“If you don’t remember anything, then why is this diary entirely about him?!” Garrick shrieked, his voice splitting the sterile air of the medical bay. He thrust the yellowed book forward, its brittle cover threatening to tear. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, darted between Zinnia and Bastian, landing with frantic accusation on the colossal diamond glinting on Zinnia’s finger. Zinnia felt a prickle of genuine alarm, not for Garrick’s theatrical anguish, but for the dangerous tremor in her own consciousness. The neural scan alarm had barely ceased its keening. Her ex-husband was waving a leather-bound notebook with actual age in its stitching, not the staged decoys she had ordered salted throughout his penthouses. A true relic from a past she couldn’t access, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed façade of her new self. The amnesia loophole was delicate, a finely tuned engine running on curated ignorance. Bastian stepped smoothly between them, his tailored shoulders squaring. “Perhaps,” he drawled, smooth as chilled gin, “because Zinnia and I share an extensive, unacknowledged past. An alliance you conveniently erased from her life, Garrick. One that is now resuming its rightful course.” He glanced at Zinnia, a question in his eyes. Zinnia’s impulse, that fiery, unyielding core of her amnesiac persona, ignited. She wasn’t about to let Garrick, the man who had triggered this elaborate revenge, derail her now. Not with a dingy old book and a ragged cry. Not when Bastian was looking at her like that, challenging her to claim their new reality. Her pulse rattled behind her temples, jarring against the chill that crept at the edge of her sight. But fear was for her past self. Her present self was a CEO, a titan, a woman who bought entire commercial blocks on a whim. “A history that is undeniable, Garrick,” Zinnia stated, her voice sharp, cutting through Garrick’s whimpering. She stepped around Bastian, closing the short distance between them. Her gaze locked onto Bastian’s, intense and daring. “And a future that is non-negotiable.” Without another word, Zinnia reached up, her hand cupping the back of Bastian’s neck. She pulled him down, hard, into a kiss that was anything but fake. It was deep, bruising, a declaration of war and possession. His lips were firm, responsive, tasting of something primal and unyielding. The colossal diamond on her finger pressed cold against his cheek as she angled her head, pouring every ounce of her defiant rage, every spark of her confusing new desire, into the embrace. She felt his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and for a terrifying, dizzying second, the world spun. Colors bled at the edges of her vision, a blinding flash of white, a faint scent of old parchment and jasmine. A sharp, near-painful shock rattled her skull, like a brass bell struck inside an empty vault. Her amnesia, she realized with a sickening lurch, was not just destabilizing; it was fraying at the seams. Garrick’s cry of pure, unadulterated anguish tore through the medical bay, a sound so bereft it might have come from a mortally wounded animal. The diary clattered to the floor, its pages splayed open, revealing faded, elegant script. He stumbled backward, knocking over a stainless steel instrument trolley with a deafening crash. His face, already blotched with grief, twisted into something truly grotesque. His shoulders hunched, his hands flew up to cover his eyes, and he began to keen, a high-pitched, desolate wail that echoed off the polished walls. Zinnia broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, the phantom pain in her head a dull throb. She ignored it, ignored Garrick, who was now collapsing into a heap by the door, sobbing uncontrollably. Bastian’s eyes, dark and searching, met hers. He caught the flicker of bewilderment behind her defiance, but he merely tightened his arm around her ribs, steadying her. “Tamsin,” Zinnia commanded, her voice surprisingly steady despite the internal tumult. “Arrange transport. Immediately. Get him out of here.” She nodded towards Garrick, a dismissive flick of her wrist. Tamsin, who had watched the entire scene unfold with a placid expression, already had her comm-link pressed to her ear. “The Vellum-wing hover-limo is en route, CEO Corvell. ETA thirty seconds.” Zinnia turned, pulling Bastian with her, and walked out of the medical bay, leaving Garrick’s broken sobs to reverberate behind them. The jolt to her mind was still there, a persistent ache behind her eyes, but she pushed it down. There was too much to do, too much to win. The Vellum-wing hover-limo, a sleek obsidian wedge, dropped without a purr onto the private sky-pad of the Corvell Spire. As Zinnia and Bastian stepped inside, the plush interior swallowed the city’s hum. Zinnia settled into the ergonomic seat, the throb in her head a constant reminder of her delicate mental state. Tamsin slid into the jump seat opposite, her datapad already glowing with new alerts. Just as the vehicle began its smooth ascent, a frantic thud echoed against the reinforced panoramic windshield. Zinnia, startled, looked up. Garrick Van-Dorn, somehow sprinting up the auxiliary fire stairwell, was splayed across the hood of the craft, clinging frantically to the wipers. His tear-streaked face was pressed against the glass, distorting his features into a piteous mask. He was shrieking, but the armored acoustic glass reduced his begging to muted, frantic contortions of his mouth. His hands, still trembling, scrabbled in his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled sheaf of documents, pressing them against the glass. Zinnia could make out the bold header: ‘VAN-DORN GLOBAL – REMAINING SHARE ALLOTMENT.’ He mouthed something, his face a caricature of agony. “*All of it! Please! Just… just talk to me!*” Zinnia stared at him, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. This was too easy. Too perfect. She leaned forward, pressing a button on her console. The heavy-duty windshield wipers whirred to life, slamming into Garrick’s clutching fingers. He let out a soundless yelp as the carbon-fiber blades scraped against his knuckles, breaking his hold. He slid off the hood, tumbling onto the sky-pad with a pathetic squawk, the share documents fluttering uselessly around him. “Tamsin,” Zinnia said, her voice laced with amusement. “Retrieve those documents. Execute the transfer. Immediately. All outstanding shares of Van-Dorn Global to Corvell holdings abroad.” Tamsin nodded, already tapping furiously on her datapad. “Transfer initiated. Anticipated completion within ten seconds. Federal oversight systems bypassed via Project Chimera protocols.” Just as a triumphant grin touched Zinnia’s face, the entire panoramic screen of the limo flickered, overriding the city vista with an emergency news broadcast. The Corvell Industries logo, usually a symbol of power, flashed ominously on screen. Lissette Moreau’s face, sharp and determined, filled the display, standing before a phalanx of reporters. Her voice, amplified and authoritative, cut through the limo’s speakers. “—Corvell Industries, under its new, unstable leadership, has illegally weaponized experimental neural technology for corporate espionage and personal vendettas.” Her eyes, cold and direct, seemed to pierce through the screen, straight into Zinnia’s. “We demand a full federal neural-audit of Corvell Industries, to commence no later than midnight tonight.”

Press Conferences and Pulse Rates