Chapter 13 Queens in Passing

Iris was late.

Not terribly so—just enough for the building to hum with its usual rhythm, with greetings exchanged and coffee cups already half-empty. Her heels clicked a little too fast on the polished floors, her mind still caught in last night's tangled thoughts—Marek's cryptic smirk, Ainsworth's unnerving amusement, and Aldrin's cold precision.

She stepped into the elevator, muttering a soft curse as the doors started to close—and barely caught herself from colliding with the woman inside.

"Oh—sorry."

The woman barely moved, one hand already resting on the rail, the other flipping through a slim leather-bound book. She glanced up, slow and deliberate.

"No harm done," she said, her voice like warm wine on a stormy night. Smooth, rich—slightly amused. "Though I wouldn't make being late a habit. Some towers have teeth."

Iris blinked at that. "That's a weirdly poetic way of saying I need to set more alarms."

The woman gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk and turned a page. "Not poetic. Just practical. Especially here."

Iris leaned back slightly, trying not to stare. There was something off about her in the way you noticed a painting wasn't hung perfectly level. She dressed like power wasn't just a possession—but a performance. Crimson coat, subtle rings that whispered more than they flashed, and eyes that looked like they had already read the last page of your story.

"You work here?" Iris asked, curiosity winning over caution.

The woman tilted her head slightly, book closing with a soft snap. "You could say that."

Iris raised an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously vague."

"And yet, I've told you more than most."

A beat passed. Then both women let out a soft laugh, the tension thinning slightly.

"First week?" the woman asked, eyes now studying her a little closer.

"Yeah. Strategy division. Well, intern. Still getting used to the floors not being numbered like a normal building."

"I imagine this place is a lot of things 'not like normal.'"

"You've got no idea," Iris muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "I had a conversation yesterday with someone who—actually, never mind. Still not sure if I hallucinated it."

The woman chuckled under her breath. "You didn't. And if you're referring to the left hand, he's very real. Just very… him."

Iris narrowed her eyes slightly. "How do you know who I was talking about?"

The woman didn't answer. She simply reached out and lightly brushed a small thread from Iris's shoulder, casually, like they'd known each other longer than a minute.

"This building sees everything, dear," she said. "You'll learn that in time."

The elevator dinged.

As Iris stepped out, she turned back. "You never said your name."

"I didn't," the woman replied, smiling. "But I'm sure you'll hear it soon enough."

The doors began to close—and then, from beyond the glass, a familiar voice called out: "Iris!"

Eliah jogged up to her, slightly out of breath. "Where have you been? Did you just—please tell me that wasn't the elevator you just got off."

Iris tilted her head. "Yeah? Why?"

Eliah stared at her like she'd just walked into a lion's den with a steak necklace. "That was her."

Iris blinked. "Her who?"

He lowered his voice. "Isabella V Solari.. She's back."

And suddenly, the elevator ride felt much heavier.

The elevator doors slid open again with a soft ding, interrupting Eliah mid-whisper.

Isabella stood there, her posture as relaxed as it was deliberate. There was something unmistakably composed about her—a quiet danger disguised as ease.

"You know what?" she said, stepping out, her eyes finding Iris again. "Let's have brunch together."

"Brunch?" Iris echoed, caught completely off guard.

"Don't act so surprised," the Isabella smirked. "I enjoy good company, and you look like you haven't eaten or slept. That combination makes for excellent conversation."

Just as Iris was about to politely decline, Fesrin, her supervisor, rounded the corner—already mid-breath to say something until he noticed who was standing there.

His eyes darted between the two women.

"Miss Cael," he said smoothly, but there was a new tightness in his voice. "Go. It's fine. Consider this… an advanced networking opportunity."

"You're sure?" Iris asked, already sensing the undercurrent.

"Positive," he replied with a short nod.

Isabella raised a brow but said nothing, merely stepping aside to let Iris rejoin her in the elevator.

They descended together, the ride quiet but pulsing with meaning. Isabella didn't need to say much—her silence was a language all its own. Iris, though wary, couldn't deny the intrigue tightening around her like a ribbon.

The executive cafeteria was brighter than expected, with sunlight pouring through tall glass windows and the faint hum of jazz in the background. Isabella chose a table in the far corner, where power sat with its back to no one.

Iris followed, still unsure whether she was being tested or welcomed.

"Why me?" she finally asked as they sat. "Why brunch?"

Isabella leaned back in her chair, expression unreadable. "You ask the right questions. I like that. More than that, you don't flinch when you're not supposed to."

Iris considered that. "What if I'm just hiding it well?"

Isabella smiled, eyes glinting. "Then that makes you even more interesting."

They'd only just ordered when Iris noticed the familiar silhouette entering the cafeteria: a tall, sharp-eyed man dressed in black with purpose in his every step—Marek.

He paused when he saw them.

For a heartbeat, he was stone. Then his gaze sharpened, narrowed slightly, and a flicker of disbelief passed through his features.

Without missing a beat, he slid his phone from his jacket, thumbed a message quickly and sent it.

Incoming Message to Aldrin: She's back. She's got Iris at brunch.

Isabella caught him in that sliver of motion, her smile growing by a fraction.

"Join us, Mr. Marek," she said, voice smooth and laced with amusement. "I'm sure you've been dying for a coffee break."

He approached with slow, deliberate steps, sliding into the seat beside Iris.

