This morning, the office was louder than usual.Phones ringing, screens flickering, the low thrum of conversation pulsing through glass.A kind of tension that didn't need to be named to be understood — it was already in the air.
Pauline was waiting the moment the elevator doors slid open.Her expression was calm. Her grip on the newspaper wasn't.
"Miss Sterling, you'll want to see this," she said, pressing a cup of coffee into my hand, and the newspaper to the other. "Page three."
Financial Daily.
The ink still smelled fresh when I unfolded it. The headline was elegant — restrained — the way real trouble always was.
Crestwood Printers: Tracing the Threads
I read in silence as I walked, the words pulling sharper with every line.
"Between 2018 and 2021, Crestwood Printers recorded unexplained capital injections from offshore trusts collectively identified as Arachne.""Ownership trails blur across multiple jurisdictions — their beneficiaries, nearly impossible to verify.""Yet select stakeholders exited Crestwood's collapse with substantial capital gains. Notably, those with indirect ties to the Arachne network."
No accusations. No names.Just data, clean as a scalpel.
At the bottom, the quiet knife:
"Insiders note that several Arachne-linked entities have since diversified into property and retail sectors — areas currently led by prominent figures in Sterling Group's expanding portfolio."
I stopped walking. The page trembled slightly between my fingers.Subtle. Elegant. Devastating.
It didn't need to say her name. Everyone who mattered would already read it between the lines.
By the time I reached my office, the city skyline beyond the glass had turned the colour of steel.
"Pauline," I said quietly.
"Yes, Miss Sterling?"
"Call Legal. And Corporate Affairs. Tell them to hold all external statements until I've reviewed them. Then clear my morning. There will be a meeting soon."
Her eyes flickered once — she understood what that meant — then she nodded and slipped out the door.
I looked down at the headline again.The font gleamed faintly against the paper.The Arachne Trust.The web had begun to shake.
The boardroom was full - for an emergency board meeting.The polished surface of the table reflected the lights above — bright, clinical, merciless.
My father sat at the front, right next to the chairman, his facial expression unreadable.To his right — Diana.Her lipstick immaculate. Her smile calculated.The perfect image of a woman unbothered.
Except her hand — perfectly manicured, perfectly still — was gripping her pen just a little too tightly.
Across from her, the directors murmured over copies of the Financial Daily.The newspaper rustled like whispers in church.
The chairman cleared his throat, pushing his copy of the Financial Daily to the center of the table. "Charles, what is the meaning of this?"
Before my father could respond, "This is not a Sterling Group issue," Diana began smoothly. "It concerns a company that ceased operations years ago."
"Still," said Chairman Lang, "it raises questions about affiliations — and trust funds."
Her gaze flicked up. "If you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything," Lang interrupted mildly. "But public perception is unpredictable. The name Sterling now appears beside Arachne in a national publication. Read what it says at the end - areas currently led by prominent figures in Sterling Group's expanding portfolio"
The silence that followed was heavier than shouting.
Another director spoke up, "we can't have this kind of publicity. Not when we're about to launch the Island Residence project."
"What would the Vancourts say?" The director sitting on my left asked.
Diana, visibly flustered, argued, "We can't let the public dictate how we steer our ship can we? We are stronger than that."
Cricket silence.
Chairman Lang finally spoke, his voice precise, unyielding. "We'll need to distance the Group from any potential conflict of interest. Especially at this juncture. We thought replacing our Head of PR would have done that. It seems now that it didnt." He took a breath and looked at my father, "Charles, I know you are keen to have Diana join the company. But in this current situation, I feel it best if we wait until the situation stabilises before deciding on that matter. Now is not a good time. If you disagree, we can put this to a vote."
The word hung like a verdict.
Deferred. Not denied — but it might as well have been.
Diana's eyes didn't move, but I saw her jaw tighten.A hairline crack beneath glass.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for her gaze to find me. Calm. Assessing. Dangerous.
I didn't look away. She wouldn't want this to be put to a vote. A vote would be a lot more definite than just deferring the decision.
"Don't worry Charles," Diana said softly. "Chairman Lang is right, we need to do what is best for the company." She looked around the table, smiling radiantly, "I trust that is what everyone wants too."
Chairman Lang returned her smile, slightly relieved, "That's settled then. Elara, what are we doing in response to the article?"
"I will release an official statement on that. Legal is working on it now, and I will have it finalised for publication by the end of the day."
By noon, the official statement was ready. Pauline placed the draft before me — short, elegant, neutral.
"Sterling Group confirms that the article in Financial Daily refers to matters independent of the company's operations. The Group remains committed to transparency and ethical governance across all subsidiaries."
I read it once. Crossed out "independent." Wrote unrelated.
Small word. Sharper impact.
"Release it," I said.
By two o'clock, the press had it. By three, the markets had responded. By four, every news ticker in the city was looping the same phrase —
"Sterling Group distances itself from reports on Arachne Trust."
And just like that, the line was drawn.
The office emptied out slowly that evening. One by one, lights dimmed. The building exhaled.
I stayed behind, scrolling through updates — journalists calling for quotes, analysts dissecting the board's decision, the steady stream of noise that came after a single stone hit the water.
A pebble. That was all it was meant to be. Just enough to make ripples.
The door clicked open.
I didn't have to look up to know who it was.
Diana's reflection appeared in the window — sharp against the city lights.She didn't speak right away. She didn't need to.
"Congratulations," she said finally, her voice light as silk. "The company's spotless. Again."
I turned. "Like I said. That's my job."
Her smile was slow, deliberate. "You've always been very good at cleaning up other people's messes, haven't you?."
She stepped closer. The click of her heels against marble was the only sound between us. For a moment, I thought she might say something else — something real.
Instead, she leaned in slightly, her perfume faint and cold. "You should be careful, Elara. Sometimes when you clean too well… people start to wonder if you knew about the mess before it became a mess."
Then she smiled — and walked away.
When the door closed, the silence felt different. Heavier. Like the moment before glass cracks.
Outside, the city glittered beneath the rain — all light and illusion.
On my desk, the Financial Daily lay folded beside a cooling cup of coffee. The ink had smudged faintly where my thumb had pressed too long.
A pebble to the pond. And somewhere below, the ripples had found their way back.
As I was packing up to leave, my phone buzzed. It was Kaelen.
10:07PM: Don't get involved with Arachne Trust. It's not what you think.
I stared at the screen, the words cutting clean through the quiet.
Why is Kaelen saying this? Did he know about Arachne Trust? Why did he leave it out of the information he gave me on Diana? Is he related to Arachne Trust?
Somewhere beyond the city lights, the web was still moving — and I no longer knew who was caught in it.