C2

"Ungrateful?"

The word tasted like ash. I stood my ground as Seraphina’s Ferrari idling behind her sent a cloud of expensive exhaust into the crisp afternoon air. "You use that word while I slave away for a Syndicate that treats me like a discarded shell company? You starve me, you humiliate me, and you expect a thank you note?"

Seraphina didn't look offended; she looked bored, as if my suffering were a weather report she’d already heard. "Keep talking, Valeria. Maybe it’ll drown out the sound of your life falling apart."

"You’re a footnote, Seraphina," I said, my voice dropping to a low, jagged edge. "Without Vincent, you’re a ghost in a designer dress. Out there—where the Moretti Empire plays for keeps—you’d be liquidated before you could call for your driver. Rot in the digital hell you created."

The slap didn't come. Instead, she smiled—a thin, cruel line. "You’re going to pay for every word of that, you low-life glitch."

"Go run to daddy," I spat, turning my back on her. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a corporate parasite."

The Voss estate didn't feel like a home; it felt like the inside of a motherboard—cold, efficient, and devoid of sunlight. Dom, the head of estate security, met me at the service entrance. His hand was heavy on my shoulder, steering me toward the mahogany doors of the primary office.

"The Boss is waiting," Dom muttered. "The princess made it home first. Don’t make it worse than it is."

"Enter," a voice boomed from within.

Vincent Voss sat behind a desk carved from a single piece of obsidian. He didn't look up from his holographic displays as I walked in. Seraphina sat in a velvet armchair to his right, her eyes red-rimmed from staged tears.

"Sit down, Valeria," Vincent said. The air in the room felt pressurized, the silence vibrating with the hum of the building's server stacks. "My daughter tells me you staged a public execution of her reputation today. Is it true you humiliated the future of this Syndicate in front of the city’s elite?"

"The market was closed, sir," I replied, my back straight. "And I only speak the truth. If your daughter finds the truth humiliating, perhaps the problem isn't my tongue."

"She told me to rot in hell!" Seraphina shrieked, leaning forward. "She threatened the family legacy!"

"Enough!" Vincent slammed his palm onto the obsidian. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He turned his predatory gaze on me. "I have housed you, styled you, and given you a seat at Blackthorn despite your... lack of pedigree. Most Syndicates would have deleted a weak link like you years ago. Why do you bite the hand that shields you?"

"Shields me?" I laughed, a short, hollow sound. "My salary barely covers the 'protection f*e' you charge me for the privilege of being your daughter's punching bag. I’m not a ward, Vincent. I’m a high-functioning prisoner."

Vincent’s eyes turned to ice. "Your arrogance is a luxury you can no longer afford. A few days in the Undercellar should remind you that the Morettis would have been far less merciful. You will stay there until you apologize."

"I’ll be in a casket first," I thought, though I kept my face a mask of stone.

The elevator ride to the sub-levels was a descent into a different world. The mahogany and marble vanished, replaced by weeping concrete and the smell of ozone and wet iron.

Viktor and Mikhail didn't speak as they shoved me toward the reinforced glass cells. Viktor’s grip was a vice, his fingers bruising the bone of my arm. He threw me inside so hard I skidded across the cold floor, the impact jarring my ribs.

"Pathetic," Viktor spat, his shadow stretching across the cell floor as the electronic lock engaged with a heavy clack. "If it were up to me, we’d just delete your file."

I didn't answer. I sat on the thin, industrial cot and stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds. Three hours passed in a blur of shivering and silence. Then, the heavy security door groaned open.

The scent of jasmine and vanilla hit the room first—Seraphina’s perfume, clashing violently with the damp air.

"Get her up," she ordered.

Viktor didn't hesitate. He lunged into the cell, pinning my wrists behind my back with a brutal twist. I gasped as Mikhail dragged a set of high-tech suspension shackles from the ceiling. They hoisted me up until my toes barely brushed the concrete. The pain in my shoulders was a white-hot scream, my joints straining under my own weight.

Seraphina stepped into the cell, unfurling a weighted leather cord. "My father is satisfied with a timeout," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "But I require a more personal settlement."

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the fear beneath the cruelty. She needed me to break to feel powerful.

I gathered every ounce of moisture in my throat and spat directly onto her silk blouse.

"You're a disgusting animal!" she screamed, her face contorting.

Mikhail’s backhand caught me across the jaw, sending a spray of copper-tasting blood onto the floor. My vision swam, but through the haze, I saw Viktor leaning in, mocking me.

With a surge of adrenaline, I swung my legs forward, catching him squarely in the groin with the heavy sole of my boot. He collapsed with a strangled wheeze, and for a fleeting, beautiful second, the fire in my shoulders didn't matter.

"Check the internal code, Seraphina," I hissed through my split lip. "This is a violation. And I’m the only one who knows where the backups are hidden."