The city was still burning when we got back.
From the top floors of Sterling Group, in the conference room, I could still see the faint orange glow against the skyline — smoke rising like a scar through the night. Inside, the office lights were too bright, the air too cold, and the silence between ringing phones felt suffocating.
Everyone was here. The PR team, Legal, Operations — all of them thrown into chaos. Screens flickered across the conference room, feeds looping between drone footage, site schematics, and news channels already speculating about "a possible safety breach."
On the huge screen in the conference room, was Kaelen and his teams, in Vancourt Holdings conference room. Kaelen stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, expression carved from steel.
"Status," he said.
Mark's voice crackled through the video feed. "Fire's contained. Structural damage isolated to the administrative wing. They're saying gas leak for now, but—"
"But we're not assuming that," Kaelen cut in, his tone sharp enough to slice through the static. "You've pulled the surveillance?"
"It's backing up now. Twenty-four hours of footage. But some feeds from the west block—"
"Are missing," Kaelen finished for him. His jaw ticked once. "I expected that. Keep pulling what's left."
I'd been quiet until then, trying to focus on the reports in front of me, but the words started blurring together. Gas. Structural failure. Unknown cause. All of it too neat. Too convenient.
"This isn't random," I said finally. "The west block was the inspection route for the next investor walkthrough. The administrative wing was where the original contracts were stored. Whoever did this knew exactly where to hit."
Heads turned. No one spoke.
Kaelen looked at me then — not surprised, not even questioning — just grim, as if I'd said something he'd already been thinking. "So how do we deal with it?"
The PR director cleared her throat cautiously. "We'll need to prepare a holding statement for the press. The explosion's already trending. Local channels picked it up from witnesses at the site."
Kaelen's voice didn't waver. "Tell them the company is cooperating fully with authorities. Do not speculate. Do not confirm casualties. And no one, under any circumstances, mentions sabotage."
The team scattered to follow his orders. Papers rustled, phones started ringing again. The faint smell of burnt plastic drifted in from someone's overheated laptop fan.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the glowing reports on my screen, my reflection fractured in the glass. I could still feel the tremor from the explosion reverberating under my skin.
I forced myself to focus. Panic wouldn't help anyone.
"PR's not enough," I said, cutting through the low hum of chatter. "If this hits the morning cycle without context, we'll lose control of the narrative before the fire's even out. We need visuals — controlled ones — from the site. Footage of the responders, our people cooperating, management present on the ground. We show transparency before anyone can question it."
The PR director hesitated. "You're suggesting we release visuals before the official report?"
"Yes," I said, sharper than I intended. "Before someone else does it for us."
Kaelen's eyes flicked toward me on the big screen — a brief pause, assessing. Then, a short nod. "Do it. But nothing speculative. Keep the footage clean."
"Understood."
I turned to Legal next. "Has anyone spoken to the insurers yet? They'll need early notice if we want coverage to hold — and I want a copy of every clause tied to on-site accidents and third-party negligence. If this turns out to be deliberate, I want to know who stands to gain from it."
Someone scribbled notes, already dialing.
The tension in the room shifted. Not lighter — but sharper. Directed. People started moving faster, voices firmer.
For a while, the only sound was the hum of machinery, the clatter of keys, and the low murmur of coordination across both sides of the call.
Then Kaelen spoke again, quiet but deliberate. "Elara. The admin wing — that's Sterling's jurisdiction on paper, correct?"
"It was," I said. "Until last quarter's restructuring. After the joint audit, we transferred shared access for maintenance to Vancourt's facilities team."
A muscle flickered in his jaw. "So the data backups there—"
"Were mirrored to our archive servers," I finished. "I already pulled the redundancy logs. But Kaelen…" I hesitated, scanning the timestamps. "There's something off. The last backup was delayed. By twenty-three minutes."
"Twenty-three?"
"Enough for someone to slip in a manual override. The checksum doesn't align with the prior sequence."
On the screen, Kaelen turned toward someone off-camera. "Mark. Get IT to run a forensic comparison against our side's copy. Look for alterations, access anomalies, anything timestamped within the last twenty-four hours."
"On it," came his voice faintly.
