Chapter Fifteen: Smoke and Steel

Emery couldn't sleep.

She lay awake long after the city lights faded into dawn mist, the sheets tangled around her like vines she couldn't cut herself out of. Her phone lay on the nightstand, face-down, silent since she turned off notifications three hours ago. She didn't need any more updates. The damage had been done.

The internet didn't sleep, and neither did scandal.

She sat up, clutching the edge of the bed as if the ground might shift beneath her. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind wouldn't quiet. Headlines played on a loop in her head. The boardroom. Lucas's smug smile. Nicholas's fingers brushing hers beneath the table.

Her name had been everywhere.

Executive Assistant or Executive Affair?

Ashford's Queen: Clarke's Rapid Rise and the Questions It Raises

Sleeping with Power: Is Nicholas Ashford Crossing the Line?

They hadn't cared that the relationship had been consensual, that it had begun only after months of distance, professionalism, and boundaries stretched beyond human limit. The media didn't want the truth.

They wanted blood.

And right now, hers tasted fresher than Nicholas's.

She showered in silence, scrubbing until her skin felt raw. When she looked in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize herself. Her eyes were hollowed out. Her lips pressed into a grim line she couldn't smooth even when she tried.

"Breathe," she whispered.

It was what Nicholas had told her before they stepped into the boardroom. What he always said when the world spun too fast.

But Nicholas wasn't here now.

She dressed slowly—no heels, no silk, no effort to dazzle. Just a sharp black pantsuit and a tight bun. Armor, not fashion. Today was about control.

If they were going to crucify her, she was going to walk to the cross with her back straight and chin high.

The Ashford Tower lobby was quieter than the day before. Reporters had been pushed outside the rotating doors, corralled by new security protocols. But their presence was still felt—through the glass, in the whispers that followed her as she crossed the marble floor.

Emery didn't flinch.

The elevator ride felt longer today. Not because of time, but because of gravity. Each floor ticked past like a countdown. By the time she stepped into the 70th floor, the weight on her chest had settled like concrete.

Marla was waiting.

"You should know," the executive coordinator said quietly, "Lucas has been circling."

Emery raised an eyebrow. "Circling?"

"He was seen on the 70th twice already this morning. Poking around, asking subtle questions."

Emery's mouth tightened. "Let me guess. Acting like he's already in charge?"

Marla gave a brief, dry smile. "You didn't hear it from me."

She opened the door to Nicholas's office and stepped aside.

He wasn't behind the desk.

He was standing at the window, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, his posture that of a man trying not to come undone.

Emery shut the door behind her.

"Nicholas."

He didn't turn immediately.

"They're asking for me to take a temporary leave," he said at last. His voice was quiet. Measured. Too measured.

She walked slowly toward him. "Who's they?"

"The board. Half of them, at least. The other half want me to stay and gut Lucas. But no one wants to go public yet."

Her heart clenched. "You're not going to step down."

He finally looked at her.

"No," he said. "But they want to isolate you."

That took her breath.

"Me?"

"They think pushing you out will stem the bleeding. Send a message."

"And you told them—?"

"That I'd rather burn the company down than turn on you."

Silence bloomed between them.

Her hands trembled, but she didn't let him see it.

"Nicholas," she said softly, "you can't destroy yourself over me."

"I'm not."

His jaw worked, tense. "But I won't pretend like you don't matter to me. I won't rewrite history just because it makes them more comfortable."

He took a step toward her. His eyes were tired but burning.

"You're not my weakness, Emery. You're the only thing keeping me from becoming exactly like him."

Her breath caught.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. To the way his hand hovered near hers, like he wanted to touch her but didn't trust the walls.

"We need to make a plan," she said, grounding herself.

His voice dropped. "There's more."

She blinked. "More?"

He walked behind his desk and opened his laptop. With a few keystrokes, he pulled up a document—an internal memo.

At first glance, it looked harmless.

Until she saw the sender: Lucas Vale.

And the subject line: "Succession Planning – Contingency Draft."

Emery skimmed the contents.

Lucas had proposed a temporary leadership shift in light of "ongoing reputational concerns." He didn't name Nicholas directly. He didn't name her. But the language was surgical. Sharp. Designed to convince cautious board members that stability required a scalpel—and that Lucas was the one to wield it.

"He's serious," she whispered.

Nicholas's nod was tight. "He's been laying the groundwork for months."

Her mind raced. "We can't go after him the same way he came after us. It'll look reactive."

"I know."

"We need leverage."

Nicholas nodded. "I think I know where to find it."

Emery spent the next three hours combing through HR files, project documents, anything with Lucas's digital fingerprint. She cross-referenced data logs, tracked timestamps, hunted for inconsistencies.

She was two espresso shots and a blinding headache deep when she found it.

A backdated memo from Lucas's office—filed six months ago, meant to justify a hiring freeze in one of the development arms. But the numbers didn't match the expense reports submitted the following quarter.

A discrepancy.

Small. But enough.

Enough to suggest he was diverting budget lines. Reallocating power.

She flagged it.

Then dug deeper.

Another pattern. Lucas had lobbied to shutter the sustainability division last year, claiming it was underperforming. But an internal performance review—quietly buried—had ranked it as one of the most efficient teams.

Why kill it?

Because the director had once challenged Lucas in a meeting. She remembered that.

Power moves. Quiet ones.

Ones that could now be used to sketch a portrait.

Not of a concerned leader.

But of a man building a kingdom.

Alone.

She stood in Nicholas's doorway just after sunset.

"I found it," she said.

He looked up. "What?"

"Smoke," she said. "And where there's smoke…"

He smiled—tired, but real. "We find the fire.