The boardroom air was heavy again, though not with ridicule this time. Eyes followed Lucian as he concluded the presentation, his calm voice carrying over the polished table. The deal he'd steered them through had settled cleanly, the figures undeniable.
When the meeting adjourned, the directors' whispers were different now. Not amused, not dismissive — but wary, cautious, the kind reserved for someone who might yet prove dangerous if underestimated.
Lucian ignored them, gathering his notes with steady hands.
Clara rose from her seat opposite him, expression unreadable. She hadn't interrupted him once during the session, and that alone set her apart from the Clara of eight months ago.
She caught up with him in the corridor. The staccato of her heels echoed off the marble, sharp as her presence.
"You've grown fond of speeches again," she said, her tone clipped. "But this time, at least, they carried weight."
Lucian paused, turning to face her. Her eyes, the same storm-grey as his own, were hard — but not cruel.
"Coming from you," he said evenly, "I'll take that as a compliment."
Her lips curved, not quite into a smile, but the sharpness softened into something else. "Don't mistake me. You're still a long way from redeeming yourself, Lucian. One or two negotiations don't erase what you've done."
"I know," he replied. And he meant it.
Clara studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for the cracks, the old habits. When she found none, she gave the faintest shake of her head. "If you can keep this up… perhaps father won't be the only one holding your place."
With that, she swept past him, her figure disappearing into the glass and steel corridors of the company.
Lucian remained where he was, a faint exhale leaving his chest. Her words weren't forgiveness. They weren't even acceptance. But the edge that had once cut him to the bone was blunted, almost cautious.
For the first time, his sister's voice had carried something else — the smallest note of reluctant hope.