"I need immediate, dedicated eyes on Vivian's movements for the next forty-eight hours," Axton commanded. He was not asking; he was stating a fact of the universe. "Every physical meeting, every documented phone call. Cross-reference all of it with Sebastian's known locations, past and present."
He paused, a microsecond of silence emphasizing the shift in priority. "The core focus, however, is digital. The Firewall Protocol must be fully implemented now. Lock down every shred of Creighton project data. The objective is for her to believe she retains access, but every file she attempts to view or touch should be an immediate, monitored decoy."
The trap had to be perfect, seamless. It had to present itself not as a snare, but as a glittering golden opportunity.
"Give her a bait file," Axton continued, his gaze utterly flat as it swept over the passing blur of city lights. The motion outside was irrelevant; the true action was happening on a server farm hundreds of miles away. "Something that looks absolutely crucial, something she'd risk everything for. A preliminary, highly convincing financial model for the impending takeover bid. It must be entirely and flawlessly false."
A muscle in his jaw twitched once. "If she attempts to extract it, if she forwards that data, we will have everything. Motive, proof, and the undeniable timeline."
Lance's confirmation was immediate, a metallic, professional sound of ultimate compliance. "Consider it executed, Axton. We will monitor the attempted extraction, track the recipient, and log all corresponding activity."
Axton ended the call. The silence in the car expanded, heavy and absolute. He returned the phone to the inner pocket of his jacket, the familiar weight a small comfort. His fingers brushed against the fabric, feeling the faint stiffness of dried tears he had not shed.
Elin was the only casualty he could not afford. Neutralizing Vivian and Sebastian was the only way to shield the one person he truly cared about
And the only viable strategy for that neutralization was to fully inhabit the role of the shattered, newly available fool, a man whose heartbreak had made him careless and exploitable
Axton did not wait for the car to stop completely. He pushed the door open before the tires had finished rotating, stepping onto the polished concrete of the private executive bay. The air was colder here, smelling faintly of ozone and expensive wax. He bypassed the main elevator, moving toward a discreet, unmarked steel door that led to his private communication hub. He needed absolute silence and security for the next call.
Inside the small, soundproofed room, he retrieved the second phone—his private line—from an inner pocket. This phone, heavier and older, was reserved for one person only. He did not need to check the time; his father, operated on a schedule as rigid as the corporate bylaws he'd written.
The screen was already glowing with an incoming call.
Axton answered, his voice instantly shifting. The clipped authority he used with Lance was replaced by a measured tone of deference and fatigue. "Father. I was just about to call you."
Axton," his father's voice, a low rumble of command and disapproval, cut across the line without preamble. "You sound ragged. Did you at least get a shower before heading into the office?"
"No, Father. But I'm here," Axton stated, his voice flat. He didn't offer an excuse for the rumpled suit or the lingering weariness; his presence in the building was the only apology required.
The conversation immediately shifted from corporate duty to personal attack. "Good. Though I must ask, is your presence truly complete, or is your focus still fragmented? I had hoped, after your recent unpleasantness with Vivian, you would return your full attention to the business."
Axton knew where this was heading. He braced himself, the cool marble of the building lobby already seeping into his bones.
"My focus is entirely on the project, Father. The takeover bid is on track, and the structural changes are being implemented now," Axton replied, concentrating on the facts, the defences.
"Structural changes," his father repeated, the words dripping with skepticism. "And what about the structure of your private life, son? Is Elin still a fixture?"
The question landed like a sharp blow, and Axton's carefully constructed composure fractured. His hand tightened around the phone. He could feel the familiar, immediate surge of protective fury rising, cold and clean, not hot and messy.
"Elin is not a 'fixture,' Father. She is a part of my life," Axton countered, the casual tone he tried for failing instantly, replaced by a rigid finality.
"She is a distraction," his father snapped, his voice gaining an edge of steel. "She occupies time and emotional bandwidth you simply cannot spare. Not now, when we are on the precipice of securing the legacy. She is an unnecessary vulnerability, Axton. I won't have you jeopardize everything for a sentimental whim."
Axton's chest felt tight. This was not about business; it was about control. He finally pushed back, dropping the submissive corporate tone entirely.
