Chapter 34

The executive level of Wellington Holdings was empty at this late hour. The soft murmur of the city beyond the glass windows was the only accompaniment to the tension that existed between Ronald and Amelia.

The office dinner arranged with Ronald had lost its warmth by now, yet neither of them had touched the food on his plate. The subject of their conversation had deviated from office matters, lost halfway between the past and the present, between space and something unsaid.

Ronald leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of his desk. His sharp blue eyes never left Amelia, watching, calculating. She had changed—become a woman of fire and steel—but he wasn’t sure whether that fire would warm him or burn everything in its path.

"You’ve certainly made an entrance," he mused, a smirk ghosting over his lips.

Amelia's eyebrow rose, and she picked up the glass of wine that had not been touched. "Did you think I'd stay in the shadows, then?"

"No." His voice was flat, his face expressionless. "I thought you'd disappear again."

Her hand tightened on the glass for a moment. "I've been gone long enough. And this party—whether you like it or not—is mine now."

Ronald breathed cautiously, watching her. "You've never been bad at making statements. Tell me something, Amelia—can you live in this world?"

That he spoke her name cut something bitter through her chest. It was the first time in years he'd spoken it without scorn.

She set her glass down, moving closer to him. "You don't need to concern yourself with me, Ronald. I know precisely what I'm doing."

The smile on his face spread, but in the back of his eyes was another thing—something impenetrable. "We'll see about that."

There was a silence between them. The lights of the city cast long shadows in the room, stretching them out over the highly polished marble floor.

Ronald's fingers roamed the rim of his glass. "You never told me the answer."

"Which one?"

"Why did you come back?"

Amelia tilted her head. "You already know the answer."

A sparkle of amusement still lingered on his face, but his tone was far away. "Perhaps. But I'd rather hear it from you."

She held his gaze, unflinching. "I came back to take what was mine."

There was a vague something that flickered in Ronald's eyes—a something that generated a spark of tension between them. "Is that all?"

Amelia hesitated for a fraction of a second. She knew what he was suggesting, though he would not quite put it in those terms.

She was not going to gratify him.

Instead, she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "That's all you need to know."

Ronald smiled softly, shaking his head. "Still playing it safe, I see."

"Not at all," she said coolly. "I'm just not interested in games that aren't necessary."

He leaned forward, his forearms on the desk. "Unnecessary? Amelia, the entire game of you coming back is a game. You've set the board, made the first move. But do you even know what the second move is?"

She met his gaze without flinching. "I do."

"Then let us play and see how well you play."

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver through her, but she did not let it pass.

Ronald set his glass down, drank slowly before setting it down with calculated nonchalance. He did not rise to leave.

Neither did she.

The next morning, Amelia was in her office early. The weight of her new position was upon her, but she carried it as lightly as when she had first stepped into the boardroom.

Marson was already there, briefs in hand.

"We have a meeting with the private investigator in an hour," he said. "He's compiled the information on Catherine and Beatrice as you requested."

Amelia nodded, drawing herself into her seat. "Good. I would hear it all. I will not be surprised."

Marson hesitated for a fraction of a moment before answering. "You did well last night."

She glanced up. "Did you expect otherwise?"

A faint smile worked at the edges of his lips. "No. But I think even Ronald was surprised."

She had no answer to that.

Instead, she photocopied the documents on the table in front of her. The war had begun, and she was not going to lose.

The private detective, a tough, middle-aged man with penetrating eyes, shoved a folder across the table.

"Everything you wanted is in there," he said.

Amelia snapped open the file, rifling through the pages. Photographs, bank statements, phone records—everything she needed as proof against Catherine and Beatrice was spread before her.

"They've been siphoning money from Wellington Holdings for years," the investigator continued. "Hidden accounts, foreign transfers, dummy corporations. Catherine's a smart one, but she's not above the law."

Amelia's fingers scrolled over a particular document. "And Beatrice?"

"She's dirtier than you think. There's a connection with some less-than-reputable people. She gets caught and it will ruin what little reputation she has left."

Amelia's face was twisted in a sneer. "Great."

Marson glanced at her. "What now?"

Amelia closed the folder. "Wait. Then strike."

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*******

The next day, Amelia walked into the company's lavish lobby, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor, each click echoing with authority. Heads turned as employees snatched brief glances at her, some in awe, others in fear. She was back, not as the woman they used to belittle, but the one who occupied the most powerful seat.

By the door, Beatrice waited, exuding her usual poise—encased in a designer dress, diamonds glinting along the line of her neck, her posture straight. But her face was anything but serene. Something darker bubbled beneath her carefully constructed facade—something biting, almost venomous.

"Amelia," Beatrice said, her smile a tight-lipped thing on her mouth. "Still playing you well here, I see."

Amelia didn't flinch, her smile equally poised, as deadly. "Not pretending, Beatrice. I do belong here."

Beatrice moved forward, filling the air around them with her designer scent. "You really think a stack of documents and the last request of a dying man can give you power?" Her voice smooth as silk, but painted with disdain. "You are nothing more than a flash storm. A temporary phenomenon. And storms. always fade away."

Amelia tipped her head to one side, her gaze locked on Beatrice's, unwavering. "And yet they leave destruction in their wake."

Beatrice's hand twitched a fraction of an inch, a movement so fast it was barely there—but Amelia noticed.

"I must say," Beatrice continued, composing herself, "you do wear confidence well. It's misplaced, I'm afraid. Power isn't something you're given by a title, Amelia. It's something you understand how to utilize. And you? You're playing a game way out of your league."

Amelia smiled softly, the tone low, deadly. "You're right about one thing, Beatrice. Power isn't titles. It's control. And right now? I have more control than you care to admit."

Beatrice's lips compressed into a thin line. "You don't have control. You have an illusion. And illusions never survive."

Amelia took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "Is that why you look so nervous?"

Beatrice's jaw tightened.

"You underestimated you once," Amelia continued, her tone no longer bitter, but filled with lethal calm. "You won't have the chance to do that again."

Beatrice's grip on her designer purse grew tighter. "Enjoy your small triumph, Amelia. Because soon, you'll see—this world, this business, it will devour you. And when it does, I will be waiting."

Amelia laughed. "You think I'm the one who will be consumed. But let me ask you, Beatrice, how does it feel to know that despite your best efforts, despite all your scheming, I am still here?"

For a moment, something—a flicker of fear?—danced in Beatrice's eyes.

Amelia leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. "You feel it, don't you? The earth beneath you tilting. The walls closing in. It's tiring, isn't it, to know all that you built falling apart."

Beatrice's breath caught short, and she concealed her reaction behind a frown. "This isn't over."

Amelia smiled—slow, deliberate. "I never said it was."

Beatrice whirled about, her heels clacking on the floor as she stormed off, her back stiff with hardly contained anger.

Even though Amelia didn't miss the slight tremble of her hands.

She was getting to them.