The executive lounge is empty, just as I knew it would be at this hour. I move past the plush sofas and straight to the small bar. There it is, the familiar cut-crystal carafe, filled with fresh water and slices of cucumber, just as he's always preferred it. A tray sits ready for a staff member to take it to him.
I walk smoothly and as I pass the tray, my hand slips from my pocket. The small glass vial is cool in my palm. With a deft, almost invisible twist of my wrist, I uncork it and let three precise drops fall into the water. They disappear instantly, leaving no trace, no cloud, no scent. I recap the vial and it's back in my pocket before I've taken two more steps. The entire act takes less than a second.
I then walk out of the lounge and, taking a deep, steadying breath, push open the door to the CEO's office. This is the second phase of the plan.
The door is ajar, meaning he's expecting "Beatrice." I walk in and see him sitting behind his vast, mahogany desk. He's wearing a sky-blue suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, and when he notices me, he gets up with that practiced, charming smile that once fooled me completely.
"Miss Diaz, a pleasure. I hope your flight in wasn't too hectic," he says, his voice oozing false pleasantry.
"It was fine," I say flatly, cutting the small talk short. I don't wait for an invitation; I simply sit down in the rich, brown leather chair opposite his desk, crossing my legs. It's 10:32. Within the next eight minutes, a staff member will arrive with the tray.
"We should get straight to the point, Mr. Croft. My firm is very interested in your new sustainable linen, but the exclusivity clause you're proposing is unacceptable. We need a guaranteed seventy percent of the initial yield, not fifty."
I've done my homework. I know the details of the deal he was trying to strike with the real Beatrice, and I know exactly which points to push. He leans back, steepling his fingers.
"Fifty percent is more than generous, Miss Diaz. We have other partners to consider. We need to find a common ground."
I let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Common ground? I flew all the way from Madrid for this meeting, and this is the level of flexibility you offer? I was led to believe you were a more visionary businessman." I can see it the moment the barb lands. Ethan hates being compared unfavorably. A tiny muscle in his jaw begins to twitch.
"Vision must be tempered with realism," he counters, his voice tightening. "Flooding a single market with seventy percent of our premier product is a strategic risk I cannot take."
"Then perhaps your competitors will see its value more clearly," I scoff, waving a hand as if the entire negotiation is beneath me. "They seem to understand what it takes to secure a landmark deal."
He's properly annoyed now, his pleasant facade cracking to reveal the petulance beneath. Just as he opens his mouth to retort, there's a soft knock. Perfect timing. An old staff member enters, carefully placing the tray with the crystal carafe and two glasses on the coffee table between us before silently slipping out.
Ethan glares at me, the interruption fueling his irritation. "The pros of a diversified partnership far outweigh the cons of putting all your eggs in one basket, a basket that has a history of being… volatile."
I don't care about his pros and cons. My eyes briefly flick to the carafe, then back to him, my expression one of sheer contempt. "Volatile? Or perhaps just discerning? It seems you're not the man I thought you were. This is a waste of my time."
I make a show of gathering my bag, pushing every one of his buttons, ensuring his frustration is so high that the first thing he'll crave is a long drink of that water. Just as I expected, his pride can't let me walk out.
"Miss Diaz, please," he says, the words strained. "Sit down. Let's... try to work this out."
I let out an exaggerated huff of impatience but settle back into the leather chair, crossing my arms over my chest in a clear sign of defiance.
He tries a different tack, leaning forward with a condescending smile. "Perhaps if your firm was willing to cover the additional shipping costs, we could discuss a sixty percent allocation. It's a significant concession."
I pull another button. "Concession?" I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "My God, no wonder your market share is shrinking. You're nickel-and-diming the very partners who could save you. Mhokava would never be this short-sighted."
His face flushes a deep red. "Miss Diaz, you are being out of line."
"Am I?" I scoff, my voice dripping with false concern. "Or are you just unable to handle a woman who doesn't bow to your terms? Maybe you should have a drink of water. Cool down that male anger of yours."
