The name "Dr. Alistair Finch" was a detonation. It shifted the war instantly. This was no longer about corporate battles or public image. This was personal. Victor's cold fury became a focused laser. Every resource of Sterling Enterprises now hunted the doctor's new identity, his money, his hideout.
Elara became his anchor and his strategist. She sifted through his fractured memories of therapy. She looked for patterns in the manipulation, for clues to his current methods. Their united front was now a command center. The penthouse was a map room of their enemy's mind.
"He's trying to isolate you," Elara said one night, her voice cutting through the planning. "He wants you reactive. Alone. The vengeful man he created."
She leaned over the table, her eyes sharp. "So we don't react. We act. We build. We accelerate the project. We show him his tactics are failing."
Victor saw the brutal wisdom in it. The best revenge against a man who wanted to destroy his progress was to flourish in spite of him. They redoubled their public efforts. They gave joint interviews. They broke ground on new project phases. Their unity was a glaring refutation of Finch's entire life's work.
A week after Finch's name was revealed, a package arrived. It was at the Sterling Foundation's public mail address. A small, elegant box. No return address.
Inside, on black velvet, was a single antique silver key. No note.
Jax's security team swept it. Clean. No toxins, no explosives. Just a key. A message. An invitation.
"It's for a private viewing room," Jax reported a few hours later. "At the Clarendon Museum. Reserved under the name 'A. Fowler.' For tonight."
It was brazen. Finch was no longer hiding. He was summoning them to neutral, public ground. Confident.
"It's a trap," Jax stated, his voice flat.
"Or a negotiation," Elara countered, turning the cold key in her hand. "He's shown his reach. His knowledge. Now he's showing he can get to us anywhere. This is an offer to parley."
Victor's expression was carved from stone. "There is nothing to negotiate."
"Then we go to refuse him to his face," Elara said, her voice steady. "We look him in the eye. We show him the monsters he creates can learn to love. And that makes them stronger than he ever imagined."
They would go. The private viewing room would be their latest battlefield. Whatever the offer, they would meet it together.
---
The Clarendon Museum after hours was a tomb of silence. Grand marble halls echoed with emptiness.
The private room was on the third floor. A chamber for rare, ancient maps. The air was cool. It smelled of old paper and beeswax.
Victor and Elara entered alone. Jax's team secured the perimeter. A single spotlight lit a large, yellowed parchment on a central table—a century-old city map.
A man stood beside it, his back to them. Medium height. Impeccably tailored, conservative suit. He turned slowly.
Dr. Alistair Finch had aged. His hair was silver. His face was lined. But his eyes held the same piercing, analytical light. The gaze of a man who dissected souls for a living.
"Victor," Finch said. His voice was a smooth, cultured baritone. Horrifyingly familiar. "You look… well. Prosperous."
His gaze shifted to Elara. A faint, approving smile touched his lips. "And this must be the remarkable Ms. Whitethorn. The variable I did not anticipate. A fascinating subject to observe."
Elara said nothing. Her posture was rigid. Her hand rested lightly on Victor's arm. A silent anchor.
"You haven't changed, Alistair," Victor's voice was chipped ice. No fury showed. Just cold. "Still lurking. Playing with minds you can't understand."
"Understanding is not the goal, Victor. Influence is." Finch gestured to the map. "A city's ambitions. Laid bare. So similar to a psyche. All its pathways. Its defenses. Its vulnerable points."
He looked directly at Victor. "I charted yours once. I know every road. Every broken bridge. I know the exact pressure to make it all collapse."
"Then you should have stayed in the past." Elara's voice cut the air. Clear. Sharp. "The map you have is outdated."
Finch's smile widened. A flash of genuine intellectual pleasure. "Ah. Resilient. Adaptive. Perfect."
He focused on Victor again. "My offer is simple. A cessation of hostilities. I disappear. Permanently. The attacks on your company, your project, your mate… they end."
"And in return?" Victor asked. Every instinct screamed the cost would be his soul.
