The match with Gramps had been an exercise in psychological warfare, as it always was. He had cursed, loudly, and wonderfully dramatic, each of the four times I pinned his King. He played the part of the disgruntled loser perfectly, accusing the board of being rigged as if I hadn't been memorizing its wood grain since I was ten years old.
But I saw the slip. I always saw it. He would always get sloppy the moment he thought I was distracted, a curated "error" designed to let me catch up. It was the only thing that annoyed me more than actually losing, the condescension of a gifted victory.
I didn't head for the sanctuary of my bed after that. I stayed until two in the morning, letting the silence of his estate settle into my bones before leaving for my inevitable meeting at work.
The boardroom was waiting.
The silence that met me when I took the head of the long, obsidian table wasn't the silence of respect rather it was the quiet of people cunningly assessing every move, from the old horse that calls himself my uncle to the three of my aunts as well as a couple of high staff in our conglomerate.
"The latest product assessment from the working unit suggests we allocate a separate advertising fund," the vice president(old horse) ventured. He cleared his throat afterward, a nervous habit he used to give his thin ideas a semblance of weight.
They continued. Market positioning. Eastern branch relocation. The delicate, spider web treaties with two of the founding families. It was a clash of ambition, everyone hungering for visibility while pretending they were only hungry for "the good of the firm."
I cut through their clatters like a blade through silk.
"We'll create a structured advertising fund, but it stays tied directly to performance metrics," I said, my voice low but carrying to the corners of the room. "No blind allocations. No 'faith based' spending. And if we're moving the Eastern branch, I want signed, irrevocable treaties on my desk before the quarter closes. Not promises Mr Adams, Paper."
Mr. Adam shifted. Of course he did. He'd proposed to me earlier with all the romantic passion of a hostile takeover. Today, he was pitching strategy with that same entitled glint in his eye.
"We should consider a softer negotiation approach with the families, Madam," he said, his voice smooth, paternal. "Finesse over force."
I leaned back, and let my gaze go cold. "We don't negotiate from softness, Adams. We negotiate from leverage. If they wanted finesse, they wouldn't be dealing with us."
The silence that followed was heavy. Good. It meant they were recalculating.
The rest was the clinical cleanup of a battlefield: numbers, deadlines, the frantic scratching of pens. I turned to the old horse as the energy in the room began to sag. "Mr Mayor, proceed with the treaty documentation. Get the signatures by Friday."
He nodded grudgingly, obviously berated by the fact that I ordered him. There was no applause when I dismissed them, just the hollow sound of heavy chairs sliding back and the sight of eyes carefully avoiding my own.
My office felt like a pressurized chamber after they left. With the Door bolted I kicked my Shoes off.
I spread the newspapers across the mahogany, financial rags, industry rags, a pathetic little column about a competitor trying to 'disrupt' our distribution model. I just skimmed, absorbed the data, and discarded the fluff.
Then, I pulled the laptop closer. Not for spreadsheets today but rather For chess.
I pulled up a variation I had been obsessing over,a defensive trap that appeared passive, almost submissive, but possessed a hidden, jagged edge. If Gramps thought I was distracted again tonight, I'd bait him into it. I would let him think he was winning right up until the moment I took his heart.
I smiled devilishly at the thought of seeing his pathetic face when I beat him Fair and square.
A sharp knock. Ariana didn't wait for permission. She never did when the news was heavy.
"Yes?" I didn't look up. My Bishop moved across the digital screen.
"Your grandfather says you're expected at the mansion tonight," she said. "Formal dinner."
I stopped scrolling. The cursor flickered like a warning light. "Formal?"
"Yes."
I closed the laptop with a soft, final thud. So finally, the board was changing again.
The mansion was an architectural scream of 'old money', white marble glowing under gold tinted floodlights, pretending at subtlety while demanding awe. With luxurious Cars parked all over the Garage as tho it was a presidential conference, Gramps was waiting at the entrance, his posture was so perfect I knew he had been rehearsing the moment for at least an hour.
"You're late," he said, tho his eyes were twinkling.
"You're dramatic."
He grinned that sharp, shark-like expression that usually preceded a catastrophe. "Come. You'll want to see this."
He led the way, the heavy dining hall doors swinging open to reveal a scene that felt less like a dinner and more like a curated exhibit. Two families sat at the long table, their smiles tight, their postures stiff with the effort of appearing casual.
And between them sat the predators.
The first was a mountain of a man, relaxed in a way that felt dangerous. Broad shoulders, a dark suit that strained against a solid, athletic build, and eyes a startling, steady green. He didn't offer a smile. He studied me with the clinical intensity of a man measuring a mountain he intended to climb.
The second man leaned back, a portrait of refined calculation. He was leaner, his movements measured, his brown eyes reflecting a cold, sharp intellect. He gave me a smile that was perfectly polite, and utterly empty.
He wore a Robe, which contrasted sharply against the rather dark suit of The other man. His resemblance to those Mr Wonderful CEOs was quite striking, handsome I must say, how lucky the women in his-
"Leonora," Gramps announced cutting my thoughts, his voice booming with a pride that made my skin crawl. "Meet Anvil."
The green eyed one stood. He was tall, moving with a quiet, controlled dominance that made the room feel smaller. How Confident, I could barely hold back myself from laughing thinking of how he seemed to look like a big brother of Mr Adams.
"And Modret."
The second one rose slower, his gaze never leaving mine.I almost wink mockingly.
Two families. In the same room In my grandfather's house. Sitting across from each other to propose marriage to me.
If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I'd think it was scripted.
They sit there pretending civility. Polite nods. Controlled smiles. But I can see it in the way their jaws tighten. The way their fingers rest too firmly on the table.
They obviously don't like each other, not even a little.
And yet here they are. United by ambition.
For me.
I've seen scenes like this in films. Dramatic. Unrealistic. Exaggerated.
I never thought I'd be the girl seated at the center of it.
The focus. The asset. The prize.
I almost laughed.
But I don't have time for that kind of thinking. That's total fantasy. This is negotiation.
These men aren't here for romance. They're here for positioning. Influence. Access.
So I watch them.
Carefully.
Let's see what they offer. Let's see how they package themselves.
From the corner of the room, I can hear Gramps chuckling under his breath.
I glance at him.
He's watching me, amused. Like this is entertainment. He sees my expression obviously. I know he does. And I know it's not the one he expected. He wanted shock or Maybe flustered silence but he laughed it off, shaking his head slightly.
Old man.
He obviously thought he set the board forgetting I know how to play.
I moved from the door. I didn't slow my pace. I didn't falter. If this was a play, I was the lead, and I knew my marks. I walked to the head of the table, the seat of power, and sat, smirking as I saw Anvil assessing my movement with some sense of satisfaction. Mordret didn't budge rather, Looking directly at me as tho my Body was already his for the taking
"So," I said, folding my hands and letting a thin, dangerous smile touch my lips. "You're the 'excellent' choices."
Gramps had to cough into his napkin to hide the fact that he was absolutely delighted by the tension. "This old man" I sigh in my thoughts
The meal began. Silverware clinked against china, a rhythmic accompaniment to a conversation that was layered with tactics. The air in the room didn't just shift, it curdled.
This wasn't just a random dinner, It was a deployment. And as I looked at the two men Gramps had placed in my path, I could already feel the pieces of my life sliding into new, positions