Jadwiga stared, the ventilation draft from the terminal bank washing like freezer exhaust against her skin. *Ursula*. The name, when Krystian uttered it, was a physical blow, colder than any data stream. Her mind, so recently a whirring engine of corporate strategy, now felt like a broken clock. The bubbly pastry chef warred with the ghost of the Oracle, an old fracture throbbing under cold weather. “Ursula,” Krystian repeated, his voice now a low growl, the stark lights reflecting in his eyes. “She signed off on the ‘accident’ report. Used her clout to close the investigation within hours. Said it was a hydraulic line rupture. A tidy malfunction, considering what you’d just put in motion.” Jaga’s gaze drifted to the glowing screen, the 'Project Nightingale' file still open. The elaborate, cruel architecture of it. A phantom headache bloomed behind her eyes. “But… why?” she whispered. The sweet, simple world she’d inhabited for months shattered into sharp shards. “She’s your aunt. Your own kin.” Krystian’s lips thinned. “Kinship is decorative, Jadwiga. Control is the currency. Ursula wants more equity, more board seats, complete leverage. She sees me as a temporary placeholder. And you? A liability, then a pawn, now perhaps a threat to her ambitions.” “Her own ambitions?” Jaga asked. If Ursula meant to eliminate both of them, the Rostoks were mere ballast shoved overboard. The ledger reconciled with dry, mechanical logic. Krystian nodded. “She wants me isolated, driving a wedge between OmniCorp and the Rostok consortium. Forcing this merger was meant to consolidate our executive bloc. If the Rostoks believe we sabotaged them, the pact collapses, leaving Ursula to pick up the salvage.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a rare sign of genuine frustration. “Izolda Rostok is a viper, but she’s predictable. She values loyalty, even if it’s to her own ambition. If we can convince her Ursula is playing both sides…” Jaga’s thoughts pivoted, the 'Treason Tart' recipe flashing into focus. A coalition with Izolda Rostok—the rival who had openly branded her an apex predator, the one nearly crushed by a ballroom chandelier that past-Jaga had likely loosened. “How do I approach a viper?” Jaga asked, a dry humor lacing her tone. “With a peace offering, I presume? Perhaps something… sweet, but with a sharp kick.” Krystian permitted himself a dry grimace. “Izolda’s defenses are legendary. Her penthouse is an iron vault. Good luck slipping past her perimeter.” “And her physical one,” Jaga murmured, already planning. “She lives in the Argent Towers, on the thirty-fifth floor, doesn’t she? Penthouse Delta?” Krystian blinked, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?” Jaga merely offered a cryptic shrug, the Oracle's ghost momentarily peeking through. “A chef always knows her ingredients. Especially the bitter ones.” Hours later, beneath Varsova’s soot-dark sky, Jaga hauled herself up the iron rungs of the Argent Towers fire escape. The 'Treason Tart,' packed with lemon and elderflower, rode snugly in a thermal backpack. Krystian’s keycard had cleared the service basement, but Penthouse Delta’s vestibule intercom had merely spat a flat refusal when she offered pastry. Jaga was rarely dissuaded when armed with butter and glucose. She'd located a maintenance hatch on the thirty-fifth floor, meant for window cleaners. It was a tight squeeze, her floral apron catching on a loose bolt, but she wriggled through, landing with a soft thud on a polished marble floor. The interior favored smoked glass and matte slate, free of framed photographs or upholstery. She aimed for the cooktop island, an unmarked monolith of black quartz, unbuckling the cake carrier. As her heel struck the tile border, trip-beams flared between floor and ceiling. A flat synthesized chime warned: “Unauthorized intrusion detected. Perimeter lockdown initiated.” Jaga froze. “Oh, fiddlesticks.” Infrared bars snapped shut behind her heels, penning her against the quartz counter. A ceiling dome twitched, its red optic locking onto her face. She decided to make the best of it. She carefully removed the tart, placing it on the cold counter. She pulled out an antique silver pastry spatula, laying it across the quartz alongside the fluted crust. She smoothed her apron, straightened her hair, and waited, a slightly ditzy, perfectly poised pastry chef awaiting her judgment. A low voltage drone filled the silence. Jaga adjusted her cuffs, inspected her manicure, and calculated the crust's crumb structure. After twenty minutes, a flush wall panel parted on pneumatic hinges. Izolda Rostok emerged in an emerald dressing gown, holding a short-barreled stunner, hair unpinned. She took in Jaga penned behind optical tripwires, the pastry tin, and the silver spatula. Izolda lowered the stunner. “Is that… lemon curd?” Jaga offered her most charming, slightly flustered smile. “And elderflower! A touch of spring, even on a night like this. I call it ‘The Treason Tart’ – a name that, I assure you, has layers of meaning.” Izolda entered the enclosure with a palm swipe, the beams parting before her. She took the silver spatula, lifted a triangle of curd, and tasted it. “Sharp, but balanced. Unexpected.” “Precisely,” Jaga said. “Like certain board directors. Ursula Morozov has run a methodical industrial espionage campaign against you and Krystian alike, funneling shipping manifests to an offshore buyer to bleed both our houses.” Izolda’s chin lifted. She set down the spatula. “What proof do you hold?” “Ursula authorized the brake failure that erased my records,” Jaga said. “She drafted Nightingale to frame me, and Krystian found her signature on the sub-clauses aimed at your clan's freight lines.” Izolda walked to a high-tech console built into the counter, her fingers flying across a holographic interface. Encrypted shipping ledgers flickered across the screen. “Aegis Logistics,” Izolda murmured. “They’ve undercut our terminal bids for three quarters running using inside manifest sheets. I thought my floor managers were leaking. It was Ursula, feeding Novograd buyers. She wasn't simply hedging. She was cannibalizing both our lines.” Izolda sliced a second wedge with the silver tool. “This pastry, Jadwiga,” she said quietly, “tastes of clean retaliation.” She held out a hand. “A pact. Against Ursula.” Jaga took the fingers, her grip matching the pressure. “Agreed. We'll serve her dessert cold.”