Chapter 6: The Deal

The Helios Holdings tower cut into the sky like a monolithic blade—a monument built of glass, steel, and old money that practically screamed power and authority. 

It was the kind of architecture that forced people to lower their voices without being told.

“Thank you,” Lyra muttered to the cab driver. She paid the fare, grabbed her single suitcase, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the towering structure.

She swallowed hard against the tight knot in her throat, deeply uncertain of what fate held for her inside those doors. 

She had spent six years closing multi-million-dollar deals in high-rise boardrooms like this for Tristan. Now, she was walking into one for herself—with nowhere else to go, and a child she hadn’t told a soul about.

“Hang in there, little one,” she whispered, her hand briefly resting over her stomach. “Mummy’s going to start making the hard decisions now. Okay?”

She blinked back the hot tears threatening to spill over as memories of her ruined morning flashed across her mind. Steeling her nerves, she took a deep breath and walked through the heavy glass doors.

The lobby smelled of polished marble, cool air conditioning, and ridiculously expensive cologne. 

Behind the grand reception desk, two women in crisp uniforms tracked her damp, frizzy hair and the faint, angry bruise blooming near her collarbone, before their professional training smoothed their faces back into polite neutrality.

“Lyra Quinn,” she said, ignoring the sharp stares. “I'm expected.”

One of the receptionists checked her screen and sat up almost too quickly. “Mr. Crawford is waiting for you, Ms. Quinn. Fifty-eighth floor. Take the private elevator on the far left.”

As Lyra turned, faint whispers trailed in her wake.

(I heard she’s married, but she looks so young...

Lyra shrugged off the hushed gossip, stepping into the elevator. It was painful how Tristan’s shadow still hovered over her reputation, even after he had stripped her of her dignity and handed her life to another woman.

The ride up was dead silent. Her reflection in the mirrored walls showed a woman thinner than she remembered—exhausted, cornered, yet somehow still standing tall.

The doors slid open onto a floor that felt less like an executive office and more like a private kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped around the suite, with the city of Singapore stretched out beneath it, the harbor glittering in the harsh afternoon light. 

An assistant led her down a wide corridor and stopped before a set of imposing dark double doors.

“He's inside, Ms. Quinn.”

Lyra pushed the doors open.

Laurent Crawford stood with his back to her, his long frame silhouetted against the sweeping skyline. 

Lyra’s breath hitched. 

A sudden, vivid memory flooded her mind—a sterile hospital hallway, a blinding spell, and a powerful pair of hands catching her right before she hit the floor.

It was the sharp-profiled Greek god who had been haunting her thoughts since yesterday. The same man whose striking presence had made Tristan lose his temper that evening.

(He’s the CEO who requested me?)

For a split second, Lyra thought her mind was playing a cruel trick on her—until Laurent turned around.

Recognition flickered across his sharp features—quick, controlled, and instantly masked. 

He clearly remembered her from the hospital, but Laurent Crawford was not a man built for pity.

“Miss Quinn.”

“Mr. Crawford.”

He studied her for a beat longer than necessary—taking in the single suitcase, the subtle exhaustion she hadn't managed to hide, and the defensive way she held herself, like someone who had already lost too much in a single day.

“Sit,” he said softly.

Lyra remained standing.

“Your people offered five million,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm despite the storm raging inside her. “I want it in writing before I hear a single detail about your crisis.”

A faint, almost amused curve touched his mouth. “Direct.”

“I don't have the luxury of being anything else.”

Laurent walked over to his massive executive desk, opened a slim leather folder, and slid a contract across the polished mahogany surface. The Helios letterhead was clean and precise, with the retainment figure sitting in the center of the page like a dare.

Five Million Dollars. Half upon signature. Half upon resolution.

Lyra scanned the terms once, then again, searching for the catch. There was always a catch.

(There has to be a catch. This can’t be real)

“You get complete, unrestricted access,” Laurent said, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. 

“Internal systems, personnel records, transaction ledgers. You answer strictly to me. No board members, no CFO—I no longer have one. And you do not discuss this assignment outside this room.”

“And if I fail?”

“You still keep the first half. I’m not in the habit of punishing people for problems that started before they arrived.” His piercing eyes held hers. “Besides, I don't hire people I expect to fail.”

Uncomfortable with the intense, heavy silence stretching between them, Lyra picked up the pen, ready to finalize the deal and throw herself into the work.

She signed her name. The pen felt heavier in her hand than it should have.

Laurent reclaimed the contract, verified her signature, and set it neatly aside.

“Someone routed twelve million dollars through a dormant shell subsidiary two days ago,” he said without preamble, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Then another thirty million using my father's master authorization codes. My father has been dead for over two years.”

He swallowed hard, a subtle crack in his armor revealing that the loss of his father still carried a sting.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Lyra said softly, catching the momentary flash of grief in his eyes.

“Institutional investors were fed a fraudulent default report within minutes of the wire,” he continued smoothly, as if the moment of vulnerability had never happened. “The sell-off began before my board even realized we’d been hit.”

Lyra’s mind instantly locked into high gear—the sharp, analytical mode that used to make multinational corporations and high-level firms call her in the middle of the night.

“Internal,” she said.

“That’s my conclusion.”

“You fired your CFO?” Lyra asked, remembering his earlier remark.

“He knew more than he was admitting.”

“Or he was useful as a distraction.” She set her suitcase down. “I’ll need every transfer log from the last ninety days. Every person with access to legacy accounts. And the original source of your father’s authorization credentials — who inherited them, who stored them, who last used them while he was alive.”

Laurent watched her the way men watched storms they couldn’t control. The way her mind moved was cleaner than half the people he had already paid to solve this.

“You’ll have it all within the hour.”

She gave a single nod. Her thoughts briefly drifted back to the check that would soon hit her bank account. It would buy her a private apartment, safety, and time. It wouldn't buy back the life Tristan had set ablaze, but it would give her the power to build a new one.

Laurent took a slow step forward, stopping just short of her personal space. Lyra’s pulse spiked as she suddenly realized how close he was standing.

“You were at the hospital,” he said quietly, his low voice cutting through the quiet office. “Yesterday...”

Lyra’s heart leaped into her throat.

(Oh, shit. He remembers.