"In return," Finch said, his eyes glinting, "you grant me exclusive, lifetime access to the data stream from your R&D division's new neurological bio-sensors. The ones that map emotional response in real-time. Imagine the research potential."
The audacity was breathtaking. He didn't want money. He wanted the keys to a new generation of psychological manipulation. Using Victor's own technology.
Victor stared at the man who had warped his youth. The cold rage inside him was a perfect, still lake.
"No."
Finch sighed. A disappointed teacher. "Consider the alternative. I brought down Lucian Knight with whispers. I can do the same to you. I can make your investors flee. Your board revolt. Your public adoration turn to ash."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a intimate, threatening register. "I can make your mate's life a living hell. Until the bond you cherish becomes a chain of misery."
He spread his hands. The benevolent choice. "Or. You give me the data. You keep your pretty little world intact."
The offer was on the table. A deal with the devil. Or a war of total annihilation.
The silence in the room was absolute.
---
Victor took a single step forward. His voice dropped to a register so quiet it was more terrifying than a shout.
"You misunderstand, Alistair." The name was a curse. "You look at this map and see vulnerabilities. You look at me and see the broken boy."
Another step. His presence filled the dim room, pushing against Finch's calm. "You look at my mate and see a variable to be controlled."
Victor's lip curled into a sneer of pure contempt. "Your map is outdated. You created a monster of vengeance. You failed. That monster found a reason to build instead of destroy."
He was mere feet from Finch now. "You offer a choice between my empire and my mate? You are a decade too late. She is my empire. Her vision is my legacy. There is no 'or.' There is only 'and.' And you will not touch a single part of it."
Finch's composure cracked. A flicker of frustration. Impotent rage. The puppet master hated cut strings.
"You are making a catastrophic error, Victor. I can—"
"You can do nothing." Elara's voice rang out, firm and final. She moved to stand beside Victor. A united wall. "You've shown all your cards. The whispers. The scandals. The threats. And we're still standing. Stronger. You have no power here."
Victor gave Finch one last, glacial look. "The hunt is over, Doctor. You are the prey now. Run."
He turned. Offered his arm to Elara. Together, they walked out. They left Dr. Alistair Finch standing alone in the spotlight. His offer refused. His threats meaningless. His game in ruins.
---
The moment they cleared the museum doors, calm shattered into action. Victor's phone was at his ear.
"He's inside. Third-floor viewing room. Contain the building. Seal every exit. He does not leave."
Elara matched his pace. Her heart hammered with triumphant adrenaline. They had faced the monster. They had not flinched.
Jax's voice came back, tense. "Teams moving. Securing all points."
They stood on the museum steps. The night air was cool. Victor's body was a coiled spring of lethal intent. This was the endgame.
Ninety seconds later. Jax's voice crackled again. Laced with frustration. "Sir… we've swept the floor. The room is empty. A service elevator to a loading dock. Dock door pried open. He's gone."
Victor's fist clenched. White-knuckled fury. Finch had anticipated them. A pre-planned escape. A final, mocking demonstration.
"He was never there to negotiate," Victor growled. The words tasted like ash. "It was a performance. A final assessment. He wanted to see what we had become before he vanished."
The victory felt hollow. The architect of their torment was still at large. His malice intact.
---
Back at the penthouse, the high crashed. Exhaustion and grim resolve took its place. They had won the battle of wills. The war was not over.
Elara poured water. Her hands were steady. "He's running. That makes him vulnerable."
"He's also desperate," Victor countered, accepting the glass. "He knows my every weakness. He won't attack the company again. He will come for you. For my mother. He will try to break me the only way he believes he can—by taking what I love."
The threat was a promise.
"But he failed to account for one thing." Elara moved to stand before him. She placed her hand over his heart. "He thinks love is a weakness. He doesn't understand it's our greatest armor."
She looked up, her gaze unflinching. "Let him come. He'll find us ready."
Victor pulled her into his arms. A desperate, possessive gesture. The hunt had entered a new, more dangerous phase. The offer had been refused. Now, only one end was possible: total annihilation of one of them.
As he held his mate, Victor Sterling vowed it would not be them.