Chapter Sixty Four: The Trap

Day Three

"Le Bernardin at one o'clock," I said, ending the call with Blackstone's assistant. "Public enough that he can't try anything stupid, private enough for real conversation."

Dominic looked up from his laptop where he'd been coordinating what looked like a small military operation. "You're sure about this?"

"Absolutely not," I said, settling into the chair across from him. "But that's never stopped me before."

The war room had evolved overnight. Sarah's team had turned it into something that looked like NASA mission control, complete with multiple screens showing stock prices, news feeds, and social media analytics in real time. The energy was electric, everyone moving with the focused intensity of people who knew they were part of something bigger than themselves.

"Alright," I said, addressing the room. "Here's what we're going to do. By the time I sit down with Marcus Blackstone tomorrow, Van Alston Industries needs to look like a company in free fall."

A few people exchanged nervous glances. Jules raised her hand like we were in school.

"Just to be clear," she said, "we're intentionally trying to destroy our own reputation?"

"We're creating a controlled demolition," I corrected. "Key word being controlled."

I moved to the main whiteboard and began sketching out a timeline. "Phase one starts now. We're going to leak selective financial information that makes our quarterly projections look catastrophic."

"But our projections are actually solid," said David Chen, the head of our financial planning department.

"I know. But Marcus Blackstone doesn't know that." I turned to face the room. "He's going to see exactly what we want him to see—a company hemorrhaging money, facing internal chaos, and desperate for a buyout."

Dominic stood up, his presence immediately commanding attention. "Everyone in this room signed confidentiality agreements this morning. What we're about to do could be considered market manipulation if it were real. But it's not real. It's theater."

"Very expensive theater," Sarah added.

"The most expensive theater in corporate history," I agreed. "But if it works, it'll save fifty thousand jobs and destroy a predator who's been hunting families for twenty years."

Over the next six hours, we orchestrated a symphony of controlled chaos.

Dominic's media contacts began receiving "leaked" internal memos about cost overruns and budget shortfalls. Financial bloggers started posting concerned analyses of Van Alston's exposure to market volatility. Business news channels ran segments questioning the stability of a company with an unconscious CEO and an untested heiress.

By evening, Van Alston's stock price had dropped twelve percent.

"It's working," Sarah reported, monitoring the financial feeds. "Market analysts are starting to downgrade our outlook. Three major investors have publicly expressed concern about leadership transitions."

"Perfect," I said, watching the numbers drop with satisfaction that felt almost criminal. "Keep pushing. I want Blackstone to think we're bleeding out."

Around ten o'clock, when most of the team had gone home and the war room had quieted to a gentle hum of computers and late-night analysis, Dominic found me staring at a wall of financial projections.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, settling into the chair beside me.

"About a dozen," I admitted. "What if I'm wrong? What if he's smarter than I think he is?"

"Then we adapt." His hand found mine, warm and steady. "But you're not wrong. I've watched you work for three days now, and you're seeing patterns that experienced analysts missed."

"It's just..." I turned to face him, feeling vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with corporate warfare. "Everyone's counting on me. Victoria, the employees, you. What if I let everyone down?"

"You won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Instead of answering, he stood up and pulled me into his arms. The kiss was soft at first, gentle, but it quickly deepened into something that made thinking impossible.

"Because," he said against my lips, "you're the smartest person I've ever met. And the strongest. And the most stubborn."

"Stubborn?"

"Magnificently stubborn." His hands tangled in my hair, and I could feel his smile against my mouth. "You don't know how to give up. Even when you should."

The kiss that followed was hungrier, more desperate. Weeks of tension and shared danger and growing attraction finally finding an outlet. His hands mapped my body with reverent care, and I lost myself in the taste of him, the scent of cedar and determination that was uniquely his.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"We should focus," I said, even as I made no move to step away from him.

"We should," he agreed, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "But we won't."

He was right. The next hour was spent in a haze of strategic planning interrupted by stolen kisses, financial analysis punctuated by whispered endearments, and the kind of intellectual and physical chemistry that made everything else fade into background noise.

By midnight, I was completely gone for him.

And terrified of what that meant.

Day Four

Le Bernardin was exactly the kind of restaurant where billion-dollar deals were made over perfectly prepared fish and wine that cost more than most people's cars.

Marcus Blackstone was already seated when I arrived, and my first thought was that he looked exactly like what he was—a predator in an expensive suit.

He was probably sixty, with silver hair that caught the light and cold blue eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. His smile was warm and practiced, the kind of expression that had probably convinced dozens of CEOs to trust him right before he destroyed their companies.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said, rising to shake my hand. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. I realize this must be a difficult time for you."

"Please, call me Scarlett." I let him hold my hand just a moment longer than necessary, projecting the kind of uncertainty I'd spent three days manufacturing. "And yes, it has been challenging."

We settled into our seats, and he made the expected small talk—condolences about Victoria, congratulations on discovering my heritage, polite inquiries about adjusting to corporate life.

All the while, those cold eyes were studying me like a scientist examining a specimen.

"I have to admit," he said after we'd ordered, "I'm impressed by how quickly you've adapted to your new responsibilities. Running a multinational corporation isn't easy under the best circumstances."

"These aren't exactly the best circumstances," I said, letting just enough weariness creep into my voice.

"No, they're not." His smile sharpened. "Which is why I wanted to speak with you directly. The Van Alston board has been making some concerning decisions lately."

"Such as?"

"Putting an untested heiress in charge of a company that's clearly struggling." He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a tone of fatherly concern. "I've been watching your stock price, Scarlett. The market analysts' reports. The internal difficulties that seem to be mounting daily."

"We're handling the situation."

"Are you?” He grinned.