"I'm not sure what this is," he said carefully, looking between them, "but it's definitely above my pay grade."

Iris glanced at him, then back at the Isabella. "Is he always like this?"

Isabella chuckled. "Only when he knows he's been outmaneuvered."

Marek leaned in, voice lower, dry. "And I'm taking it you still haven't rested, Isabella."

She smiled without looking at him. "Rest is for the dead. Coffee is for the dangerous."

The message buzzed through Aldrin's encrypted device, the familiar ping barely audible over the soft murmur of the war room's residual hum.

He glanced down.

Marek: She's back. She's got Iris at brunch.

His eyes narrowed.

No one called her by name in his presence. Not even Ainsworth, who now stood off to the side of the room, arms folded, pretending not to see the tension tightening Aldrin's jaw.

Without a word, Aldrin closed the device, slid it into his inner coat pocket, and left. No command given, no gesture made—yet the room instinctively shifted, clearing a path in his wake.

Back in the cafeteria, the conversation between Iris, Marek, and the Isabella moved like a river—quiet in places, winding in others, hiding depths beneath reflections.

"I think I preferred you behind the security desk," Iris said to Marek, sipping her tea, tone teasing but careful.

"That makes two of us," he muttered under his breath, glancing sidelong at the Isabella.

She, meanwhile, stirred her coffee with the grace of someone utterly in control.

"You're more composed than I expected," she said to Iris after a beat.

"Is that… a compliment?"

"It's a warning," Marek chimed in.

Iris raised an eyebrow.

Isabella smiled. "It means that being composed is a dangerous trait here. Especially in a place that feeds off reactions."

"I'm starting to realize that."

"You've already drawn attention. That's not always a good thing."

"You're saying I shouldn't sit here?"

"No," the Isabella replied. "I'm saying—if you do, you better know how to hold your own."

There was a brief pause. Then Iris tilted her head.

"What about you? Everyone whispers about you but no one ever says what you are."

Marek's fork froze mid-air.

Isabella laughed, rich and smooth like aged wine.

"Oh, I'm just someone who hates being bored."

"And does brunch solve that?"

"Only when the company surprises me."

Iris blinked, both intrigued and unsettled. It was hard to tell if she was being tested or gently pulled into something far more complex.

Then… silence. Just long enough to feel the shift in air pressure. The faintest ripple, like a storm forming behind closed doors.

Marek looked up first.

"Ah," he said, with quiet finality. "Here he comes."

Isabella leaned back in her seat without turning, the corner of her mouth curling.

"Well, look who decided to join the party."

The low hum of approaching footsteps cut across the room—measured, deliberate, like the ticking of a clock before the strike of an hour.

Aldrin stepped into view—no coat, no guards, just presence. Razor-edged silence wrapped in skin.

His gaze fell on Iris first—then flicked to Isabella—and held.

And just like that, the world seemed to pause.

The moment Aldrin took his seat, the air thickened with presence—not pressure, but gravity. Iris felt it settle into her bones, sharpen her senses.

Marek gave a short nod. "Chairman."

Aldrin didn't return it. His eyes were fixed on Iris.

"You're late."

"I… I didn't mean to be," Iris said, straightening.

"Don't make it a pattern," he said, tone clipped, but not unkind—just final. As if he'd already moved on.

Beside her, the woman in red—composed, amused—stirred her tea with deliberate ease.

"We were discussing curiosity," she said, voice as smooth as aged wine. "Seems our intern has plenty."

Iris glanced toward her, uncertain. "I'm still learning."

"Oh, you will," the woman replied, lifting her cup with poise. "Curiosity, after all, is how most people end up here."

Aldrin's voice cut through. "And most don't leave."

Marek flinched almost imperceptibly. The words hung in the air like a slow-descending storm cloud.

Still, Iris couldn't back down. "You make it sound like a trap."

The woman grinned, eyes bright with intrigue. "Smart girl."

Aldrin said nothing, just studied her in that cold, assessing way that gave nothing and promised less.

The moment shifted as he turned to Marek. "Updates?"

"Western edge. Quiet now. But the quiet's too clean," Marek muttered. "We may need to sweep again."

Aldrin nodded once. "You know what to do."

Iris sat silent, her mind racing behind a calm expression. She hadn't misread the earlier coded language. She wasn't imagining the veiled truths. These weren't metaphorical storms.

Aldrin stood.

Without ceremony, the woman in red followed, brushing a hand gently against Iris's shoulder as she passed.

"You're fun," she whispered like a secret.

Aldrin paused by Iris's side. The woman stopped too and turned with a little smirk.

"Oh, and intern?"

Iris looked up, unsure if she was bracing or holding her breath.

"You can call me the Isabella," she said, eyes gleaming. "It's easier than remembering my full name. Though… you'll hear it eventually."

With a nod to Marek and a glance to Aldrin, she turned, heels clicking against polished floors.

Aldrin gave Iris one last unreadable look—cool, collected, almost curious.

Then he walked away beside the Isabella, both figures fading down the hallway like myth and legend drifting back into shadow.

Marek exhaled beside her. "Well," he muttered, rising. "That escalated quickly."

Iris stared at the doorway, her heart thudding in her chest.

"Who is she?" she asked quietly.

Marek paused, looked toward where they'd gone, then back to her.

"Let's just say… even the storms take cover when she walks in."