolled once as though he hadn't bothered with the morning's performance. His hair, black and unruly, caught the drizzle and made it gleam like ink in the light.
And then—his eyes.
Silver-grey, too bright, too steady. Not the gaze of a man who'd just been chastised by the CEO of Ather Group. The gaze of someone who had never learned to look down.
"I did," he said, his voice low, edged with the kind of calm that cuts deeper than anger. A pause, deliberate. "You didn't."
For a heartbeat, the city went thin around them. The umbrellas blurred into color. The honk of traffic fell away. It was just her and those eyes, unblinking, unafraid.
Her grip on the briefcase tightened, leather creaking under her fingers. Her jaw set.
Reckless, she thought. Another arrogant fool who doesn't know who he just brushed against.
But her pulse ticked faster anyway, a betrayal her face refused to show.
"Next time," she said, cold and final, "step aside."
She moved past him, heels cutting the pavement again, never breaking stride.
He didn't stop her. But as she glanced once into the glass wall of the nearest tower, her reflection caught his behind her—standing still in the storm, watching her leave with a half-smile that felt less like apology, and more like promise.
Lunox blinked once, severing the glance. By the time she looked again, he was gone into the crowd.
But the echo of silver eyes followed her all the way to the doors of Ather Tower.
The lobby of Ather Tower was already a tide of motion. Glass walls ran slick with rain, framing the rush of umbrellas outside. Inside, the floor gleamed black marble, polished so smooth it reflected every hurried step. The air was heavy with the mixed perfume of coffee and ambition.
Clusters of employees clutched paper cups, tablets glowing in their hands, voices lowered but quick.
"Today's the interview, right?" whispered a young analyst, tugging at his tie that had never felt tight until now. "Nine sharp. Candidate straight from nowhere."
"Not nowhere," his colleague corrected, eyes glued to her phone screen. "Résumé says he's pulled off two turnarounds. No pedigree, no dynasty name… but results. Real ones."
Another voice cut in from the security desk. "Then why's Ms. Freya pushing him? She doesn't back any boring men."
Soft laughter sparked and fizzed out like static.
The analyst's eyes darted toward the elevators. "Reckless gamble. Ms. Lunox won't tolerate a stray. Ice Queen eats people like him."
"She eats everyone," the woman murmured, half in awe, half in warning.
A hush fell for a moment as the glass elevator sighed open.
Aurelia Boa stepped out, tablet pressed against her chest, heels clicking an even, controlled rhythm. Her black pencil skirt traced long lines against the light, her blouse tucked crisp at the waist, the only softness the wave of dark hair falling loose at her shoulders. She walked with the silence of someone who didn't need to demand attention.
The gossipers shifted uneasily. One muttered, "She hears everything," under his breath.
Aurelia paused just long enough to glance their way. Her eyes, calm but sharp, held them still.
"If you have the energy for rumors," she said, voice even, almost kind, "you'll have more for results. Ms. Ather values the latter."
No one spoke.
She gave the smallest smile—gentle, almost secret—then turned toward the security desk. "Clearance for the candidate is ready?"
"Yes, Ms. Boa," the guard stammered, straightening in his seat. "Escorted directly to the twenty-fourth floor, boardroom lounge."
"Good." Aurelia adjusted her grip on the tablet, her reflection gliding across the wet glass wall beside her. "See that he isn't delayed."
"Yes, ma'am."
Without another word, she stepped into the elevator. The doors closed on her calm face, leaving the lobby's buzz clipped in half.
The gossip didn't return. Only the rain, ticking faintly against the glass, dared fill the silence.
The waiting lounge outside the boardroom smelled of polished oak and rain carried in on coats. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the skyline, where the storm still threaded silver across the morning. The silence here was curated — soft jazz breathing from hidden speakers, a bowl of green apples placed like art on a low glass table.
Orion sat as though none of it belonged to him, and yet all of it did.
He'd shrugged out of his overcoat, draped it neatly across the armrest. The charcoal suit beneath fit well, though he wore it with an ease that suggested he hadn't fussed over it. His tie hung loose, collar unbuttoned once, cuffs rolled to the bone, revealing wrists corded with lean muscle. Rain still clung to his dark hair, dropping once onto the page of the magazine he hadn't really been reading.
The receptionist approached with careful brightness, a steaming cup balanced in hand. "Coffee, sir? Or tea, if you prefer—"
"No, thank you," Orion said, voice calm, carrying the weight of someone who didn't need caffeine to steady him. He gave her a glance — polite, but unshaken — and she felt herself nod too quickly before retreating.
Across the room, Aurelia watched.
She had entered quietly, tablet hugged against her chest. To the receptionist, she was invisible. To Orion, not yet. She studied him as one might study a knife — not for its shine, but for the sharpness hidden in the edge.
No fidgeting. No anxious glances at the clock. He leaned back into the sofa like it was a chair he'd been sitting in his whole life, gaze slipping briefly to the skyline as if measuring it against something unseen.
Not nervous, Aurelia thought. Her lips pressed together. Dangerous.
She moved closer, heels soft against the rug. "Mr. Andy?" she asked at last, voice even.
His eyes lifted to hers — silver-grey, steady, unreadable. The same eyes Lunox had met in the storm, though Aurelia didn't know it yet.
"Yes."
Her fingers tightened minutely against the tablet. There was something in his tone, the absence of hesitation. He didn't say I am, didn't waste words. Just yes.
She inclined her head. "The board will see you shortly. Please wait here."
