The lobby of Ather Tower had begun to exhale after the storm of the morning. The stock tickers above the security desk pulsed softer now, green edging into red, and the rhythm of staff had steadied into something almost human again. Phones still rang, but not with panic — with relief.
Orion stepped out of the elevator, blazer folded over one arm, tie loosened and collar open as though he had never cared much for boardroom armor in the first place. His hair was still slightly damp from the rain he had walked through earlier, silver-grey eyes taking in the lobby without urgency.
He was almost at the revolving doors when a voice called across the marble.
"Leaving so soon, fresh blood?"
He turned.
Freya leaned against one of the glass pillars near the reception desk, sunlight in human form even under the lobby's cold lighting. She had traded her office attire for a wrap dress the color of midnight, heels low but sharp enough to sing against the floor. Her hair, usually styled with boardroom polish, spilled loose over her shoulders, catching the gold of the overhead lights.
Her smile was effortless, the kind that curled lips and pulled gazes. A few staff members lingering nearby pretended to check their phones, but their eyes betrayed them.
Orion's brows lifted, just slightly. "Ms. Ather."
Freya pushed off the pillar, her dress shifting with her steps as she closed the distance. She carried herself like the lobby was a stage, and every glance belonged to her.
"You just saved our empire's skin," she said, voice playful, golden. "Drinks are the least I can offer."
Orion studied her, expression unreadable but not dismissive. "Is that thanks," he asked, "or interrogation?"
Her smile deepened, eyes flashing. "Can't it be both?"
For a moment, silence held between them — the hush of the lobby bending around the two of them. Then Freya tilted her head toward the doors, the city's neon glow flickering faint behind the glass.
"Come on, fresh blood," she said, her tone daring him to say no. "The night's too long to waste in this building."
Orion looked at her, then at the storm-washed streets beyond, then back again. His lips curved, faint and sharp.
He didn't answer. But when she moved toward the doors, he followed.
The receptionist, forgotten behind the desk, leaned subtly forward, watching as the Sunshine Rebel and the man who had silenced the board walked side by side into the city's night.
The rooftop lounge sat above the city like a secret. Glass walls curved around the space, holding the skyline close, every raindrop still clinging to the panes like silver beads. The storm had passed, leaving the streets below slick and glowing, neon signs bleeding across wet asphalt. Jazz drifted from unseen speakers, low and lazy, like smoke curling in the air.
Freya led the way, heels clicking against polished stone, the midnight wrap dress flowing around her like liquid night. A thin coat hung from her shoulders, though she let it slip halfway down as she crossed to a table pressed against the glass wall.
Orion followed, his charcoal blazer folded over one arm, sleeves rolled higher than in the boardroom, collar still open at his throat. The lamplight caught the damp sheen of his hair, making the silver of his eyes look sharper against the city's glow.
They settled opposite each other at the corner table. A server approached, bowing slightly.
"Wine," Freya said without hesitation, her smile slow. "Red. Strong."
The server's eyes slid to Orion.
"Whiskey," Orion answered, his voice steady, unhurried. "Neat."
When the drinks arrived, Freya lifted her glass, crimson catching the city lights. "To panic," she said, eyes glinting over the rim.
Orion tilted his head, faint amusement breaking across his lips. He raised his glass. "To bending it."
Their glasses clinked soft, swallowed by the jazz.
For a moment, they drank in silence, the city humming beneath them. Then Freya leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table, chin balanced against her knuckles. Her eyes traced him openly, golden in the dim light.
"So," she began, playful but edged with curiosity. "Tell me, fresh blood—how were you so sure? Most men twice your age would have drowned this morning. But you… you didn't even flinch."
Orion's gaze lifted to meet hers, unshaken. "Because panic feeds predators. And I don't panic."
Freya laughed, the sound warm and golden, like champagne fizzing against crystal. She swirled her wine lazily, watching the liquid stain the glass. "God, you make it sound so simple."
"It is," he said, calm. "Most people just don't like the price of simplicity."
Her brows arched, intrigued. "And what's that?"
His lips curved, faint but deliberate. "Everything."
Freya leaned back in her chair, her smile wide now, equal parts amused and fascinated. She tilted her head, letting her hair spill over one shoulder. "You're dangerous, Orion. You know that, don't you?"
