Chapter 16 – Fire Beneath the Frost

Genevieve Moreau walked through the executive wing of Drake Industries with the elegance of a queen returning to her rightful throne.

She had spent five years transforming the American branch into a revenue-generating machine by revamping operations, building powerful partnerships, and cultivating a formidable reputation from coast to coast. Yet no amount of success abroad had satisfied her.

Because Alexander wasn't there.

And Genevieve did not believe in losing.

Not to competitors, and certainly not to a marketing assistant who couldn't keep her hands or eyes to herself.

She hadn't confronted Alexander directly. Not yet. Genevieve preferred war by a thousand cuts which are subtle and untraceable.

For now, she had two goals.

Win back Alexander.

And make Evelyn crack.

Evelyn was already feeling the strain.

In the days following their private confrontation, Genevieve had embedded herself in nearly every cross-departmental decision. She sat in on meetings that didn't require her presence, offered notes on campaigns that had already been approved, and somehow always ended up sitting across from Evelyn, offering polite suggestions with poisoned smiles.

"I didn't mean to overstep," she'd say sweetly after undermining Evelyn's design logic in front of the VP of Communications.

Or, "Perhaps Evelyn's creative vision is simply too... localized," she'd offer when someone praised the Seoul-focused market approach.

It was always subtle.

Always deniable.

Always effective.

Evelyn wasn't sure how long she could hold her ground before snapping. Her mornings began earlier now, her nights stretched longer, her posture increasingly rigid even in private. Every moment she and Alexander were alone, they pretended as though they were nothing more than distant colleagues. The weight of it pressed on her chest like a stone.

She wasn't just hiding her love anymore. She was fighting to protect it.

Then came the leadership dinner.

Held in the rooftop Sky Garden of the headquarters tower, the dinner was designed to celebrate Q3's performance and outline next-quarter directives. Evelyn wasn't supposed to be there until Linda called her up last-minute to represent the marketing team due to a last-minute cancellation.

The skyline glittered behind them like a mosaic of power. The tables were arranged in soft spirals, candlelight flickering over silk napkins and plates rimmed in gold. Alexander stood at the head table, flanked by department heads.

And Genevieve, in another red dress, sat to his right.

Evelyn arrived ten minutes late and slipped into her assigned seat near the end of the spiral. She was far from the head table, but with a clear view of it.

She had just unfolded her napkin when a low voice spoke beside her.

"You clean up well, Mrs. Drake."

Her breath caught as Alexander sank into the chair next to hers. He wasn't meant to be seated there but of course, he had reassigned himself.

"Are you trying to get caught?" she whispered.

"I'm trying to have a conversation with my wife without a third party listening."

His tone was flat, but his eyes burned with something unmistakable.

Evelyn swallowed. "Genevieve knows."

"I assumed as much," Alexander said, his voice barely audible over the gentle hum of laughter and music. "She's waiting for me to admit it so she can use it against us."

"So what do we do?"

"We give her nothing." He reached across the table, brushing her fingertips under the pretense of passing a butter knife. "But we start playing smarter."

His eyes met hers. "I won't lose you because of her."

Before Evelyn could respond, a voice rang out above them.

"Alexander, darling." Genevieve's voice was pleasant. Distant. Dangerous. "You're missing your toast."

Alexander stood without hesitation, lifting his champagne glass with one hand and, unseen beneath the table, covering Evelyn's hand with his other.

"To new chapters," he said. "And to those brave enough to write them in ink."

There was applause.

And Evelyn's pulse roared in her ears.

Later that night, as the building emptied, Evelyn returned to her office to retrieve her laptop and found a note taped to her screen in looping, delicate cursive.

"Careful, sweetheart. Not all ink is permanent. Some stains."

No name.

No signature.

But Evelyn didn't need one.

The war had begun.