The storm had not moved on. It pressed against the glass walls, streaking silver down the skyline, thunder rolling like an old judge clearing his throat.
Inside the boardroom, silence sat heavier than the air. Directors fidgeted with pens, straightened their ties, glanced at the man who had walked in unannounced and sat as if the chair had been built for him.
Orion sat loose in his charcoal suit, tie undone, cuffs rolled once more. He didn't lean forward like someone begging for attention; he leaned back, as though patience belonged to him and the rest of the room was late.
A director finally found his courage — a man grey at the temples, voice trembling with self-importance. "Young man," he began, smile too tight, "you presume much. We have weathered storms before you were born. You cannot lecture men who have been in this industry longer than you've been alive."
The words rippled into nods around the table, relief in their familiarity. A challenge, safe and predictable.
Orion tilted his head, silver-grey eyes fixing on the speaker. His voice, when it came, was calm — but it cut sharper than thunder.
"Experience without courage," he said, "is just routine. And routine kills faster than mistakes."
The words landed like dropped glass.
A cough caught in someone's throat. Another director's pen froze mid-scribble. Freya's lips curved, pen twirling between her fingers like she was enjoying a private show.
Lunox's gaze never wavered. Her posture was steel, but her hand pressed tighter against the pen, the faintest crack threatening beneath the ice.
Orion didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The storm outside filled the silence his words left behind, as if the city itself was listening.
The director who had spoken sank back into his chair, face stiff, but Orion didn't chase the victory. He reached into the thin folder he had brought with him and slid it across the table. Just a few pages — lean, unpadded — unlike the thick binders directors were used to drowning in.
"This," Orion said, voice level, "is the bottleneck your competitors pretend not to see. They waste money buying distributors. Safe moves. Comfortable moves. But the supply chain?" He tapped a single line graph, the red curve climbing like a knife edge. "That's the tap. Whoever owns it controls the flow. Whoever controls the flow decides who drinks — and who drowns."
The room leaned in despite itself.
A younger director frowned. "The acquisition cost would be astronomical."
Orion's silver eyes slid to him. "So is the cost of bleeding slowly. You don't notice until you've bled out."
Another director scoffed, shifting in his seat. "You talk like risk is a game. We deal in billions, not poker chips."
The corner of Orion's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Too safe is just another word for failure."
The words struck the table harder than thunder.
Several directors shifted, uncomfortable. One coughed into his fist, hiding something between doubt and reluctant agreement. The storm outside rattled against the glass, as if to underline the dare.
Freya's eyes glinted, pen stilled mid-spin. Her lips parted, amused.
At the head of the table, Lunox's face was unreadable stone. But under the polished surface, her pulse ticked faster. Reckless. And yet…
Orion leaned back, calm again, letting the silence breathe around his words. The folder remained on the table, thin but heavy in the air.
The storm pressed closer against the glass, waiting for someone to answer him.
The silence held after Orion's words, broken only by the storm lashing harder against the glass. Directors exchanged glances like men looking for cover but finding none.
And then, a soft sound cut through the tension — the low, melodic hum of a laugh.
Freya leaned forward in her chair, white silk blouse catching the glow of the ceiling lights, her blazer slipping off one shoulder like it had always meant to. Her pen spun lazily between her fingers, a dancer on its own stage.
"Bold," she said, her voice warm enough to stir the coldest corners of the room. "I like bold. But tell me, fresh blood—" her eyes flicked over him, lingering, teasing, "do you gamble with instinct, or with calculation?"
A few directors shifted uncomfortably at her tone. Some tried not to stare. Freya didn't care. Her smile curved, slow and knowing, like sunlight breaking through rain.
Orion's gaze lifted to hers, steady as steel. He didn't flinch at the challenge. If anything, his mouth tipped the faintest degree, a ghost of a smile made only for her.
"Both," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried like thunder under glass. "Instinct starts the fire. Numbers keep it burning."
A breath of laughter ran down the table, startled out of men who hadn't meant to show amusement.
Freya's eyes glittered, pleased. "A fire, hmm? Careful. Fires spread."
Orion leaned back, casual in his loosened tie and rain-damp hair. "Only if you let them. Or," his eyes didn't leave hers, "if you feed them."
The storm outside cracked lightning across the skyline, white fire flashing against the glass. For a heartbeat, Freya's face lit in silver, amusement carved into every line.
She tapped her pen against the table, once, slow. "Interesting."
The word hung, heavier than it had any right to be.
At the head of the table, Lunox's pen pressed harder against her notes, the metal clip biting into paper. Her eyes stayed fixed on Orion, but the storm inside her grew sharper with every word he traded with her sister.
The laughter Freya coaxed out of the room still lingered, uneasy ripples on a storm-tossed sea. But at the head of the table, Lunox's pen stopped.
The weight of her silence drew the air tight. She lifted her gaze, sharp as glass, cutting across the table until it landed on Orion. The temperature shifted; even the storm outside seemed to hush.
"You sound more like a gambler than a strategist," she said, her voice flat, merciless. "This company doesn't run on adrenaline or poetic metaphors about fire. It runs on discipline. Precision. Control."
The directors leaned back, relieved at the familiar bite of her authority.
Orion didn't flinch. His silver eyes stayed on hers, calm, relentless. "No. It runs on dominance. And dominance doesn't come to those who play safe."
The words hit harder for their quiet. No heat. Just fact.
Freya's lips curved, entertained.
A muscle in Lunox's jaw tightened. She forced her hand back to the page, pressing her pen against paper until it left an imprint. Reckless. Insolent. Dangerous.
And yet—
Her pulse betrayed her, thrumming sharp and fast beneath the cool surface. Every time his voice carried across the table, it found her before it found anyone else. She hated it. She hated more that she noticed the steadiness of his posture, the unshaken calm of his gaze, the curve of his mouth when he dared answer her.
Why does my pulse race when he speaks?
She blinked once, forcing her face back to marble. "Dominance without control is chaos," she said, pen slicing a final mark across the page. "And chaos has no place here."
For the first time, Orion's lips tilted wider, not quite a smile, not quite defiance. Something in between. A promise.
The thunder outside rolled again, shaking the glass, echoing the tremor she refused to admit lived in her chest.
The boardroom had become a battlefield of silence.
No one spoke. The storm outside carried the only voice — rain thrashing in sheets against the glass, thunder crawling down the spine of the city.
Orion leaned back slowly, as though the clash had never touched him. He rested one arm across the chair, loose and unbothered, the thin file still lying open on the table like a challenge no one dared answer.
Lightning split the skyline, flooding the room in silver for one blinding heartbeat. His face, caught in the flash, looked cut from storm itself — rain-dark hair, eyes burning grey, mouth curved in a smile just shy of dangerous.
A thin, knowing smile.
Several directors shifted in their seats, suddenly aware of their own silence. One cleared his throat but didn't find words. Another glanced at the thin folder again, frowning, not with dismissal but with thought.
For the first time, they were not looking at him as the boy. They were looking at him as something else. Something uninvited, but undeniable.
Freya tilted her chin, golden amusement in her eyes. She let her pen tap once, like applause. "Well," she said softly, "I think we've all learned something today."
Lunox didn't answer. Her pen lay across her notes, still, her expression a flawless mask of frost. But her heart betrayed her in every beat, louder than the storm, as his smile lingered across the table.
Not a boy. Not ordinary. Dangerous.
The thunder cracked again, shaking the room as though the sky itself agreed.
And the board, for the first time in years, looked unsettled — not by risk, not by numbers, but by the arrival of fresh blood that refused to bow.