"Maybe," he said, rolling the whiskey in his glass before taking another slow sip. "Or maybe I just don't care about rules that were meant to keep me quiet."
For the first time that night, Freya didn't laugh. She studied him, golden eyes steady, and something sharper slid beneath her playfulness. "My sister won't like that."
Orion's gaze didn't falter. "She doesn't like anything."
That pulled a laugh from Freya again, rich and genuine, carrying across the lounge until a few heads turned. She didn't care.
"You might survive here after all," she said, raising her glass again.
The skyline stretched beneath them, dripping neon and stormlight. Two figures sat at the glass edge of the empire, their voices weaving into the hum of the city.
The city stretched beneath them, all glass and neon bleeding into puddles of stormlight. Jazz still drifted from the corners of the rooftop lounge, a rhythm steady and slow, like the pulse of the night itself.
Freya leaned across the table, her chin resting against the back of her hand. The midnight wrap dress curved perfectly around her frame, fabric catching each flicker of neon from below. Her golden eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that had undone rivals before they knew they were playing.
"You know," she said, swirling the wine in her glass, "I thought you'd be a little boring after the boardroom. Men who talk numbers are usually dull. But you—" her lips curved, sly, "you talk like you're starting a revolution."
Orion sat opposite, sleeves rolled to his forearms, whiskey glass balanced easy in his hand. He didn't flinch under her gaze, didn't retreat from her teasing. He leaned back, letting the lamplight sketch him in sharp lines.
"Numbers don't bore me," he said calmly. "Fear does. And today, your directors were drenched in it."
Freya laughed, warm and unrestrained, tilting her head back just slightly. "God, you're blunt."
"Should I lie instead?"
Her eyes narrowed, glinting with delight. "Oh, please don't. Lies are for men who want to be forgettable. And you," she tipped her glass toward him, "don't strike me as someone willing to fade."
Orion sipped his whiskey, silver eyes steady. "Fading was never an option. Not for me."
Freya tilted her head, curiosity threading into her smile. "Why not?"
A pause. He didn't look away. "Because no one ever expected me to exist."
For once, Freya didn't reply instantly. She studied him, the weight in his words cutting through the playful air. Then, softer, "Forgotten sons make dangerous men."
His mouth curved faintly, acknowledging without denying.
She leaned back in her chair again, the mischief returning, bright and reckless. "Well," she said, raising her glass, "lucky for me, I like dangerous men."
He smirked — just enough to tilt the corner of his mouth — and lifted his own glass in answer. Their drinks touched again, the sound swallowed by the city hum.
The server approached briefly to clear plates, but neither paid him much attention. The world beyond their table blurred. It was just her laughter, his calm retorts, and the skyline glowing like a thousand secrets.
"Tell me something, fresh blood," Freya said, leaning forward once more, golden eyes catching the silver of his. "If you had the choice — empire or freedom — which would you take?"
Orion's gaze lingered on hers, unblinking. "Freedom. Always."
She arched a brow. "And yet here you are, in the heart of an empire."
He didn't smile this time. "Empires crumble. Freedom doesn't."
Her breath caught — just for a beat — before she hid it with a laugh, spinning the stem of her glass between her fingers. "Careful. Talk like that, and my sister will freeze you on sight."
Orion leaned in slightly, his voice low but steady. "Let her try."
Freya's laughter spilled into the night again, drawing stares from nearby tables. She didn't care. The sound was warm, rich, and alive — sunlight even in the midnight hour.
And as the jazz played on, the sparks between them grew clearer. Different from the sharp, dangerous fire that burned whenever Orion clashed with Lunox. This was looser, freer, wild in a way that felt almost reckless.
Like the storm had passed, and in its place, the night wanted to burn.
The rooftop lounge hummed with the rhythm of night. Glasses clinked, jazz curled through the air, and the city's neon glow spilled across every face like liquid fire.
Freya and Orion remained at their corner table by the glass wall, silhouettes etched against the skyline. She leaned forward with golden eyes flashing mischief, lips curved around a laugh. He sat back, calm, whiskey glass balanced loose in his hand, silver eyes steady on her as though the rest of the lounge had disappeared.
They looked like two figures cut from another world — sun and storm caught in the same frame.
