Chapter 25 - Poison in Crystal
The air in the Salon Vendôme instantly thinned. The hum of quiet harp strings felt like barbed wire wrapping around my throat.
"You're lying," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register. "Chloe didn't have the brains to distinguish between a keycard and a locker key. She was busy posting Instagram stories from Julian’s rented yacht while his empire burned."
"Never underestimate a desperate girl with nothing left to lose," Hector murmured, tapping his cane once against the parquet. A white-gloved waiter materialized at his elbow, presenting a silver salver. Resting upon the velvet cloth was a miniature titanium key stamped with my mother’s maiden initials: *E.R.*—Eleanor Rostova.
My blood ran ice cold. That key was the only copy left in existence. It held the original legal patents for the Rostova silk-weaving technique—a proprietary formula Julian had tried and failed to replicate for seven years. If Hector held that key, he could mass-produce my family’s heritage line under his own conglomerate, erasing my mother’s legacy from history forever.
"What do you want, Hector?" I asked, refusing to let my fingers tremble.
"A merger," Hector said pleasantly, taking a flute of Dom Pérignon from the tray. "House of Vane will absorb your newly formed atelier. You will serve as the titular creative director, smiling for the cameras, while my board controls eighty percent of the distribution rights. In return, I don't release your mother’s final, unreleased collection under a fast-fashion label in Hong Kong."
"You would disgrace Eleanor's name just to corner the market?"
"Business is bloodless, my dear," Hector chuckled, raising his glass. "To the inevitable."
I stared at the champagne flute in his hand, then tilted my head, letting a slow, devastating smile carve across my face.
"You're right, Hector," I whispered, reaching into my clutch and pulling out my phone. "Business is entirely bloodless. Which is why you should check your private Bloomberg terminal right about now."
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The old man’s smile flickered. His personal secretary, standing half in the shadows behind the gilded pillar, suddenly gasped as his phone buzzed violently. The secretary rushed forward, whispering frantically into Hector’s ear.
Hector’s weathered face drained of color, turning the shade of spoiled milk.
