The elevator doors parted with a metallic sigh, spilling Lunox into the operations floor.
The room was chaos. Analysts hunched over glowing monitors, voices clashing in urgent tones, papers scattered across desks like fallout from a bomb. Screens on the far wall flashed numbers in red, a project tracker bleeding across the board. The hum of printers and the frantic click of keyboards only added to the noise.
She cut through it like a blade.
Navy suit jacket tailored sharp, navy trousers pressed without a crease out of place, lavender blouse tucked clean beneath. Her bun was neat, her heels steel-tipped — each step striking against the tiled floor with ruthless rhythm. Conversations faltered. Some froze mid-sentence. Others dropped their gaze to avoid her eyes.
"What's happening?" she demanded, voice low but carrying.
A junior analyst, pale and shaking, lifted his head from a monitor. "The merger contract, Ms. Ather. Clause seventeen — there's a miscalculation in the reserves. If we sign with the numbers as they stand—" His throat bobbed. "We'll bleed millions in penalties."
The air thickened.
"Who drafted it?" Lunox snapped.
"Legal, ma'am," the analyst whispered. "But finance didn't catch it. Neither did oversight."
Useless. All of them.
Lunox's gaze swept the floor, cold and cutting. She strode toward the nearest desk, heels biting the tiles, and snatched the draft from trembling hands. Her eyes raced down the lines, black text reflecting in her obsidian irises.
Clause seventeen. Wrong, sloppy, fatal.
She was about to speak — to cut the room into shreds — when a calm voice slid through the noise.
"Don't waste time tearing it apart."
Heads turned.
Orion stood near the far wall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, charcoal vest fitted clean over a white shirt. His tie was gone, the first two buttons open, his silver-grey eyes steady under the harsh fluorescents. Unlike the staff, he wasn't panicked. He looked like he had been waiting for this moment.
He walked forward, casual but deliberate, folder in hand. The staff shifted around him, some relief sparking in their eyes, others skeptical of the newcomer who dared speak when the Ice Queen ruled the floor.
Lunox's gaze snapped to him, cold enough to frost glass. "You think you have an answer?"
Orion placed his folder flat on the table, fingers steady. "Not an answer. A correction."
He flipped it open, revealing sheets marked with his neat, sharp handwriting — calculations mapped, clauses highlighted, alternatives lined like arrows ready to strike.
"The penalty clause only applies if reserves drop below projected thresholds in two consecutive quarters," he explained, voice calm, clear. "But the draft assumes linear decline. It isn't. Seasonal fluctuation cushions the drop. With adjusted scheduling, we never cross the penalty line."
He tapped the paper once, silver eyes locking on Lunox's. "Shift distribution timing by six weeks. Use west-coast reserves first. Penalty avoided. Merger stands."
The room stilled.
Lunox's jaw tightened, the paper in her hand trembling almost imperceptibly. He was right. Her eyes darted back to the draft, then to his notes. The correction was simple. Elegant. Dangerous in how easily it slipped past their so-called experts.
Her chest burned. Damn him. He shouldn't be this sharp. Not here. Not now.
The staff began to murmur, hope flickering across their faces.
"Run the numbers," she ordered, voice clipped.
They scattered instantly, fingers flying over keyboards. Within moments, the screens began to shift. The red lines steadied, bent, then curved upward, stabilizing where collapse had loomed.
Relief spread like oxygen.
But Lunox's eyes never left Orion.
He stood calm, sleeves rolled, vest fitting like armor, silver gaze steady on her as though daring her to deny him.
And for the first time that day, the Ice Queen felt the floor tilt beneath her heels.
The numbers stabilized across the screens, red bleeding into cautious green. Staff exhaled, some dropping back into chairs, others whispering relief. But at the center of the floor, the tension didn't fade.
It sharpened.
Lunox still stood at the desk, the faulty draft clenched in one hand, Orion's correction notes spread open before her. Her obsidian eyes locked on him, unflinching.
"You think this is sufficient?" Her tone was steel, low but lethal. "A patchwork fix to cover incompetence?"
Orion's silver gaze met hers, unblinking. "It's not patchwork. It's precision. The kind your experts missed."
Murmurs rippled again. Several staff pretended to type faster, though their eyes flicked toward the two figures at the center — the Ice Queen and the Fresh Blood circling each other like blades.
Lunox's heels clicked against the tile as she stepped closer, navy suit cutting sharp lines against the chaos around them. "And if your timing is wrong? If the reserves don't balance?"
"Then you'll adjust again." Orion's reply was calm, infuriatingly calm. "Adaptation isn't weakness. It's survival."
