Under the Same Roof

                      POV: Vivienne Ashford

"You're standing on my carpet, Damon," I said, stopping two paces inside the grand entrance of Ashford Manor.

Damon stood near the foot of the staircase, swirling a crystal glass of whiskey. The dark tailored suit he had worn in court was unbuttoned at the neck, his hair slightly disheveled. Despite losing his five percent shares in court two hours earlier and already having been stripped of his executive authority, his posture held a bitter, defiant edge.

"It's our carpet until the original Cooling-Off Period expires, wife," Damon said, taking a slow sip. "Judge Thorne stripped my shares today, but he didn't touch my residency rights under Article 14. The divorce papers were legally served, but the one-year period hasn't expired. I still have the right to occupy the west wing."

"Your corporate authority is gone, your voting rights are gone, and you no longer have access to company accounts," I replied, handing my coat to the housekeeper. "You're here because the law requires it, not because I want you under my roof. Don't mistake that arrangement for forgiveness."

Damon set his glass down on the side table with a hard clatter.

"Enjoy your temporary victory, Vivienne. You got your five percent back, but Thursday's quarterly board meeting isn't going to be the victory lap you think it is."

"You no longer hold shares or executive authority. You don't get a vote."

"I don't need a seat to influence the room," Damon said, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. "Marcus Vance is already talking to the institutional investors. And don't forget—Camille is carrying the Pruitt heir. In eight months, I'll have a legitimate child while you sit alone in this empty estate."

"Security has revoked your keycard for the executive elevators," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "If you set foot on the thirtieth floor of Ashford HQ before Thursday, the guards will remove you."

I walked past him toward the east wing, not giving him another second of my attention.

---

At nine o'clock Wednesday morning, Genevieve slid a thick leather binder across my desk at Ashford Technologies headquarters.

"The board structure is locked for tomorrow's meeting," Genevieve said, pulling up the digital ledger on her tablet. "Your restored thirty-five percent equity block, together with your father's twenty-five percent, means the Ashford family holds sixty percent of the company collectively. The outside investors hold the remaining forty percent."

"Has Vance reached out to any of the board members?" I asked, scanning the shareholder roster.

"He tried contacting Director Sterling and Arthur Vance last night," Genevieve replied. "He suggested that your involvement with Roman Cavendish creates an operational liability for our cloud expansion project."

"Did Sterling take the bait?"

"Sterling cares about quarterly yield and stock valuation," Genevieve said flatly. "Damon's proxy threat is completely dead. He no longer owns the five percent shares he intended to use against us. But Vance is trying to influence the remaining investors. We need to make sure the Ashford voting blocks remain aligned and that nobody is persuaded to undermine the expansion."

"Good," I said, closing the binder. "Damon thinks he can use rumors to stall our momentum. Tomorrow we shut him down for good."

Genevieve picked up her tablet and headed for the door.

"I'll have the final financial annexes printed by four o'clock."

As the office door clicked shut, I pulled the matte-black phone from my blazer pocket.

It vibrated once in my palm. I pressed the screen and brought the receiver to my ear.

"The court ruling registered on the corporate registry this morning," Roman's voice came through, low and steady. "Thirty-five percent looks good on you, little rabbit."

"Genevieve is locking down the board for tomorrow's vote," I said, turning to face the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. "What did your internal audit find about Julian Cross's hardware key?"

"The key wasn't stolen from a vault, and the system wasn't hacked," Roman said. His voice remained calm, but something colder lay beneath it. "My lieutenant, who had been entrusted with physical custody of Cross's backup hardware key, experienced an unexplained memory lapse on the night of October fourteenth."

I stiffened.

"A memory lapse?"

"He was stationed at Obsidian's private bar at five-thirty that evening," Roman rasped. "A woman he didn't recognize ordered a vintage scotch and passed a glass to him. His next memory is waking up at ten o'clock in a locked office. The hardware key was still inside his jacket."

"She could have drugged him," I said, my voice tightening. "That would have given her an opportunity to use the key, extract the private-floor access log before the four a.m. wipe, and return it without him noticing."

"She knew our security rotations. She knew who had physical custody of the hardware key, and she knew exactly which file to pull," Roman said. "Which means Marcus Vance didn't plan this. And Damon certainly didn't."

"Someone deployed a trained operative to target your security network specifically to give Vance that log," I said, processing the implications.

"Precisely," Roman replied, his tone chillingly calm. "Whoever arranged this didn't just want to freeze your shares. They wanted to force my syndicate into a public legal battle while using Vance to corner you. You're dealing with someone far bigger than your ex-husband."

"I can handle my board meeting tomorrow," I said firmly. "My rules still stand."

"Your rules stand," Roman said. "But my team is hunting that woman. When I find out who handed her that glass, we'll see who's really pulling Vance's strings."

---

Ten minutes after ending the call, the brass latch on my office door clicked open.

Genevieve walked back in, holding a slim, heavy black courier envelope sealed with dark red wax.

"This just arrived at the front desk via private courier," Genevieve said, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "It was marked urgent and hand-delivered directly to you. No return address."

"Did security run it through the scanners?"

"Clean," Genevieve said, handing the envelope across the desk. "No electronic traces."

I picked up a silver letter opener and broke the red wax seal. Inside was a single high-resolution photograph printed on heavy matte paper.

I pulled the photograph out and laid it flat under the desk lamp.

The image was a crisp, telephoto surveillance shot taken late last night outside an upscale private dining club downtown. It showed Marcus Vance standing near the curb, talking to a tall woman dressed in a dark trench coat.

Her face was turned away from the camera, shadowed by the brim of a wide hat. But resting prominently against the lapel of her coat was a distinctive silver pendant shaped like a coiled serpent around an inverted obsidian crest.

I turned the photograph over.

On the back was a short line written in typed block lettering:

Vance isn't working for Damon Pruitt. Check who bought Director Sterling's debt last night.