Not far away, two junior associates from Ather — barely out of university, still in their pressed shirts and nervous ties — had slipped into the lounge for a drink after a long day. They spotted her first.
"That's… Ms. Freya, isn't it?" one whispered, nearly choking on his beer.
The other's eyes widened, following the angle of his friend's gaze. "Holy shit. And that's— that's the candidate. The fresh blood."
Both froze, uncertain if they should leave or pretend not to notice. But curiosity pulled them deeper. The first pulled out his phone, thumb hesitating.
"Don't," the second hissed. "That's suicide."
But the first grinned nervously, already angling his camera under the table. "It's not suicide. It's history."
The phone clicked softly, screen flashing once in the dim light. A photo bloomed: Freya leaning toward Orion, laughter alive in her eyes, wine glass glowing crimson in her hand. Orion across from her, calm and sharp, the storm still clinging to his posture.
The image was too perfect. Too loaded.
Another click. Another angle. Freya tipping her glass toward him. Orion leaning closer, eyes lit silver by the city lights.
Within minutes, the photo slipped into a private chat: "Sunshine Rebel & Fresh Blood? Drinks together. Thoughts?"
The message spread like fire across dry grass. From private chat to wider group, from group to whisper networks, from whispers to the hungry mouths of gossip blogs.
On a screen behind the lounge bar, the ticker that had once bled panic now scrolled with cautious optimism. But beneath it, a new notification pinged:
BREAKING: Freya Ather spotted with mysterious board candidate. Romantic sparks or strategic play?
The junior associates stiffened, eyes darting to the exit. "We should go," one muttered.
"Too late," the other replied, pale. "It's already out."
Back at the glass wall, Freya swirled her wine lazily, unaware of the wildfire igniting beyond her table. She leaned closer, her laughter bright and reckless. "Careful, Orion. You might just become a headline."
Orion's silver gaze flicked to her, calm and unreadable. His lips tilted into that half-smile again. "Maybe that's the point."
Lightning pulsed faint across the far horizon, silent this time, as though the storm itself listened.
The night had grown heavier, but not quieter. The city pulsed below them — headlights smeared across wet streets, neon signs flickering in puddles, the hum of traffic blending with the soft jazz inside the lounge.
Freya stood now, glass still in her hand, the midnight wrap dress hugging her frame as she drifted toward the window wall. She pressed her free hand lightly to the glass, as if she could touch the city sprawling beneath her. Her hair spilled loose, golden strands catching reflections of red and blue neon.
"Look at it," she murmured, voice softer, though no less playful. "So hungry. So loud. Always watching."
Orion joined her, blazer slung over his shoulder, whiskey glass dangling from his other hand. He stood a half-step back at first, then moved closer until the glass reflected them both — the Sunshine Rebel glowing against the skyline, and the Fresh Blood carved in shadow beside her.
Freya glanced sideways at him, her lips curving. "You realize what you've done tonight, don't you?"
He didn't answer immediately. His silver-grey eyes roamed the city, unreadable, as though measuring the distance between storms.
"You turned my empire's panic into confidence," she continued, her smile widening. "And now you've turned yourself into a headline. Sunshine Rebel and Fresh Blood." Her voice dripped amusement, golden and sharp. "My sister will love that."
Orion finally looked at her, calm as always. "She'll endure it."
Freya laughed — low, rich, spilling into the jazz. She tilted her head, golden eyes narrowing with wicked delight. "Endure, maybe. Forgive?" She clicked her tongue softly. "Not her style."
Her glass tilted, red wine catching the city's light. "Careful, fresh blood. If you keep this up, my sister might actually notice you. And believe me, when Lunox notices…" She leaned closer, her voice a whisper against the storm-painted glass. "…it's never gentle."
For a moment, silence. The city below roared, thunder murmured faint in the distance, but between them the air hung taut.
Orion's lips curved, faint and deliberate — that same almost-smile that unsettled boardrooms and bent storms.
"Then let her," he said quietly, his reflection burning silver in the glass.
Freya's brows arched, then she laughed again, warm and wild, the sound drawing glances from other tables. She didn't care.
They stood there, two figures framed against the neon-streaked skyline — sun and storm, wine and whiskey, both oblivious to the wildfire of gossip already racing through phones and feeds below.
Lightning flickered once across the far horizon, distant but clear. A reminder that storms always return.