"You are wrong," Axton said, each syllable precise and low, carrying a dangerous undertone. "She is the opposite of a vulnerability. She is the reason I ensure every angle is covered, every risk mitigated. She is not a factor in my work; she is the foundation that allows me to do it well."
He paused, allowing his own statement to sink in, his gaze fixed on his reflection in the tinted car window, a mask of cold resolve. "And my private life is no longer a subject open for corporate discussion. I assure you, my decisions regarding her are mine alone, and they are not impacting the bottom line. If you are calling to discuss the project strategy, I'm ready. If you are calling to lecture me on Elin, the conversation is over."
"I want to meet this woman. Elin."
Axton went utterly still.
This was not a request; it was an order masked in a guise of superficial interest. His father didn't care to know Elin; he wanted to assess her, to categorize her threat level to Axton's corporate focus.
"That's unnecessary, Father," Axton replied, his own voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Her relationship with me has no bearing on the takeover bid. My focus is entirely where it should be."
"On the contrary," his father corrected smoothly. "You just spent two minutes defending her as your foundation. Foundations must be inspected. I need to see for myself who exactly has occupied your time. I want a dinner. This Saturday. You will bring her to the estate."
The silence stretched, thick and toxic. Axton felt a hard knot of resistance forming in his gut. His father's estate was a fortress of judgment, a place where people were evaluated based on their utility and influence, never their character. It was the last place on Earth he wanted Elin exposed to.
"She won't be subjected to an interrogation, Father," Axton warned, the protective instinct overriding all corporate protocol. "If she comes, it is as your guest, not your employee."
"She will be my guest, of course," his father agreed, the false congeniality doing nothing to soothe Axton. "And a chance for me to gauge the quality of your recent decision-making. If she is the pillar you claim, she should withstand a simple meal. Confirm the date, Axton. Saturday."
Axton knew he had no real choice. Refusal would only escalate his father's scrutiny and turn Elin into a greater target. He needed his father quiescent, focused elsewhere, while the real trap for Vivian was sprung.
"Understood, Father. Saturday," Axton confirmed, the word tasting like ash. He ended the call before his father could issue another command, slipping the phone into his jacket with a decisive finality.
Axton's footsteps were deliberately heavy on the polished marble floor of the executive level. He strode past the receptionist desk without a glance, his posture a carefully crafted picture of a man barely holding himself together. His suit was rumpled, his hair slightly dishevelled, and his eyes carried a strained, haunted exhaustion. He needed the entire floor to witness the CEO who had been publicly shattered, who had lost his personal anchor and was now emotionally compromised. The corporate theatre had begun.
He found Vivian already at her large, pristine desk. She was a study in polished anticipation, her silk blouse immaculate, every piece of jewellery perfectly placed. The sheer force of his presence in the doorway drew her attention. Her head snapped up, and Axton watched her expression undergo a slow, calibrated transition: a fleeting moment of cold, predatory triumph immediately masked by a look of shock dissolving into concern.
"Axton," she said, her voice dropping to a low, silken register, instantly creating an intimacy that wasn't there. She rose from her chair, gliding toward him with an air of practiced, graceful sympathy. "I heard the news. About you and Elin."
She let her words trail off, allowing the quiet weight of the "tragedy" to settle. She moved closer, allowing her hand to reach out and momentarily rest on his forearm. It was a light, lingering touch, calculated to convey deep, shared history and profound false comfort.
"I am truly sorry," Vivian continued, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine empathy. "That can't be easy. She never did appreciate the relentless pressure you're under, did she? This business, these takeovers—they demand everything."
Axton stopped rigidly in the doorway, letting the contact feel like a small, necessary violation. He forced his shoulders to slump and his eyes to fix blankly on the expensive carpet. He needed to embody a man too weary to hide his wounds, too broken to see the trap.
"It's over, Vivian," he bit out, his voice deliberately hoarse, wounded, pushing out the words like shards of glass. He let the raw, staged pain of the breakup feel momentarily real to sell the performance. "I don't want to talk about it. It's done."
He pulled his arm away subtly, a small movement meant to convey the need for personal space, not rejection.
