Julian Vance was a man who lived by ledgers. Every transaction, every risk, every investment was a series of calculations, a balance of potential profit against potential loss. The person sitting before him was the most volatile and intriguing entry he had ever encountered.
The risk was enormous. If her husband, Marcus Reid, discovered his involvement, it would trigger a guild war that could burn the city's economy to the ground. If the Emperor caught wind of it, he could be branded a traitor.
But the potential profit… it was intoxicating. Reid's shipping empire, his political connections, all of it dismantled and absorbed into the Vance coffers. It was a generational power play, a chance to shift the balance of the entire city. And it was all being handed to him by a ghost.
"Fifty percent is a high price for information," Julian said, testing her. His voice was calm, but his mind was racing, analyzing her, looking for the cracks in her composure.
"It's a discount," Eleanor retorted without missing a beat. "I'm not just giving you information, Master Vance. I'm giving you a surgical strike plan, a list of key personnel to turn, and the precise leverage needed to make them flip. I'm giving you the entire operation on a silver platter. All you have to do is execute."
She was right, and they both knew it. This wasn't the rambling of a vengeful spouse. This was the cold, precise language of a spymaster. He felt a thrill of genuine excitement, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. This was better than the cold, hard logic of numbers. This was a game of shadows and whispers, and he had just been invited to play.
"And your safety?" he asked. "Reid will not stop hunting you. He cannot afford to have you alive."
"Which is why my first request is for you to confirm my death," she said. "There was a body, a servant girl who unfortunately resembled me. Marcus will use her remains to 'prove' my tragic demise. I want your agents to ensure that this narrative is accepted. Publicly, Eleanor Thorne must remain dead. It will give me the freedom to move, to operate."
"A ghost in my machine," he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. He liked that. He liked that very much. "A new identity will be required."
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, the first crack Julian had seen in her iron control. He saw a flicker of an old, deep pain in her eyes, a shadow of a life he couldn't begin to guess at.
"I will handle that myself," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "For now, you may consider me your silent partner."
That was all he was going to get. He respected it. A good player never showed their whole hand.
"Very well, partner," Julian said, rising from his chair. He walked to a small writing desk in the corner of the room and retrieved a piece of parchment and a pen. He began to write, his hand moving in swift, elegant strokes. It was not a long, complicated document. It was a simple merchant's contract, outlining their terms: fifty percent of all assets seized from House Reid, in exchange for information and strategy. His resources, her intellect. A partnership.
He brought it back to her, laying it on the small table between them.
"A contract," he said. "So we both understand the terms of our… investment."
Eleanor read it over, her eyes sharp and analytical. She was looking for loopholes, for ambiguities. He had left none. It was as straightforward as she had been.
She looked up at him, and for the first time, Julian saw not the strategist or the victim, but a person weighing a decision that would irrevocably alter the course of her new life. Trusting him was a leap of faith she was not accustomed to making.
"I have no seal," she said.
"A name will suffice," he replied, offering her the pen.
She took it, her bandaged fingers clumsy around the delicate instrument. She signed with a single, sharp 'E'—a reclamation of her own initial, a discarding of the name that had been a cage.
As she finished, Julian placed his hand over hers on the parchment, his fingers warm against her bandaged skin. The touch was unexpected, a breach of the professional distance they had maintained. It was not a gesture of comfort, but of possession. A sealing of the deal.
Her breath hitched, a small, involuntary reaction. Her eyes met Julian's, and the air in the room thickened, suddenly charged with a different kind of energy. The negotiation was over. Something else was beginning. He saw past the soot and the scars to the formidable, unbreakable will beneath. And she, for the first time, saw past the charming merchant to the dangerous, predatory ambition that drove him. They were two sides of the same coin.
She held his gaze for a long moment before slowly withdrawing her hand.
"My people will ensure the city mourns the tragic passing of Lady Eleanor Thorne," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "And I will prepare the first move against the Iron Gryphon. I will need the details of the smuggling operation. The routes, the schedules, the buyers."
"You'll have them by morning," she promised.
He gave her a slight bow, a gesture of respect that felt more significant than any honor a king could bestow. "Then I look forward to a long and profitable partnership."
He turned and walked to the door. As he left, Eleanor looked down at the contract. It was more than a plan for revenge. It was an anchor in a world that had tried to erase her. A vow of iron and gold, signed in the ashes of her old life. She was no longer a victim. She was a player again. And the game had just begun.