Kaelen looked back at me. "Good catch."
I didn't answer. My hands were still trembling slightly, hidden under the table. I pressed them flat against my notes, grounding myself in the chaos.
Because beneath all the data, all the corporate polish and procedure, there was a quiet suspicion building in my gut — this wasn't an accident, and it wasn't random.
Someone wanted us distracted.
Someone wanted us looking at the fire instead of what burned inside it.
The first PR draft came in just past one-fifteen in the morning.
The assistant slid a tablet across the table toward me. My eyes burned from the light, but I forced them open, reading every word like it was a blade.
"Sterling Group and Vancourt Holdings confirm that an incident occurred earlier today at the Island Residence construction site. Emergency services were immediately deployed, and containment procedures are underway. Preliminary assessments suggest a possible gas leak—"
"Stop." My voice came out flat. "We can't lead with 'gas leak.' That implies confirmation, and we don't have it."
Across the screen, Kaelen crossed his arms. "Agreed. Also, replace 'preliminary assessment' with 'preliminary reports.' Make it sound procedural, not definitive."
The PR lead nodded, fingers flying over her keyboard. "Then how about—'Preliminary reports indicate a potential equipment malfunction pending full investigation.'"
"That works," Kaelen said. "What about the injured?"
"Still verifying," I said, scrolling. "Mentioning numbers now will backfire if they change. Keep it empathetic, not statistical."
Kaelen looked toward his comms director. "Include a line on full cooperation with authorities, and immediate deployment of both companies' crisis response teams."
"And," I added, "a statement from the joint management. Not separate. If we sound divided, people will assume fault."
His gaze flicked back to me. "Then we release it under both our names."
That made me pause.Joint statements were rare — almost unheard of in joint ventures when accidents happen. But now, with half the city watching, anything less would look like weakness.
"Fine," I said quietly. "But the tone stays neutral. No defensive language. We acknowledge the event, we don't justify it."
Kaelen's mouth twitched on screen — not quite a smile, but close enough to break the tension for half a breath. "You'd make a terrifying PR exec."
"Desperation does wonders for clarity," I said dryly.
Someone laughed softly, the sound brittle in the heavy air.
They revised the draft again, and this time I read it aloud:
"Sterling Group and Vancourt Holdings confirm that an incident occurred at the Island Residence construction site earlier today. Emergency services are on-site, and response teams from both companies are working closely with local authorities to ensure safety and provide support to all affected personnel. Preliminary reports suggest a potential equipment malfunction, though investigations remain ongoing.
Both companies have initiated comprehensive internal reviews and will continue to provide updates as verified information becomes available.
Our priority remains the safety of everyone involved and the integrity of the investigation process."
When I looked up, the room was silent. Even through the screen, Kaelen's approval was wordless but unmistakable.
"Release it," he said.
The PR lead hesitated. "Time?"
"As soon as all the relevant departments are ready," I said. "Make sure it hits the morning wires before the news anchors get their hands on the amateur footage. We go first."
Kaelen nodded once. "Coordinate the post with both our media channels. I'll have Vancourt's comms team queue the mirrored statement. Elara, you'll oversee the upload on Sterling's end?"
"I'll handle it," I said.
And then, for the first time that night, the room began to exhale.
The frenzy dulled to a tired rhythm — muted voices, half-empty coffee cups, the hum of exhausted printers spitting out reports no one had the energy to read.
By the time the first light bled into the skyline, the statement had gone out.
It felt surreal — watching the words we'd fought over for hours ripple across headlines within minutes. Sterling, Vancourt Release Joint Statement.Investigation Underway.Executives Pledge Cooperation.
The city outside was waking up, unaware that somewhere between the smoke and the silence, the game had shifted again.
I stood by the window, arms folded, as the sun caught the glass towers in the distance — and for a fleeting moment, the orange glow of the fire was gone, replaced by gold.
Kaelen's voice came through the speaker, low but steady. "Get some rest, Elara."
I turned back to the screen. "You first."
He gave a faint, weary smile. "Not likely."
And then the line went quiet again — two offices, two companies, standing in the same storm from opposite sides of the city.