But Vivian didn't retreat. She stepped closer, closing the gap he'd instinctively created, her scent of sharp floral perfume intensifying. Her expression softened further, morphing into something more intimate, more suggestive than mere sympathy.
"I know it's done," she murmured, her voice a warm, low current designed to soothe and entice. Her eyes, usually sharp with calculation, were now heavy-lidded as she looked up at him. "And you shouldn't have to face this alone. You need someone who understands the weight you carry, Axton. Someone who truly gets this world."
She let her fingers slide back up his arm, her touch lingering just a moment too long on the sleeve of his rumpled suit.
"I've always been here," she continued, her gaze direct, unwavering, attempting to re-establish the narrative of shared history and destined partnership. "We've been through so much together. Maybe... maybe this is simply the opportunity to put things back the way they should have been."
Axton felt a surge of cold revulsion, but he couldn't let it show. He needed to appear vulnerable, accessible. He swallowed hard, forcing a look of exhausted confusion and lingering heartbreak onto his face. He kept his body language closed, conveying deep inner turmoil rather than outright rejection.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Vivian, truly," Axton managed, his voice thick with what sounded like suppressed emotion. He took a controlled step back, putting a professional distance between them without making it a definitive, aggressive move. "But right now, I have to focus. I have to bury myself in the takeover bid."
He transitioned immediately, grabbing the conversational reins. "I need to look at the preliminary financial models for the second phase. Can you pull up the most recent version? The structural projections."
Vivian blinked, the seductive fog clearing slightly as she recognized the boundary he'd drawn—a professional one, not a personal one, which was crucial to the performance. A thin, knowing smile touched her lips; she viewed his redirection as a temporary setback, easily overcome later.
"Ah, of course, Axton. The work is always the priority."
Axton walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the cityscape, giving a perfect profile of a man lost in thought.
"I need that file, Vivian," Axton repeated, his voice brittle. He kept his back to her, offering a view of his rigid shoulders, the perfect picture of professional necessity triumphing over personal turmoil.
She didn't immediately move to her own laptop. Instead, she took a final, decisive risk. She approached his back, her movements fluid and slow.
"Work can wait just a moment," she murmured, her voice barely a breath against the sudden stillness of the office. Her hand reached out again, not to his arm this time, but lightly to the back of his neck, her fingers tracing the tense line where his collar met his hair. The contact was shocking, a deliberate crossing of the line. "You look like you haven't slept, Axton. You look empty."
Axton froze, every muscle screaming at him to recoil, but he held the pose.
Before he could offer a coherent, professional refusal, Vivian's other hand settled gently on his waist. She pressed close to him for a fleeting, deliberate instant, then spun him around. Her face was inches from his, her eyes glittering with a mix of practiced concern and bold, opportunistic desire.
"You don't have to be strong for me," she whispered, and then she kissed him.
It was a soft, calculated assault. Axton's body went utterly still, a column of frozen revulsion. He allowed his lips to remain slack, unresponsive, his hands hanging uselessly by his sides. He gave her absolutely nothing back, yet he did not push her away, letting the tableau stand just long enough—two agonizing seconds—to confirm her belief in his availability.
Vivian pulled back, a triumphant, yet concerned, look washing over her face. "See? This is what you need. A moment of release. Someone who understands you," she breathed, her hand returning to stroke his cheek.
Axton finally moved, a slow, laboured step backward that broke the spell. He raised one hand, rubbing his temple with a gesture of overwhelming fatigue and confusion, effectively blocking her touch.
"Vivian... no," Axton said, his voice roughened with a perfect mixture of regret, exhaustion, and forced clarity. "I... I can't. Not now. I'm sorry. This isn't fair to either of us. I need to focus. I have to protect the company. I have to focus on the bid."
He walked briskly to his desk, putting the physical barrier of the large workspace between them.
Vivian watched him, her smile predatory. The kiss had confirmed her advantage; his rejection was merely the exhaustion of a grieving man. "Of course, Axton," she said, her voice now back to a tone of knowing, intimate partnership. "Focus. I'll get you that file. The one for the financial models. It will help clear your head."