The Counter-Strike

The air in the Thorne study was thin, stripped of oxygen by the mahogany paneling and the calculated malice radiating from Marcus. He didn't pace. He stood by the desk, a predator who had already calculated the exact moment his prey would bleed out. In his hand, the cream-colored file—the audit evidence—was a death warrant disguised as a lifeline.

"The board isn't looking for a wife for Julian, Elara," Marcus said, his voice a smooth, low hum that didn't reach his eyes. "They’re looking for a fall girl. Hand over the trust access codes, and I’ll ensure you walk away with enough to rebuild your father’s estate. Refuse, and you’ll be explaining the missing millions to federal auditors by the end of the week. You’re a placeholder. Don’t mistake your proximity to the throne for power."

Elara

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