The heavy scent of expensive Earl Grey and high-stakes ambition lingered in the air as Ethan stepped out of the Astor Court, his stride synchronized with the clicking of Emma Frost's heels against the marble floor. The morning rush of the St. Regis was beginning in earnest, a sea of tailored suits and silk ties parting instinctively for the White Queen. She moved with a purpose.
"You're going the wrong way, Emma," Ethan said, his voice a low, melodic anchor.
Emma paused, her hand hovering over the strap of her handbag as she turned to look at him. Her expression was a mask of practiced irritation. "I assumed the elevator banks were standard. If you're going to play at this, Ethan, you might want to start acting like you have a schedule to keep. I'd like to get this done and return to my school before the mid-day training sessions."
"My apologies," Ethan said, though his tone lacked any genuine heat. It was the cold, polite apology of someone who had already accounted for the delay. "The penthouse suite is keyed to a private lift with a private elevator. A design flaw, if I say so myself. Since you don't yet have the access codes for Peter's suite, I thought it best to escort you to the door."
He gestured toward a discreet, gold-leafed elevator tucked behind a mahogany pillar. As they waited for the light to chime, Ethan leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
"I'll handle the legalities of the marriage certificate," he said, as casually as if he were discussing a lunch order. "I'll have the paperwork delivered to the Institute by the end of the week, along with a comprehensive ledger of all of Maddox's holdings. It will include a breakdown of our shell companies, our media company in Newark, and the law firms we've recently acquired at the end of last quarter. You'll need a rough idea of the infrastructure you'll be wielding when we move against the Club's board. These companies are all still in their infancy, so don't mind that they're only a few months old, with some being a few weeks old."
Emma watched the floor numbers descend, her blue eyes sharp. "You speak of global conglomerates as if they were toys in a sandbox. Do you truly expect me to believe a teenager from Queens has built an empire capable of rivaling Frost Technologies in a matter of months?"
"Well, seeing is believing, Emma. Once you read the data, all will be apparent," Ethan replied. The elevator doors hissed open, and they stepped into the plush, carpeted interior. He tapped a keycard and then pressed the button for the 50th floor. "But to take over the Hellfire Club smoothly—without Shaw or the external investors triggering a scorched-earth policy—you're going to need more than just my capital. You'll need two specific women at your side."
Emma's gaze narrowed. "I already have my own contacts within the Inner Circle. I don't need a boy to tell me how to play politics."
"You have rivals, not allies," Ethan countered. "The first is Selene Gallio. The Black Queen."
Emma let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Selene? The woman is an ancient shadow, more interested in draining the life force of her servants than managing a portfolio. We have been at odds since the day I took the White throne. She views me as an upstart; I view her as a relic. She spends half her time trying to resurrect dead members to fill gaps in the Inner Circle just so she can have a loyal voting bloc. An alliance with her isn't difficult, Ethan—it's impossible. Still, I'm surprised you know our Inner Circle so well, even if you have future knowledge."
Ethan offered a small, knowing smile. "I make it my business to be informed on anything or anyone who could threaten me. Regardless, nothing is impossible when you offer a predator a bigger forest. Selene is ambitious, yes, but she's also bored. She wants power that transcends the mundane bickering of the Hellfire Club. All I need you to do is wield your influence to secure a private meeting. Invite me as your 'associate.' Once I'm in the room with her, forming an alliance will be a done deal. Even the elusive Destiny saw the value in my path; I doubt the Black Queen will be any less pragmatic."
Emma remained silent for a moment, the gears of her mind turning. The mention of Destiny was a masterstroke—it provided a layer of "mystical" validation that even a telepath couldn't easily dismiss.
"And the second?" she asked.
"Sage," Ethan said.
Emma blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Shaw and my assistant? Tessa? Currently, she is Shaw's shadow, Ethan. She is a great asset, yes, but her loyalty to Sebastian is absolute. She's been his right hand for years. Why would I risk my neck trying to flip a woman who essentially functions as Shaw's external hard drive?"
"Because her loyalty isn't to Shaw," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a whisper as the elevator neared the top floor. "Sage is a deep-cover mole. She's been serving as Charles Xavier's eyes and ears inside the Club since the very beginning. Every secret, every transaction, every mutant-trafficking route Shaw has ever touched… Xavier knows about it because Sage informs him."
The shock on Emma's face was finally visible. Her composure cracked, her eyes widening as she processed the sheer scale of the deception. "Charles? He... he would never. He preaches transparency and ethics. To leave a woman like Tessa in a den of vipers for years, forcing her to witness—to participate in—Shaw's atrocities? That isn't the Xavier I know."
"Xavier appeared in her life at her lowest moment," Ethan explained, his expression indifferent. "He gave her a purpose when she was broken. He gained her eternal gratitude, and in return, he asked for her allegiance. She will do anything he asks, even if it means staying in the dark forever. If you want to take over the Club 'the right way,' you need her. She has the data. She has the dirt. And more importantly, she has the keys to the kingdom."
