Chapter 11: Shadows on the 44th Floor

Capital City of Tavara — Inside the Grayson International Tower, 44th Floor, Presidential Suite

The skyline glittered beneath a violet dusk as Tavara's capital began winding down — or so it appeared on the surface. High above, inside the Grayson International Tower, the 44th-floor suite was anything but tranquil.

Damien Grayson stood before a wall-sized window, hands folded behind his back, eyes scanning the city lights like a chess master studying a board. The room behind him was silent, save for the soft hum of encrypted communications running through his private uplink.

"Sir," Marcus said, stepping forward. "We've confirmed it. Ashbringer has a proxy sitting on the Global Intelligence Board — under the alias R. Beckett. Tied to their London network."

Damien didn't flinch. "How long?"

"Almost five years. He's been leaking data… some of it likely about our European tech ventures."

Damien exhaled, his breath steady but cold. "Get me everything on Beckett's movements. And Marcus—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Send a sealed directive to our Zurich vaults. Activate Protocol Emberfall."

Marcus stiffened. "You're deploying that?"

"I'll burn their entire network to the ground before they lay a finger on our family."

He turned, his expression a mask of command and icy precision. Only Marcus, who had served with him during his black-ops years, knew what those words truly meant. Damien wasn't just a billionaire—he was a kingmaker cloaked in silk and blood.

A soft chime echoed — the secure elevator.

Nobody had access to this floor except those with Damien's explicit code.

When the doors opened, a tall woman stepped out. She wore a crisp ivory suit and thin-rimmed glasses. Her face bore grace, but her eyes… they were battle-hardened. A ghost from Damien's past.

"Selene," Damien said quietly. "You're supposed to be dead."

"And yet here I am," she replied smoothly. "And you owe me a favor, remember?"

Marcus's hand instinctively went to his holster, but Damien raised a hand. "Stand down."

Selene walked to the lounge and dropped a black dossier on the glass table.

"You're not going to like what's in there."

Damien flipped it open.

Photos. Coordinates. Transcripts.

A photo of Nora Whitmore—mid-strike, surrounded by unconscious bodies inside the Ashbringer lab.

"She's in this deeper than you thought," Selene said, pouring herself a drink. "Ashbringer knows her face now. And they don't forgive."

Damien's heart stilled for half a second, but his face remained unreadable.

"She's not your concern," he said.

"Isn't she?" Selene countered. "Because if they take her, they'll extract everything — and that includes your secrets."

Marcus stepped forward. "What do you want, Selene?"

She smiled. "To collect my favor. I want a seat at Damien's next war table. And I want Ashbringer gone."

Damien stared at her.

"Done," he said. "But if you cross me…"

"You'll bury me next to the others?" Selene's smile widened. "You already tried."

As the night deepened, Damien returned to the window. Tavara looked peaceful. But war was coming — and this time, it wasn't just about assets or power plays.

It was personal.