After the walk they returned back to the boardroom.
The air didn't soften after the flaw was exposed.
It hardened.
Tension clung to the walls of the boardroom like smoke after a fire. Chairs shifted awkwardly. Hands fumbled papers. The thin illusion of control cracked cleanly across the surface of the meeting.
Aria sat still, her posture poised yet relaxed. She watched the ripple effect in real time — the way Mr. Lemaire's shoulders hunched tighter with each page he turned, the way two of the older directors exchanged grim, silent glances, the way Selene's smile strained at the corners until it wasn't a smile at all, just bare teeth polished for show.
No one dared to speak immediately after Mr. Lemaire's reluctant confirmation.
No one dared to meet Vincent Moreau's eyes.
Except Aria.
She didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. Didn't lean back like she'd won.
Because this wasn't a victory.
It was a warning.
The room had been forced to see her. And she could almost taste the bitterness curling behind their frozen expressions.
Selene, ever the actress, cleared her throat lightly and flashed another brittle smile.
"Well," she said, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, "that's why we have these discussions. To catch the little... overlooked things."
A laugh too thin to survive the air followed.
No one joined in.
Aria met her gaze briefly. Not challengingly. Just a look so cold, so empty of fear, that Selene looked away first.
Across the table, Mr. Delacroix, the head of M&A, shifted uncomfortably. His voice, when it came, was clipped and tense.
"If we'd moved forward without amending those clauses…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Everyone understood the cost.
It would have crippled Moreau Corp's influence in Europe within months.
A silent death of control — written in ink no one had bothered to read properly.
Except her.
Vincent sat silent at the head of the table, his hands steepled before him. He hadn't moved during the entire exchange, hadn't flinched when the flaw unraveled his board's competence in public view.
But Aria felt his gaze.
Not warm.
Not proud.
Not kind.
Measured.
As if recalculating an equation he'd assumed would always balance one way.
When the murmuring grew too loud, Vincent spoke.
"One week," he said, his voice a scalpel against the noise. "Review every active merger draft. Every line."
He didn't raise his tone. He didn't need to.
His authority moved through the room like a blade, sharp and final.
No excuses.
No recovery for anyone who failed.
Chairs scraped hurriedly as the board moved to obey, gathering documents, avoiding looking anywhere near Aria.
Selene closed her folder a little too sharply.
Aria watched her movements with idle interest — like studying an animal more dangerous when cornered.
Good.
Let her squirm.
Let her remember.
When the last of the directors filed out, offering half-hearted nods in Vincent's direction, the room emptied into silence again.
Only Aria and Vincent remained.
She waited. Perfectly still.
Vincent rose slowly, adjusting his cufflinks as if he had all the time in the world.
The chair legs creaked slightly as he pushed back from the table. His movements precise. Deliberate.
He didn't look at her immediately.
When he did, his gaze was cool, clinical. Like assessing a piece of equipment he hadn't expected to function quite so well.
"You caught their mistake," he said, his voice even, offering no inflection that could be mistaken for praise.
A pause.
"Good."
The word landed like a stone dropped in water — rippling, but heavy.
Not warm.
Not welcoming.
Simply a ledger being updated.
A box being checked.
Vincent shifted slightly, his silhouette framed against the high glass windows overlooking the city. His expression didn't waver.
"You're not here to embarrass anyone," he said, voice low but sharp. "You're here to survive."
A beat.
"Don't mistake today for anything more than that."
Aria inclined her head slightly — not submissive. Not defiant.
Just acknowledging.
There was no thank you to offer.
There was no approval to chase.
She understood him now.
Survival was a currency in this family.
Recognition wasn't earned through brilliance.
It was bought with endurance.
Vincent turned away from her then, gathering his documents in smooth, unhurried motions.
And without another word, he left the room.
No backward glance.
No waiting.
The door swung softly shut behind him, the click louder than the hush that followed.
Aria sat there for another long moment, staring at the empty head seat at the table.
The place she was never meant to touch.
Her fingers tapped once against the table's cold surface, a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
Good.
Let him stay cold.
Let him stay skeptical.
She didn't need his approval.
She needed the seat.
And she would take it.
Piece by bloody piece if she had to.
The hallway outside felt colder than when they'd first arrived.
Aria walked alone this time, her heels silent against the marble, her reflection fractured and multiplied by the tall glass panels she passed.
No escort.
No silent accompaniment.
Vincent's figure was already gone — swallowed into one of the private elevators reserved for the executives who didn't walk the same floors as the rest.
Good.
She didn't want a guide.
She wanted a map she could burn and redraw herself.
Aria crossed the lobby without slowing, the doormen's glances sliding past her like she didn't exist.
Not yet.
She pushed through the revolving doors into the biting winter air.
The city sprawled before her — ruthless, glittering, endless.
Somewhere inside it were all the battlefields she would have to cross.
All the alliances she would have to forge.
All the enemies she would have to bury.
But today, she had drawn first blood.
Small.
Silent.
Sharp.
And there would be more.
Many, many more.