Oswin Jerrick slammed his platinum-plated data-slate onto the polished obsidian reception desk. Its screen, displaying the alarming plummet of Jerrick Enterprises’ stock, cracked like a spiderweb across the image of his own smirking face. “Tell your elusive CEO that Oswin Jerrick demands an audience!” The woman behind the counter, possessing cheekbones that could shear slate, didn’t flinch. Her uniform, shimmering with microscopic house sigils, seemed to absorb his fury. “Mr. Jerrick, CEO Vespari’s calendar is rather… opaque. Why not try the public relations portal?” Oswin’s face, usually a mask of entitlement, twisted into a rictus of disbelief. “Opaque? I own half the luxury tech market! Well, *owned*. Before she… before this ‘Vespari’ started cornering every micro-crystal refinery on the continent!” He gestured wildly at the dizzying expanse of the corporate fortress lobby, a cathedral of diamond-encased ferrocrete and living bioluminescent flora that pulsed with a faint, hypnotic rhythm. He remembered a different kind of pulsating rhythm, a frantic, desperate beat against the sterile cold of a recovery room six months ago. The hum of medical machinery. The scent of antiseptic and fear. *“The procedure is ready, Mrs. Jerrick. Just a tiny donation, for the benefit of Mr. Jerrick’s ailing mistress.” Dr. Phlebo’s voice had been a greasy purr, his eyes glinting behind his surgical mask. Minola, then still Minola Jerrick, had felt a cold dread, not just from the impending scalpel, but from the realization that Oswin had truly meant it. He intended to harvest her kidney for Saskia Lunde, his perpetually 'ailing' mistress, whose latest 'rare lymphatic necrosis' was apparently only curable by a genetically compatible organ from his lawful wife. Her head had been fuzzy from the sedatives, her limbs heavy, but a flicker of pure, unadulterated fury had ignited in her gut. That fury had fueled a surge of adrenaline, clearing the fog in her mind. She’d rolled off the gurney with a surprisingly agile flop, sending the IV stand crashing. Dr. Phlebo, startled, had fumbled for her arm. But Minola was already scrambling. Her gaze had locked onto a pristine chrome catering cart, laden with champagne flutes and miniature gourmet canapés, trundling past the open recovery room door. A flash of inspiration, or sheer, unhinged spite. She’d launched herself, a mousy blur of hospital gown, onto the cart, commandeering it with a desperate grip on the handles. “Move!” she’d shrieked at the bewildered intern pushing it, ramming the cart forward. She’d careened down the gleaming hospital corridor, the surgical team in hot pursuit. The cart, surprisingly nimble, had picked up speed. Just as she burst through the hospital’s grand entrance, a sleek black sedan, Oswin’s personal chauffeured vehicle, had pulled up. He’d stepped out, impeccably tailored, ready to oversee his wife’s 'donation'. Minola, still gripping the cart, had skidded to a halt, scattering tiny quiches across the pavement. With a triumphant roar, she’d hurled a stack of pre-signed divorce papers, already notarized and filed, straight at his perfectly coiffed head. The documents had exploded around him like confetti, one corner catching his cheek. “Consider this the final delivery, Oswin!” she’d yelled, then slammed her foot on the cart’s accelerator, a surprising feature she hadn’t noticed before, speeding away in a plume of gourmet crumbs and righteous fury.* “Mr. Jerrick?” The desk attendant's voice, sharp and unsympathetic, dragged him back to the present. “Are you quite well? Do you require a water service?” Oswin straightened his custom-tailored jacket, an almost comical attempt at regaining composure. “I am exceptionally well. And I will not be relegated to a public portal. My company is collapsing thanks to your firm's predatory market acquisition. This is a matter for the CEO directly!” He puffed out his chest, ignoring the tremor in his hands. “Tell her Oswin Jerrick, her *former husband*, requires an immediate audience to discuss a… collaborative alliance.” The desk attendant merely tapped a comms device on her ear. “Tarkus, Mr. Jerrick insists. Conference Suite Four, if you will.” Oswin’s sneer faltered. Suite Four? That was the executive war room, reserved for only the highest-tier corporate titans. He strode towards the elevators, his confidence returning like a bad habit. Of course. Minola, whoever this Vespari woman was, would eventually realize the brilliance of his business acumen. She'd need his guidance, his stability. After all, Jerrick Enterprises had been the bedrock of Valerand’s luxury tech for decades. The elevator, a crystalline cylinder that offered dizzying views of the Valerand skyline, whisked him to the highest floors. The air grew thinner, tinged with the scent of ozone and rare minerals. Tarkus, a man built like a fortress with eyes that saw everything, stood by the heavy chamber doors, impassive as ever. Oswin barely registered him, too consumed by his impending triumph. This ‘Vespari’ would see reason. She’d see the value of a merger, of his experience. He would graciously offer his consultation, perhaps