The jab hits its mark. Annoyed, and precisely as I'd hoped, he reaches for the crystal carafe. His hand is not quite steady. He pours water into both glasses, shoving one across the table toward me with a sharp, sarcastic comment. "Perhaps this will cool you down as well."
I simply rest my fingers lightly on the cool glass, making no move to drink. My heart hammers against my ribs. "After you," I purr.
He glares, then lifts his own glass and gulps half of it down in one go.
I smile to myself, leaning back, making a show of being too agitated to drink. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Your company's inability to think big."
Ethan runs a hand over his face, a sigh escaping him. "This isn't about thinking big, it's about unsustainable demands..."
His sentence trails off. It's starting. Two, three minutes have passed. I can see the first signs of disorientation clouding his eyes. He shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and loosens his tie with a jerky motion.
"Are you okay, Mr. Croft?" I ask, my voice laced with a feigned, sweet concern as I lean forward.
"I'm... fine," he mutters, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Just a bit... warm."
"Are you feeling dizzy?"
"I guess... a little," he admits, his speech slightly slurred. He reaches for the water glass again and drains it, but this time, it brings no relief. He just looks paler.
Good.
It's time for the first hit. My voice drops, losing all pretense of Beatrice Diaz. "Do you remember Daphne Ashford?"
He blinks, his brow furrowing as he tries to focus his narrowing eyes on me. "Daphne?"
"Yes," I say, "Your ex-wife."
A dark chuckle escapes me. "No," I correct him, my gaze locking with his. "I mean, your dead ex-wife."
"How do you... how do you know about her?" he slurs, trying to push himself upright, to maintain some semblance of control. But it's a losing battle. With each second, the toxin winds deeper into his system, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare.
I simply smirk and peel the small, flesh-colored voice modulator from my throat. He's too far gone to even notice the shift in my voice now. It's my true voice that asks, cold and clear, "Tell me, Mr. Croft, how did she die?"
I rise from the chair and stand up. Instead of answering, he groans, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his temples as if trying to crush the rising chaos inside his skull.
I lean in close, my face inches from his. "Did you, perhaps, kill her?"
His head snaps up, his eyes wild and unfocused. He tries to glare, but there's only terror there now. I am not intimidated. I smile, a cold, cruel curve of my lips, and hiss, "Or did you leave her in the fire to burn and die?"
"Who are you?" he gasps, his body beginning to tremble. He's losing his grip, starting to feel a profound, disorienting vertigo, as if the floor is tilting beneath him. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead, and a rising tide of paranoia whispers that the walls are closing in.
Slowly, deliberately, I reach up and pull off the blonde wig, letting my own dark hair tumble down. I then take a silk handkerchief from my pocket and wipe away the heavy makeup around my eyes and lips, erasing the last traces of Beatrice Diaz.
I look him directly in his clouded eyes.
His own eyes widen, the pupils dilated with a horror that is both chemical and soul-deep. His face, which was already pale, becomes a ghastly sheet-white. A strangled, disbelieving gasp escapes him.
"D-Daphne?"
I smirk, "Miss me much, dear husband?"
"How did... you... you're—" he stammers, his mind fracturing under the impossible weight of my presence.
"Shut the fuck up," I snap. In one swift movement, I grab him by his expensive silk tie and collar, yanking him forward until I can feel his panicked breath on my face. I glare into his terrified eyes.
"You left me there," I snarl, my voice trembling not with fear, but with a rage held back for five long years. "You locked the door and you left me to scream and burn. You thought a fire could finish what you didn't have the guts to do yourself?"
He whimpers, a pathetic sound, his body shaking uncontrollably.
"Every night, Ethan. Do you hear her screams? Or have you managed to drown them out with your money and your mistress?" I shove him back, and he collapses into his chair, a broken, trembling mess. "This is just the beginning. The woman you thought you buried is back. And I'm not going anywhere until there's nothing left of you but ashes."