The grand hall of the Apex Convention Center thrummed with the low murmur of ambition. Architectures of glass and chrome soared across the digital displays lining the walls, a silent promise of futures yet unbuilt. Maeva Corliss, cloaked in a charcoal suit that felt less like fabric and more like armor, stood near the rear, a half-empty espresso cup clutched in her hand. Her gaze was fixed on the imposing stage, where Garrick Lydell was due to make his grand entrance. Beside her, Soren’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, a grounding weight. He wore a simple, dark ensemble that somehow made him blend into the shadows while simultaneously drawing the eye, like a well-executed negative space in a striking visual. He seemed utterly at ease, a stark contrast to the coiled tension in Maeva’s shoulders.
“Remember the plan,” Bexley muttered, her speech tumbling out in a rapid-fire cadence of caffeine and adrenaline. She was practically vibrating in her seat a few rows ahead, a pair of oversized, blue-light-blocking glasses perched on her nose. “Garrick’s scheduled for a private network for his presentation. My hack will piggyback on that. When I give the signal, I’m switching the feed.”
Maeva nodded, a muscle ticking in her jaw. The air grew thick with anticipation as the house lights dimmed further. A spotlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the stage as Garrick Lydell swaggered out. He paused, basking in the applause, a shark’s grin plastered across his face. He moved towards the podium, a sleek tablet clutched in his hand, ready to swipe his VIP access. But as his finger brushed the sensor, the panel remained stubbornly dark.
He tried again, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. The system chimed, a flat, digital negative. Garrick’s grin faltered, replaced by a tight-lipped scowl. He tapped the tablet harder, then again. Nothing. A stagehand rushed over, his frantic comments barely carrying past the monitors. Garrick visibly bristled, his voice sharp even in hushed tones. The crowd stirred, a ripple of confusion spreading through the room.
Soren’s thumb brushed Maeva’s arm, a fleeting, almost imperceptible gesture. His expression remained neutral, but a glint in his eyes spoke volumes. Maeva felt a spark of grim satisfaction. His ‘accidental’ power outage had done its work.
Garrick finally snatched a backup laptop, his movements jerky with barely contained frustration. He slammed it onto the podium, fumbling with the cables. The room’s restless murmurs grew louder, punctuated by a few impatient coughs. After a tense minute, his presentation finally flickered to life across the colossal main projector display. A sweeping architectural rendering of the Solara Spire, Maeva’s original concept, filled the space. The audacity of it made Maeva’s stomach clench.
Garrick cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Lydell & Associates’ vision for the Solara Spire, a beacon of—”
His voice cut off abruptly as the projection behind him pixilated. The pristine rendering dissolved into a chaotic mosaic of static, then reformed, not with Garrick’s slide, but with a different image entirely. A raw, unedited screenshot of an email inbox.
Gasps erupted from the floor. A cold, slow smile spread across Maeva’s face. Bexley. She’d done it.
The email on screen was from Garrick. The subject line blared: “URGENT: Acquire Corliss Designs File_ALPHA_Altarin Royal. Prioritize immediate procurement.” The body of the email detailed specific instructions for his junior associates to “mirror her core structural data” and “integrate foundational elements” into their own bid, ending with: “Failure to secure this intellectual property will result in termination. Do NOT leave a digital trace.”
Another email scrolled into view below it, equally damning, detailing plans to “undermine Corliss’s local supplier contracts” and “ensure her complete isolation from the Zenith market.” The timestamp was recent. His face, projected in a smaller window in the corner of the feed, was a mask of unadulterated fury and utter disbelief.
The hall exploded into a cacophony of gasps, angry chatter, and the frantic clicking of camera phones. Garrick stood frozen, his eyes wide, his complexion draining to an ashen grey. He made a guttural sound, lunging for the laptop. He furiously stabbed at the keys, but the screen remained locked, cycling through his incriminating correspondence for all the Zenith architectural elite to see.
Humiliation burned across his face, a raw, livid red. He pushed the laptop off the podium with a violent sweep of his arm, the device clattering to the floor. His gaze, wild and desperate, scanned the assembly, then snapped to the back, locking onto Maeva. His eyes were not just angry; they were truly dangerous, promising retribution.
“Maeva!” he roared, abandoning the stage entirely, pushing past bewildered attendees with surprising speed. “You conniving witch! I’ll crush you!”
He surged towards her, his hand reaching out, aiming to seize her by the arm. Maeva instinctively braced herself, a flash of fear piercing her triumph. But before his fingers could even graze her sleeve, Soren was there. He moved with a speed and fluidity Maeva had never witnessed, stepping between them. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even touch Garrick, but the air around him shifted, became charged with an unseen force.
Soren’s eyes, usually warm and amused, were now cold, hard chips of ice. A terrifying, ancient authority emanated from him, a silent command that brooked no challenge. It was the look of someone accustomed to absolute power, to being obeyed without question. Garrick, mid-lunge, stumbled to a halt, his face contorting in a mixture of fear and bewilderment. He recoiled, his hand dropping as if burned, his gaze flickering nervously over Soren’s suddenly unreadable face.
“You will not touch her,” Soren’s voice was a low growl, utterly devoid of his usual playful charm. It was a warning, a promise of swift and crushing consequences. Garrick, pale and shaken, could only stare, then backed away slowly, muttering incoherently before turning and practically fleeing the hall, a trail of scandal and shame in his wake.
Maeva gazed at Soren, utterly stunned. That wasn’t her gigolo husband. That was something else entirely. Before she could voice the question forming on her lips, a sudden movement in the crowded hallway caught her eye. Lissette, Garrick’s 'heiress' fiancée, darted out from behind a pillar, her eyes wide with panic as she spotted Soren. She rushed towards him, her voice breathless and frantic.
“Your Highness!” she cried, just as Maeva rounded the corner.