The connecting door remained shut, but on the other side, Roksana Gevorkian turned Anahit's remarks over in her mind. The mention of Lusine and Seda had struck an off-key note amid weeks of silence. It was no longer idle suspicion; it was a physical lead through the wreckage of Kiyan’s takeover.
She spent the next few days working through the corporate storage vaults, a cavernous space in the building's oldest wing. Kiyan had designated it for the initial liquidation of assets, an ironically fitting place for her clandestine research. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged paper and forgotten aspirations. Her official task was to reconcile ancient supplier contracts with current expenditures, a mind-numbingly dull exercise. Her true quest, however, was for anything, any scrap, that linked Lusine to the Gevorkian name before the current takeover.
Lusine, always the satellite, never the sun. Roksana remembered her stepsister's fleeting, ill-fated ventures. A line of 'artisanal' soaps that smelled faintly of industrial solvent. A brief foray into bespoke children's clothing, all itchy lace and poorly sewn hems. And then, there was 'Lumiére Living,' Lusine’s most ambitious failure: a lifestyle brand promising 'curated elegance for the modern woman,' which mostly consisted of overpriced scented candles and stationery sets. That was it. Stationery.
Roksana shifted her focus, sifting through boxes labeled 'Defunct Subsidiaries' and 'Failed Brand Initiatives.' The dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through tall, arched windows. Hours bled into days. Her back ached. Her eyes burned from scanning microfiches of old balance sheets. She found a ledger entry, dated almost five years ago, for a bulk order of tailor-made stationery goods: 'Lumiére Living – Bespoke Parchment, Yerazian Papermill Co.'
A small victory, but not proof. Not yet.
She cross-referenced the purchase with the mill’s external files, a tedious process that involved digital requests and several patient phone calls. Finally, an email arrived late one afternoon. Attached were low-resolution scans of the original order form and design specifications for Lumiére Living's letterhead and envelopes. The manufacturer had maintained meticulous records. Roksana clicked open the attachment.
There, nestled in the corner of the digital image of the envelope design, was a faint, almost invisible crest. A stylized hummingbird, its wings outstretched, seemingly woven into the paper itself. It was the mark of the Yerazian paper house, but with an individualized flourish Lusine had requested: a thin vine wrapping around the bird. She remembered Lusine's obsession with tiny, elaborate details, her belief that they signified 'true luxury.'
Her mind raced back to the high-resolution scans of the poisoned letters Kiyan had shown the press, the ones he believed Roksana’s mother had written. She had dismissed the translucent emblem then, focusing on the scent analysis and on Seda's favorite flower. But Kiyan had ensured every damning detail was magnified in the press packets. A quick search of news databases brought up the high-resolution scans once more.
She zoomed in, her pulse quickening, a frantic drum against her ribs. The paper. The faint, barely perceptible impression. It was there. The hummingbird. The delicate floral vine. Identical. Absolutely, undeniably identical.
This was no coincidence or shared brand of parchment. This was Lusine's individualized wire imprint, her signature, on the very pages that had poisoned Kiyan's past.
The proof. It lay stark and undeniable on her screen. A cold certainty settled in her chest, replacing the gnawing anxiety. Kiyan had been wrong. So utterly, tragically wrong. And Lusine, her own stepsister, had orchestrated the entire, brutal deception.
She printed a copy of the mill's design sheet displaying the bespoke emblem. Then, with trembling hands, she downloaded several of the highest-resolution press photos of the poisoned letters, ensuring the watermark was clearly visible. She placed them side by side on her desk, the irrefutable evidence staring back at her. Her heart thrummed with a blend of vindication and a chilling dread for Kiyan's eventual reckoning.
She folded the printouts, tucking them into a slim, leather-bound journal she carried for formula sketches. This could not be left on her desk among the box files. This was a bomb, ticking. She had to get it to Kiyan, to Anahit, to anyone who would listen, before Lusine could somehow cover her tracks. She moved swiftly, her movements precise, driven by a sudden, urgent clarity.
As she emerged from the ancient wing, the muted clatter of the main lobby filtered in. The day was drawing to a close, and a few straggling employees were heading out. Roksana tightened her grip on the journal, a sharp sense of clarity sharpening her step. She would face Kiyan, she would show him, and then… then the real battle would begin.
She reached the polished onyx floor of the reception area, the grand vaulted ceiling echoing with hushed goodbyes. Her eyes scanned the elegant space, looking for an opening, a clear path to the main exit. But then, she stopped. Her gaze snagged on a figure by the grand marble fountain, casually inspecting a bronze cherub.
Lusine. Blond hair impeccably styled, a silk scarf draped just so, her expression serene, almost bored. She seemed to be waiting. Waiting for someone. Roksana went rigid. Had Lusine watched her leave the basement rows? Was this an unlucky coincidence, or something far more sinister?
Roksana hesitated, a knot tightening in her stomach. She considered turning back, trying to slip away, but it was too late. Lusine slowly turned her head, her gaze locking onto Roksana’s. A faint smile touched Lusine's lips, precise and cold.
“Leaving so soon, darling sister?” Lusine’s voice was light and syrup-slick. “I thought you’d be burning the midnight oil, salvaging the last scraps of… what was it you called it? Our ‘cherished heritage’?” She drifted closer, her eyes glittering with an unsettling amusement.
Roksana instinctively drew the journal closer to her ribs. “Just finishing up for the day. Unlike some, I actually work.”
Lusine chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, I’m sure you do. All that dusty archival work must be terribly stimulating. Did you uncover any fascinating tidbits? Perhaps some forgotten scandal? Or a hidden treasure map to a vault of Gevorkian gold?” Her eyes flickered down to Roksana’s hand, resting pointedly on the bound volume. Her smile widened, losing all warmth.
A sickening realization dawned on Roksana. Lusine knew. Or suspected. The casualness, the timing, the pointed gaze. It was a trap. Her mind raced, calculating, assessing. She had the proof, but at what cost?
“I found nothing but what Kiyan intends to destroy,” Roksana lied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Just more evidence of Gevorkian’s imminent demise.”
Lusine took another step, closing the distance between them. Her voice dropped, becoming a low, silken whisper that was far more menacing than any shout. “Clever girl. Always playing the martyr. But some things are bigger than your personal crusade, aren’t they? Like the pensions of poor old Mr. Armen, who’s been blending tinctures for sixty years. Or Mrs. Vardush, who practically raised us both, still meticulously hand-labeling every bottle.”
Her words were a physical blow. Roksana’s carefully constructed composure shattered. The employees. The people who had been the backbone of Parfums Gevorkian for decades, who depended on their retirement funds, who had trusted Roksana to protect them. Lusine knew exactly where to strike.
Lusine leaned in, her breath smelling faintly of some sickly sweet cordial. “Expose me, and I’ll make sure every loyal person in this building loses their pension. Who are you going to save, Roksana? Them, or yourself?”