The air in Stephan's penthouse felt stale, though the windows stretched wide to the skyline. He stood near the fireplace, jacket tossed aside, tie loosened as if the fabric itself strangled him. The room, usually his sanctuary of glass, steel, and leather, now felt like a trap waiting to spring.
Paisley sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, legs crossed tightly, her heels still wet from the downpour outside. She didn't speak first.
He did.
Bernard isn't answering his phone.
She looked up slowly. Has he ever not answered you?
Not once. Stephan ran a hand through his dark hair, now damp from sweat more than rain. He was with my father before I could spell Lautner. He helped bury the first scandal before I was even out of law school.
And now?
Now he's vanished. After Giselle lit a match.
Paisley stood, walking slowly toward the bar. You think he's feeding her intel?
I don't think, he said. I know.
She turned sharply. How long?
I suspected after Milan. But I had no proof.
Then why the hell didn't you tell me?
His voice rose. Because I needed you focused! If I'd told you Bernard might be working both sides, you'd have burned everything just to prove you could.
She slammed her glass on the bar. And now everything is burning anyway.
Stephan walked over, crowding the space between them. Don't pretend you're not enjoying this.
Excuse me?
You love watching this empire shake. You love that it needs you to survive.
That's a lie.
He reached for her wrist but stopped himself. His voice dropped. Is it?
She held his gaze, quiet now. I didn't come here to destroy you, Stephan.
Then what did you come for?
To find out who you become when everything's taken away.
They stared at each other two cliffs daring the other to fall.
Then a soft chime.
A secure email popped up on the glass display. Stephan froze.
The sender: Bernard Milton.
The subject: Confession.
He clicked.
Paisley read it with him, slowly.
And everything inside her dropped.
Stephan… she whispered. He's been funding Harwood. For years.
Stephan didn't speak.
He walked to the window, silent.
The silence after the impact was louder than the shatter. Cracks webbed across the glass pane, but it held like Stephan, barely. His knuckles bled, crimson red drops sliding down his wrist and disappearing into the cuff of his shirt.
Paisley didn't flinch. She moved slowly, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, checking the damage. You're not that boy from boarding school anymore, she said. Breaking glass won't scare the ghosts away.
I should've seen it, Stephan muttered, pulling free. I trusted him like a second father.
Paisley stepped back. And now he's positioned himself to bring you down.
Stephan turned, eyes burning. He knew everything. Passwords. Signatories. The holdings under shell companies i let him manage the offshore branches.
And he used them to channel funds back to Harwood.
He nodded, hands on his hips. My father trusted loyalty over logic. That's the Lautner disease.
Not just your father, Paisley said. She picked up the tablet again, scrolling.
What are you looking for?
Patterns. Dates. Times. Who else knew.
Stephan stepped closer, voice low. Why are you so calm?
I'm not. I just know what panic looks like, and it doesn't win court cases.
He grabbed the back of the leather chair. Do you think I should tell the board?
She didn't answer at first.
Then, No. Not yet. If we go public now, it'll validate Giselle's entire strategy. She's baiting you.
He stared at her like she'd grown fangs. So what? We hide it? Wait for Bernard to leak the rest?
No, she said. We trap him.
Stephan raised a brow. You want to bait the man who outwitted your entire legal team?
Paisley's mouth curved. He doesn't know I know.
Stephan paced. You're enjoying this.
I'm surviving it, she corrected. There's a difference.
He watched her, something shifting behind his eyes. How would you do it?
I'd meet him. Face to face. Alone.
Dangerous.
So is staying quiet.
He stepped toward her, voice rough. He won't talk unless he's scared.
Then we give him something to fear.
Stephan leaned closer, voice close to her ear. Then you're the weapon. Again.
She looked at him.
No, she whispered. This time I'm the fire.
Behind them, the glass cracked further.
Below, someone watched from the street. A black coat, a tilted umbrella.
Bernard was closer than they thought.