He gave a single nod, then returned his gaze to the skyline as if the city itself were the only opponent worth his time.
Aurelia lingered half a heartbeat too long before turning away, her reflection catching his in the glass. She didn't see the corner of his mouth tilt, the hint of a smile like a man who already knew the game had begun.
The elevator chimed somewhere down the hall. The storm growled low above the city.
And the boardroom doors, carved with the Ather crest, stood waiting like a mouth about to swallow fresh blood.
The boardroom was a cathedral of glass and storm. Rain chased itself down the windows in restless rivers, and the city below bent beneath its silver weight. Around the long obsidian table, directors shifted in their seats, whispering like parishioners before a sermon.
Lunox Nyxvale Ather sat at the head, the crown chair hers without question. Today she had chosen a steel-grey pantsuit, sharp against the soft ivory silk of her blouse. Her hair was wound in a precise knot at the nape of her neck, a single strand daring to fall loose against her cheek. Her pen tapped once, steady, against the margin of her notes.
Freya slipped into her seat at the opposite flank, all sunlight and ease in a dove-white blouse tucked into midnight trousers, blazer left unbuttoned as if rules were furniture she rearranged. She twirled her pen idly, catching the eyes of two directors and dissolving their stiffness with one smile.
The doors opened.
Orion walked in.
For half a second, Lunox stilled. The air turned sharp in her lungs.
The man from the rain. The collision. The silver-grey eyes.
He looked different in light, and yet exactly the same. Charcoal suit, collar open, tie still loose as if discipline hadn't found him yet. Dampness still threaded his black hair, glinting like ink when the overheads caught it.
He didn't bow. He didn't ask permission to enter. He simply stepped forward, shoulders steady, every inch of him certain he belonged.
The directors bristled. One muttered, "Unprofessional," under his breath. Another leaned forward, already sharpening questions.
Lunox found her voice, colder than the storm. "You're late."
Orion's eyes caught hers — and for an instant, the world narrowed to silver and onyx. His lips tilted, not quite a smile, but not surrender either.
"No," he said evenly. "I'm right on time. You were just early."
The room rippled. A few directors coughed into fists to cover the sound of their surprise. One smirked quickly, then hid it. Freya's pen stilled mid-twirl, her brows lifting in intrigue.
Lunox's grip on her pen tightened until the metal creaked. Arrogant child. Yet her pulse betrayed her, a quick beat she crushed beneath composure.
"This is a boardroom," she said, each syllable clipped, precise. "Not a street corner."
For the briefest flicker, something dangerous passed through his eyes — recognition. He had not forgotten their morning collision.
"And yet," Orion said, taking the empty chair nearest the table without invitation, "the rules feel the same. You push, or you get pushed."
Gasps broke soft as glass across the room.
Freya's mouth curved, amusement lighting her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, letting the storm outside provide applause.
Lunox sat straighter, the chill in her gaze meant to frost over every spark. "Prove, then, that you're not another stray mistaking noise for substance."
Orion leaned forward, elbows resting casually on the table, unshaken under the weight of her glare.
"Gladly," he said, voice low, deliberate. "But be careful, Miss Ather. Sometimes fresh blood runs hotter than the old can handle."
Lightning ripped the skyline, throwing both their faces into silver fire.
For the first time since she had taken her father's chair, Lunox felt heat beneath her ice — unwelcome, undeniable.
The storm thundered above, sealing the challenge.
The boardroom had gone very still.
The storm outside pressed against the glass in silver streaks, thunder rolling low, a patient drumbeat. Inside, the air felt thick, charged, as if the lightning had bled into the room and settled between Lunox and the stranger who dared to sit among them.
Orion leaned back now, calm in the silence he had carved. His hands rested loosely on the table, unbothered, as if he had not just spoken words that would have burned anyone else to ash.
Across from him, Freya's eyes gleamed. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, her pen spinning once more between her fingers, slower now, playful. Fresh blood indeed, she thought. Her gaze lingered on him longer than she should have, curiosity sparking bright in the gold of her smile.
Lunox's pen hadn't moved.
Her knuckles whitened around it, pressing grooves into her skin. Her face remained composed, unreadable, but beneath the practiced frost something unwelcome stirred.
Reckless. Insolent. A fool.
And yet—
Her pulse hadn't steadied since their eyes met. It beat traitorously fast, echoing in her ribs, making the silence heavier. She hated it. She hated that she noticed the rain threading down his hair earlier, the loosened tie, the way his silver gaze had not faltered once beneath hers.
No one defied her in this room. Not the directors. Not the staff. Not even Freya.
But this man—this boy—had, and he hadn't even raised his voice.
Her pen pressed so hard against the page that it nearly tore through. She forced her hand to ease, setting it down with a click louder than intended.
Control yourself, she told the storm inside her. Ice doesn't melt for fire. Ice consumes it.
Thunder cracked overhead, rattling the glass walls.
Freya broke the tension with a soft laugh that danced across the table like light. "Well," she said, golden eyes sliding from her sister to the stranger, "this is going to be interesting."
Lunox's gaze snapped to her sister, sharp, warning. But Freya only leaned back, smile deepening, wine-red nails tapping the rhythm of her amusement against the armrest.
The rain thickened, drowning the skyline.
Lunox forced her eyes back to her notes, though every line blurred behind the silver irises burned into her memory.
Reckless… she thought again, but the word trembled.
And for the first time since she had claimed her father's chair, she wondered if ice could fracture from the inside.