The ceramic weapon trembled slightly in Maris’s hand, leveled directly at Riva’s lower abdomen. “You will not take this from me!” Maris shrieked, her voice raw, cracking with desperation. “Not this! My legacy, my position, Brekkan’s name – it all hinges on this heir, *my* heir! You’re nothing but a vessel, a cheap, dirty vessel. My bloodline runs through the Thrace empire, not yours, you street rat! You think you can waltz in, a common imposter, and steal what is rightfully mine?” Her eyes, wide and manic, flickered between Riva and Brekkan, a wild animal trapped and lashing out. Brekkan moved, a subtle tightening of his shoulders, a fractional shift of his weight, but Riva was faster. Her own temper, a wildfire banked for too long, erupted. The idea of being a 'vessel' for Maris’s 'bloodline' while Tavin fought for his life ignited a fury that burned away any pretense of Shae’s meekness. Her heavy metallic clutch, a piece of custom Thrace engineering that Zora had insisted upon, became a projectile. With a grunt that was pure, unadulterated Riva Joren, she whipped it from her grasp. The polished silver block spun end over end through the recessed halogen glare, slamming directly into Maris’s cheekbone with a sharp, heavy crack. Maris staggered back, a choked gasp escaping her lips, her free hand flying to her face. The firearm wavered, her grip slipping under the impact. That was all the opening Riva needed. Years spent wrestling stubborn engine blocks and snapping rusted bolts had honed her reflexes into something brutal and efficient. She covered the distance between them in two powerful strides. Her fingers, calloused and strong, clamped down on Maris’s wrist, twisting with a practiced, unforgiving force. Maris cried out, a high-pitched sound of pain and disbelief. Riva didn’t hesitate. She knew exactly how far she could push metal, how much stress a joint could take before it yielded. A brittle pop echoed through the sudden silence of the private suite. Maris screamed in agony, her fingers splaying wide as the molded polymer frame clattered across the polished floor. Blood welled up at the corner of Maris’s eye where the clutch had struck, mingling with a fresh flow from her nose. Her face, already streaked with tears, now contorted in a mask of pure horror, not just from the pain but from the raw, unbridled violence Riva had unleashed. Her broken wrist dangled at an unnatural angle, throbbing and swelling instantly. Brekkan stepped in then, catching Riva’s forearm in an unyielding grip to pull her back. His expression was utterly unreadable, his eyes gleaming with an intensity Riva had never seen. He didn’t release her, but held her steady, a silent anchor in the storm of Maris’s pain and rage. “You… you *bitch*!” Maris sobbed, clutching her shattered wrist with her good hand, her eyes locked on Riva with venomous hatred. “You’ll pay for this! Both of you! My family will end you! The Thrace name will be dragged through the mud! Everyone will know about this… this illegitimate child, this scandal!” Brekkan’s gaze was cold, unyielding. He ignored Maris’s pleas and threats, his focus solely on the console embedded in the wall behind them. With a single, deliberate press of his thumb, a small, almost invisible light on the panel glowed emerald. Below them, in the grand ballroom, the murmur of the crowd abruptly ceased. A low, distorted hum emanated from the speakers hidden in the ornate ceiling, followed by a crisp, clear click. Maris, still sobbing, looked up, her bloodied face paling further. “What did you do?” she whimpered, a new, dawning fear entering her voice. Brekkan’s voice, amplified through internal feeds, filled the room, directed far beyond its walls. “Ladies and gentlemen of Thrace Industries, esteemed board members, and guests from Lontar Holdings,” he began, voice measured and flat. “I regret to inform you that our Unity Gala has taken an unexpected turn.” His eyes never left Maris, who was now trembling uncontrollably. “It seems,” he continued, his voice echoing with chilling clarity through the entire ballroom, “that we have uncovered a rather… significant breach of trust. One that impacts not only the future of our companies but also the integrity of a sacred legacy.” Maris tried to speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted wildly, realizing the implications of the green light, of Brekkan’s amplified voice. She was live. Every word, every tear, every accusation she uttered would be broadcast to the very people whose opinions dictated her world. “No… Brekkan, please!” she gasped, her voice raw. “Don’t do this! Let me speak!” He looked down at her. “Speak, then, Maris. Tell them how you engineered a fraudulent surrogacy, planned a simulated miscarriage, and intended to eliminate the true surrogate so you could secure your failing hold on Lontar Holdings. Tell everyone here how you manipulated market valuation with fabricated disclosures.” Maris crumpled. The words, forced out of her by Brekkan’s cold, unwavering stare, were choked with tears and terror. “It… it was for us, Brekkan! For our future! My family… they were going to disinherit me! I couldn’t bear it! I needed this, I needed an heir, a Thrace heir, to secure my position! I just wanted… I just wanted to be worthy!” Her voice rose in a wail of self-pity and confession, every word a nail in the coffin of her corporate existence, broadcast loud and clear to the stunned, silent ballroom below. The low wail of municipal emergency sirens began to cut through the reinforced acoustic glass. The heavy entry panels slid back with a hiss, admitting two Thrace internal enforcement officers alongside city police. They took in the scene in a glance: Maris clutching her swollen arm, blood dripping onto her collar, and the discarded firearm on the marble. “Maris Lontar,” one of the officers stated, his voice flat. “You are being detained for high-level securities fraud, aggravated assault, and corporate espionage. Step away from the weapon.” She looked utterly broken, her empire not just crumbling, but shattered into a million irreparable pieces. As the officers roughly but efficiently cuffed her, Maris cast one last, hate-filled glance at Riva, then at Brekkan, her eyes promising a vendetta that would never come to fruition. They escorted her out, her uneven sobs fading down the corridor until the heavy entry panels clicked shut. Brekkan finally released Riva’s arm. The silence that settled between them carried the sharp scent of ozone and copper. Riva looked down at her hands, still vibrating with the phantom echo of Maris’s wrist snapping. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. She had done it. Maris was ruined. Tavin’s future was secure. It was then that her comm-link, tucked into the inner pocket of her dress, vibrated urgently. She pulled it from the concealed lining of her silk gown. The caller ID flashed amber: *Thrace Medical Nexus – Surgical Wing 4*. She answered, pressing it to her ear, a knot forming in her stomach. “Joren,” she managed, her voice tight. “Ms. Joren,” a male voice, strained and urgent, spoke from the other end. “This is Dr. Kaelan from Tavin’s surgical team. We have a critical situation. There’s been a severe vascular complication. He’s crashing.”

Mechanic's Reflex