The SUV arrived at 7:02 a.m.
All-black. Tinted windows. No plates.
The driver didn't speak — just stepped out, opened the rear door, and waited like he'd been given orders not to make eye contact. Like he knew exactly who she was, and who she belonged to now.
Lina wore all black — blouse, slacks, fitted wool coat. Hair tied high and neat. No jewelry. No makeup except for a single red line on her mouth like a dare no one was brave enough to take.
The ride to Navarro Corp was wordless.
When the elevator doors opened, the office floor felt different. Not quieter — colder. As if the building itself had heard what was coming and chose not to intervene.
She walked through reception without acknowledging the stares.
Felix stood by her desk with a coffee, eyes wide, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't remember what human language sounded like.
She took her coat off, folded it neatly, and placed it on the desk.
Opened her drawer. Removed exactly two things: her pen and the flash drive she kept clipped to the underside of the keyboard tray.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Alvarez, who had once looked at her like an object Navarro owned, now looked at her like a live wire slinking through water.
When she hit the elevator button to leave, it took longer than usual to arrive — enough time for whispers to start again.
The doors opened.
She stepped in.
Turned.
And there he was.
Navarro Jr., standing at the far end of the hall, hands in his pockets, smirking slightly — not in amusement.
In challenge.
He didn't speak.
Didn't wave.
Didn't stop her.
The doors began to close.
Lina held his gaze until the very last second.
Then she smiled.
Just a little.
Not kind. Not forgiving.
The kind of smile you give a man who's already lost, but doesn't know it yet.
The building didn't advertise itself.
No name on the entrance. No logo on the glass.
Just a tall, black monolith rising above 52nd Street — modern, anonymous, perfect. To a stranger, it looked like any of a thousand private equity towers. But Lina knew better. She'd memorized the real name months ago, before any of this started:
Varon Holdings.
Luca's empire in disguise.
She walked through the revolving door just before 9 a.m., her heels sharp on marble, her coat fluttering behind her like a banner of war. No reception desk. No security gate. Just a woman in a slate-gray suit holding a clipboard near the elevators.
"Ms. Reyes," the woman said without looking up. "Floor 47. Your access chip is in your right coat pocket."
Lina didn't ask how they got it there.
The elevator hummed to life.
By the time she reached Floor 47, she was ready — for suspicion, for surveillance, for the cold stares of people who thought she was sleeping her way into power.
What she wasn't ready for was how quiet it all was.
No open-concept buzz. No idle chatter. Just glass walls, polished steel, black floors, and long corridors with soft, soundproof doors. Everything in grayscale. Efficient. Unforgiving.
She passed three people on her way in — two men, one woman — all in tailored suits, all with phones pressed to their ears, all who looked at her like a question they didn't like the answer to.
Her office was across from Luca's.
Not beside it.
Across from it.
Strategically placed like an opponent across a chessboard.
The door was already open. Sleek black desk. Two monitors. A folder with her name embossed in silver. A small fridge already stocked with the coffee she liked. She said nothing — but she noted it.
She turned as footsteps approached.
A man in a gunmetal suit, shoulders like stone, eyes like razors. Late 40s. Clean-shaven. Carried himself like someone who used to be law — and decided power paid better.
"Jonas Leclair," he said without a smile. "Head of security. I handle everything that gets near him."
She didn't need to ask who him was.
"You don't trust me," she said.
"Correct."
"Good. I don't trust you either."
A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Then we'll get along just fine."
A second figure stepped in behind him — a woman this time. Severe bun. Cold blue eyes. Clipboard in hand.
"Ms. Reyes," she said coolly. "Sofia Kassian. Consigliere."
"No title on the door?"
"Those who need to know, already do."
"And those who don't?"
"Don't matter."
Lina nodded once. "Understood."
Sofia's eyes flicked toward the office across the hall. "He said nothing about your role. Or your authority."
"Sounds like your problem, not mine."
The woman's jaw tightened — just slightly.
Then she turned and walked away.
Jonas stayed for a beat longer.
"You'll need to earn your place here," he said.
"I already did," Lina replied.
He gave a single nod and followed.
She stepped fully into her office.
Sat down.
And across the hall, behind tinted glass, she knew Luca was already watching.
But this time, she watched back.
The building didn't advertise itself.
No name on the entrance. No logo on the glass.
Just a tall, black monolith rising above 52nd Street — modern, anonymous, perfect. To a stranger, it looked like any of a thousand private equity towers. But Lina knew better. She'd memorized the real name months ago, before any of this started:
Varon Holdings.
Luca's empire in disguise.
She walked through the revolving door just before 9 a.m., her heels sharp on marble, her coat fluttering behind her like a banner of war. No reception desk. No security gate. Just a woman in a slate-gray suit holding a clipboard near the elevators.
"Ms. Reyes," the woman said without looking up. "Floor 47. Your access chip is in your right coat pocket."
Lina didn't ask how they got it there.
The elevator hummed to life.
By the time she reached Floor 47, she was ready — for suspicion, for surveillance, for the cold stares of people who thought she was sleeping her way into power.
What she wasn't ready for was how quiet it all was.
No open-concept buzz. No idle chatter. Just glass walls, polished steel, black floors, and long corridors with soft, soundproof doors. Everything in grayscale. Efficient. Unforgiving.
She passed three people on her way in — two men, one woman — all in tailored suits, all with phones pressed to their ears, all who looked at her like a question they didn't like the answer to.
Her office was across from Luca's.
Not beside it.
Across from it.
Strategically placed like an opponent across a chessboard.