Kasim
The boardroom is a cathedral of glass and steel, built for intimidation. The windows stretch floor to ceiling, swallowing the city skyline, while the table—black marble, veined like lightning—gleams under the storm's dim light.
I sit at its head, silent, immovable. Every executive from Marlowe Global is already here, a row of polished faces hiding their nerves. They glance at me, then at the empty chair opposite. They know who is coming.
The door has not yet opened, but the air is already thick with expectation.
Seven years. Seven years of silence, and now she dares step into my kingdom.
I tighten the cuff of my jacket. Outwardly, I am calm, composed, untouchable.
Will she look the same? Will her eyes still soften the way they once did, or will I find only coldness there? Does she regret it? Does she even remember?
My jaw clenches. It doesn't matter. Whatever I see, I will not falter. She left me bleeding in the dark. She chose silence over truth. And now she walks back into my life, not as the girl who once whispered forever, but as the puppet of a crumbling empire.
Good. Let her choke on it.
The doors open.
And the world stops.
She steps inside as though she owns the air itself. A vision in ivory silk, the Crowcrest crest embroidered at her shoulder. Cameras would worship her. The media would call her divine.
My heart betrays me. It slams against my ribs, savage and alive, the same way it did the first time I saw her in high school hallways, sunlight in her hair.
Her gaze finds mine across the table.
And for the briefest second, everything falls away. The boardroom. The empire. The betrayal. It is only her.
Then her expression shutters, as cold as glass.
She takes her seat without a word.
Seven years, and she greets me with silence.
The rage I have buried for so long surges like fire. Fine. If silence is her weapon, I will wield mine sharper.
"Princess Owden," I say at last, my tone smooth as a blade. "How gracious of you to join us. I was beginning to wonder if the phantom of Crowcrest truly existed, or if she was just another fairytale."
A flicker passes over her face. Anger? Hurt? I can't tell. Her mask is flawless.
But I will break it.
I commit the details to memory, the way I once studied market crashes: the precise shade of her lipstick, a fraction darker than she used to wear. The way a single, fine chain rests against her collarbone, rising and falling with each breath. I will pick apart every flaw, every crack, until I find the one that lets me shatter her completely.
Eldora
The storm outside is nothing compared to the storm inside me.
The moment I step into that boardroom, I feel it—his presence, sharp and merciless, like a blade pressed to my throat.
Kasim.
Seven years, and he is no longer the boy I left. He is a man carved from iron and shadow. His suit fits like armor, his gaze burns like fire, and power radiates from him with every breath.
My heart stutters, a traitor to the strength I've built. For one fleeting second, I see him as he was—the boy who held my hand under the Crowcrest stars, who swore he'd build me a kingdom.
But that boy is gone.
The man before me looks at me as though I am already guilty.
The sound of his voice, his hand, warm and certain, brushed a stray hair from my cheek. The scent of rain on his skin. The feeling is so vivid it steals my breath.
I sit. I force my voice calm, though my pulse is chaos.
"Mr. Marlowe," I reply, formal, distant. "Thank you for hosting us."
His smirk is a wound. "Oh, it's my pleasure. After all, how often does a ghost walk back into the world of the living?"
A quiet smile graced my lips, and I let the silence stretch. It was the quiet that undid him. I watched the anger ignite in his eyes, a dark fire I held with my own. The air between us, already thick with tension, seemed to crackle.
The hatred rolling off him was no longer an emotion, it was in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the hiss of his breath through clenched teeth. Seeing that raw fury in a face I once knew so well sent a dull ache straight through me. It was the ache of seeing something beautiful shattered, the ghost of what was now forever haunted by what is.
As he speaks, my hand rests on the table. A single, tiny tremor shakes the surface of my water glass, sending ripples across the still surface. I see his eyes drop to it, a predator noting the fear of his prey. I slowly curl my fingers into a fist, withdrawing my hand into my lap, out of sight. The ripples settle.
Business begins. Contracts are laid out, numbers read aloud. The councilors drone, but every syllable is a blur. I can feel his eyes on me, hot and unforgiving, burning holes through my composure.
When it is my turn to speak, I lift my chin, summoning every ounce of the training, the discipline, the years of silence.
"Crowcrest seeks stability," I say evenly. "And Marlowe Global holds the resources to ensure it. This alliance will benefit both our houses."
He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on mine. "And what of loyalty, Princess? What of promises broken?"
The councilors freeze. They exchange uneasy glances, unsure if he speaks of business or something else. But I know. Oh, I know.
I grip the pen tighter in my hand, nails biting my palm. "This negotiation is about empires, Mr. Marlowe," I answer, voice steady. "Not the past."
His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he might laugh. Instead, he leans back, the storm in him barely leashed.
"Of course," he says silkily. "Empires."
But I hear what he doesn't say.
This is not over.
DUAL POV
The meeting drags, words clashing like swords, but the truth is clear: this is not a negotiation of business. It is a negotiation of war—between him and me, between love and betrayal, between the past and the storm that still rages.
When the session adjourns, I rise. So does he.
For a heartbeat, we stand too close, the air crackling. His scent is still the same, My heart betrays me again.
"Welcome back to the world, Eldora," he murmurs low enough that only I hear. His voice is venom and velvet all at once. "But don't expect mercy."
I meet his gaze, my mask unbroken, though my soul trembles. "I wouldn't dare."
And with that, I walk away, every step echoing like a drumbeat of war.
The door clicks shut. The scent of her perfume—that faint, damnable jasmine—lingers in the air. A ghost in my cathedral. I flex my hand and feel the tremor I've suppressed for the last hour
This was not an end. It was an opening move