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to reveal the opulent foyer of the penthouse.
"You're not coming?" Emma asked, noticing Ethan hadn't moved to step out.
"If I show up, things get complicated," Ethan said, checking his watch. "Peter is already worried about many things. If he sees me here with you, he'll spend the next hour asking questions I'm not ready to answer. Just tell him that Isaac Maddox sent you to help escort the Professor home. He'll trust you."
Ethan gave a two-finger salute as the doors began to close. "I'll be in touch about the marriage license, my Queen."
The doors shut on Emma's stunned expression.
Emma took a deep breath, smoothing her white suit and centering her mental shields. She walked to the heavy oak door of the suite and knocked. It was a sharp, authoritative sound.
The door was pulled open by a man who looked like he had just been hit by a freight train and then dragged through a car wash. Richard Rider stood there in a hotel bathrobe that was two sizes too small, his hair a wild mess of damp spikes.
"Yeah?" Richard grunted, leaning against the doorframe.
Emma's lip curled in a micro-expression of disgust. "I am looking for the one called Peter. And I would appreciate it if you addressed me with a modicum of decorum."
Richard didn't even blink. He just turned his head back toward the living room and bellowed at the top of his lungs: "PETER! SOME LADY IN A WHITE SUIT IS HERE TO SEE YOU!"
Emma winced, her telepathic sensitivity flinching at the sheer, unbridled loudness of the man's aura. "Charming," she muttered.
A moment later, Peter Parker appeared. He was fully dressed, though his hair was still wet from the shower, and he was frantically trying to button a clean shirt the staff had provided. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes contrasting sharply with the intensity of his gaze.
"Can I help you?" Peter asked, his "Spider-Sense" clearly pinging at the sight of her. He didn't recognize her out of context, but he knew danger when he saw it.
"My name is Emma Frost," she said, her voice regaining its crystalline perfection. "A mutual acquaintance—Isaac Maddox—informed me that you were in possession of a very important guest. He asked that I provide a secure escort back to the Xavier Institute."
Peter's brow furrowed in suspicion. He reached into his pocket as his phone buzzed with a text message. He looked at the screen, his eyes widening slightly as he read the confirmation from Ethan. The tension in his shoulders didn't disappear, but it shifted from "combat-ready" to "reluctantly accepting."
"Sorry, Isaac didn't mention he was sending someone," Peter muttered, stepping aside to let her in.
Emma swept into the room, her eyes immediately scanning the environment. She saw Richard Rider slumped on a velvet sofa, mindlessly flicking through channels on a massive flat-screen TV. But her focus quickly moved to the dining table.
Charles Xavier sat there, draped in a soft grey cardigan, slowly eating a bowl of oatmeal. He looked frail, his skin pale and his movements sluggish, but the light in his eyes was returning.
"Charles," Emma said, her voice softening just a fraction. "My, your children have really been causing a stir since you vanished. The entire mansion is in an uproar."
Xavier looked up, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. "Emma. I must admit, you are the last person I expected to see in this penthouse this morning."
"The world is full of surprises, Charles," Emma said, taking a seat across from him. As she spoke, she gently extended her telepathic reach—not a probe, but a passive scan.
She felt Peter's mind: a chaotic storm of guilt, responsibility, and a deep-seated suspicion of Ethan.
She felt Richard's mind: a buzzing hive of another mental existence and physical exhaustion.
She felt Matt's mind: another chaotic storm of guilt and responsibility.
And she felt Charles: a vast, deep ocean that was currently remarkably still.
She realized with a flicker of relief that Charles hadn't tried to read the minds of these young men yet. He was perhaps too drained; both his physical body and his mental muscles were still recovering from the trauma of the Cerebro incident. He was taking them at face value, grateful for the rescue but too tired to interrogate the "how" or the "why."
Emma kept her own mind alert, weaving a subtle web of static around Peter's thoughts—a "privacy screen" that would prevent Charles from accidentally stumbling onto any mentions of Ethan. As for the other two, there was no need to waste such effort.
"Finish your breakfast, Charles," Emma said, her eyes glinting with a secret satisfaction. "I have a car waiting downstairs. It's time to go home. We have a lot to discuss—and a few favors to coordinate."
Peter watched her, his arms crossed. There was something about her that he didn't like. He didn't trust her. But as he looked at the Professor, he knew this was the only way to close this chapter.
"Alright, Ms. Frost," Peter said. "Let's get him home."
Emma smiled, of all the intrigue and games she's had to play all her life; she had to admit this was perhaps the strangest and most interesting game she had ever played. She hated to admit it, but Ethan was quite a good match for her. She gained money, political power, and information without the need for emotional entanglements or trickery. While he sought to use her, he didn't hide the fact and gave her enough compensation to make it acceptable.