even a board seat, in exchange for a substantial bailout. And then, when Jerrick Enterprises was back on its feet, he’d subtly absorb Gilded Mantis, just as he always planned to absorb any valuable asset. The massive, sound-dampened doors slid open with a barely audible hiss. Oswin stepped inside, ready to deliver his carefully rehearsed proposal, to charm and condescend as only he could. The chamber was magnificent, a circular gallery where holographic displays shimmered over a table carved from a single slab of luminous meteoritic alloy. And in the CEO’s chair, a sculptural marvel of ergonomic design, sat a woman, her back to him, leisurely spinning. Her hair, a vibrant cascade of auburn, caught the light like spun copper. Her laugh, a soft, self-satisfied chuckle, made a chill prickle down his spine. She was eating. From a glass dish, piled high with his absolute favorite imported Piemontese white fungi, flown in twice weekly at astronomical expense. *His* tubers. He recognized the specific, earthy aroma. She spun slowly, deliberately, until her face came into view. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, met his. A sly, unapologetic smirk played on her lips. It was a face he knew intimately, yet had completely forgotten. The mousy, obedient wife, transformed into a titan of industry. Minola Vespari. His *former* wife. “Oswin. Darling,” she purred, taking another truffle and popping it into her mouth with an audible crunch. “Took you long enough to drop by. Had to wait for Jerrick Enterprises to hit absolute rock bottom before you graced my humble fortress?” She took a languid sip from a crystal flute filled with something that sparkled. “These delicacies are divine. A shame you stopped having them flown in.” His carefully constructed world shattered around him. The bailout, the merger, the subtle takeover — all of it evaporated like mist. He wasn’t here to rescue her company; she was here to own his. He had tossed aside a diamond, a veritable galaxy of them, for a tarnished penny. The cold terror of his monumental error slammed into his ribcage. “Minola?” His voice came out as a pathetic squeak. His legs, suddenly weak, buckled beneath him. He didn’t even realize he was falling until his knees hit the cool, polished floor with a thud. “Minola, my love, my dearest.” He scrambled forward, grasping at the edge of the luminous table, his eyes wide with a desperate, pleading agony. “What have I done? I was a fool! A blind, arrogant fool! I beg you, darling, forgive me! Come back to me! I can fix this! We can fix this, together! My firm needs your brilliance, Minola! *I* need your brilliance!” He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, a truly pathetic spectacle. “I implore you! My world is crumbling without you!” Minola merely raised an elegant eyebrow, observing his pitiful display with a detached amusement usually reserved for particularly amusing pet tricks. She took another morsel, twirling it between her fingers. “Your world is crumbling, Oswin? Such a dramatic turn of phrase. And here I thought you were here to discuss a ‘collaborative alliance’.” She leaned back, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Tell me, darling, does this ‘alliance’ involve groveling for the exclusive rights to my experimental bio-regeneration tech to save your failing product line? Because I’m afraid that formula is rather… proprietary. And quite expensive.” Oswin swallowed hard, a choked sob escaping his throat. “Anything, Minola! Anything you want! Just… just help me! Help *us*! I’ll sign over everything! My shares, my estates, my very soul! Just don't let Jerrick Holdings become a footnote in your annual report!” He looked up at her, his face a mess of snot and tears. “I still love you, Minola! I always did! Saskia was nothing! A mere… distraction!” Minola's eyes hardened, a flicker of genuine disdain cutting through her amusement. “A distraction that cost me a kidney, Oswin?” Her voice, though still calm, carried an icy edge. “You really have no idea, do you?” She pushed a button on the side of her chair. “Tarkus, remove him. I believe his ‘alliance’ has concluded.” Before Tarkus, who had silently moved to Oswin’s side, could even lay a hand on him, the massive chamber doors suddenly burst open with a resounding *THWACK*, rattling the stemware on the table. A figure strode in, radiating an aura of barely contained chaos. He was impeccably dressed, his attire an eccentric blend of traditional Valerand silks and futuristic, shimmering alloys. His eyes, the color of molten amber, scanned the room, landing first on Minola, then on the groveling Oswin. “Ah, Oswin Jerrick,” the newcomer’s voice boomed, rich and resonant, a note of mischievous amusement dancing within it. “Ideal timing. I was just about to send a carrier pigeon. You see, I’ve just concluded a rather significant transaction with your creditors. As of five minutes ago, I own all of Jerrick's outstanding debt.” He stepped fully into the room, a dazzling smile revealing perfectly aligned teeth. “Which, I believe, means I now own you.” Duke Davorin had arrived.

The Catering Cart Escape