Her jaw tightened. "Empires don't survive. They dominate."
That line, thrown like a knife. His lips curved faintly. "Then stop choking it with your rigidity."
The air thickened, heavier than the storm clouds outside. Staff froze mid-breath, knowing they were witnessing something more than a dispute over numbers.
Lunox reached for the draft, sharp motion, intending to rip it back into her control. Orion moved at the same time, sliding the correction notes closer. Their hands collided across the desk.
Skin against skin.
Her fingers grazed his knuckles, cold meeting heat. Both paused, just for a heartbeat, the contact sparking through the air sharper than any words.
Lunox's breath hitched — silent, invisible to all but herself. Her eyes flicked down, caught the shape of his hand over hers, broad, steady, unflinching.
Orion didn't pull back. Neither did she.
The staff pretended harder now — typing, coughing, rustling papers. But the weight of the moment pressed against every corner of the floor.
Finally, Lunox yanked her hand away, clutching the draft as if it had betrayed her. "Don't presume to touch what isn't yours."
Orion's silver eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed level. "Then keep a stronger grip."
Her chest tightened, pulse betraying the frost in her tone.
Damn him. Damn his steadiness. Damn the way it shakes me.
The draft in her hand crumpled slightly under her grip, paper folding against her palm. She turned, heels striking hard against the tiles, voice sharp enough to slice the air.
"Meeting adjourned. Get back to work."
The staff scattered instantly, grateful for the release. Screens glowed again, phones rang, the hum of work resumed.
But the echo of that touch lingered. On her skin. In her chest.
And when she stole one last glance over her shoulder, Orion was still there, sleeves rolled, vest fitting like armor, silver eyes steady on her — as though the clash hadn't ended, only paused.
The hum of the operations floor steadied again, but the energy had changed. Screens pulsed with recalculated numbers, red lines curling upward into fragile green. Staff voices, once frantic, lowered into hushed focus. The storm of panic had broken — not by the board's experience, not by legacy, but by Orion.
He still stood at the desk, one hand resting on his folder, vest fitted clean against his frame, sleeves rolled. His presence carried calm like a shield, his silver eyes steady, unshaken by the chaos he had just silenced.
Lunox remained opposite him, the faulty draft clenched tight in her hand. Her shoulders were squared, her bun sleek, her navy suit pristine — but her pulse betrayed her, racing beneath the ice of her posture.
An analyst approached cautiously, tablet trembling in her hands. "Ms. Ather… the recalculated models. With Mr. Light's adjustments, projections stabilize within acceptable range. By next quarter, margins will even improve."
She offered the screen.
Lunox snatched it, her eyes scanning the numbers. The proof was there — clean, precise, undeniable. Orion's correction hadn't just saved the project. It had sharpened it.
Her jaw flexed. He was right.
Across the table, Orion's voice cut through, calm and matter-of-fact. "You can continue pretending this was a one-time oversight, or you can admit your system failed. And if you admit it failed, you'll understand why I'm here."
The words weren't loud, but they landed like stone dropped into water, ripples spreading through every ear in the room.
Staff pretended to type faster, but eyes darted toward the two of them. Everyone knew this wasn't just about a clause. It was about power.
Lunox's grip on the tablet tightened, nails pressing against the case. She wanted to cut him down, to slice the smug steadiness from his face. But the data glowed cold and absolute, making liars of her pride.
Her gaze flicked up, obsidian eyes meeting silver.
"You speak as though this empire bends for you," she said, voice low, lethal.
Orion leaned in slightly, his shadow stretching across the table. "Not for me. For the truth. And the truth doesn't wait for permission."
Her chest tightened, a rush of heat sliding through her veins she refused to name. His calm infuriated her. His certainty unsettled her.
And worse — his words echoed her own, twisted back at her. Empires don't survive. They dominate.
The analyst still hovered, waiting. Lunox forced her face into stillness, setting the tablet down with deliberate calm.
"File the corrections," she ordered. "Have legal redraft within the hour. And next time…" Her eyes cut across the room, freezing staff in their places. "…we won't need outsiders to save us."
The words snapped like ice, but even as they left her lips, her chest whispered another truth.
He saved us. He saved me.
Her heels struck the tile as she turned, stride flawless, voice cold. "Back to work."
The staff obeyed instantly, their relief spilling into frantic keystrokes and hurried calls.
But as Lunox walked away, she felt his gaze linger on her back — steady, unreadable, unshakable.
And deep inside, beneath her layers of armor, the Ice Queen admitted what she would never say aloud.
Damn him. He was right. And it burns more than being wrong.