Seven days passed in quiet discipline.
Lucian had spent them buried in contracts, market reports, and legal drafts. His office became a battlefield of paper and ink, his pen marking weaknesses and possibilities with the precision of a blade. Margaret, who had once braced herself for long hours of idleness and excuses, instead found herself running to keep up with his requests—archives, financial breakdowns, old board minutes.
He had not touched a drop of alcohol. His nights were sleepless, his liver still aching faintly from years of damage, but his mind had never been sharper.
Now the week was up.
---
The negotiation room gleamed under the weight of expectation. Directors filled their seats along one side of the polished table, Clara among them, immaculate in a fitted suit. Her arms were crossed, her eyes unreadable, though a faint tension betrayed her anticipation.
Edward sat at the head, his presence alone commanding the space.
Across from them, the foreign representatives lounged with thin smiles, briefcases at their sides. They knew of Lucian's reputation. They had come expecting an easy game.
When the doors opened and Lucian entered, the room shifted.
Gone was the careless gait, the faint reek of whiskey, the glazed eyes. He wore a crisp suit, his files stacked neatly in his arms, his steps steady. He took his seat without hesitation, laying the documents before him with a composure that made the rival side exchange quick, puzzled glances.
"Director Blackwell," one of them drawled, lips curved in a smirk. "It's good to finally meet you in… working condition."
A ripple of quiet laughter broke along the table.
Lucian didn't rise to it. He flipped open his notes, his gaze level. "Shall we begin?"
---
The first hour was a barrage. The foreign side pushed aggressively: inflated profit shares, penalty clauses disguised in fine print, delivery timelines impossible to sustain.
Lucian listened, silent. To some of the directors, it seemed like the same old act—withdrawn, indifferent. Clara's jaw tightened.
Then, as one representative leaned back with a smug grin, Lucian spoke.
"Your proposed timeline for restructuring assumes a twelve-month turnover on mid-level accounts." He tapped his file, sliding a highlighted page forward. "But according to your own projections—filed last quarter—that growth is only achievable with an additional forty million in capital. Which, incidentally, you've placed entirely on our side of the table."
The smirk faltered.
Lucian's voice remained calm. "We'll accept the restructuring. But the capital injection will be matched fifty-fifty. And in return, we'll open co-distribution rights in Region Three—where your foothold is weakest. That way, both parties share the risk, and both parties stand to gain."
The room fell still.
Edward's fingers tapped once against the armrest. Clara's eyes narrowed, her pen frozen above her notepad. Margaret, standing by the files, felt her lips part slightly in shock.
The rival team scrambled to recover. "That's… unconventional," one muttered.
"It's fair," Lucian countered smoothly. "And profitable. Unless, of course, you'd rather bleed cash for another quarter just to maintain appearances."
The silence stretched, until finally the lead negotiator exhaled sharply. "Very well. Fifty-fifty."
---
When the meeting adjourned, the directors rose in a quiet storm of whispers. Some impressed, some doubtful, all unsettled.
Clara brushed past Lucian on her way out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. She paused just long enough to murmur under her breath, her tone clipped. "One win doesn't erase years of failure. Don't forget that."
Lucian only straightened his cuff, eyes calm. "I don't intend to."
Edward lingered behind, exchanging formalities with the departing foreigners. As the last of them left, he turned to Lucian. For a moment, the weight of his gaze pressed down, unreadable as ever.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand came down on Lucian's shoulder. Heavy. Brief.
And then Edward walked out without another word.
Lucian stood alone in the conference room, the city lights flickering against the glass wall behind him. He was exhausted, his head pounding from strain, but his chest felt strangely clear.
For the first time, he hadn't just occupied his seat. He had earned it.