The Art of Stillness

Gina sat on the edge of the rooftop garden overlooking the city's northern skyline, her wine untouched, the wind twisting her silk robe around her frame. The air was thick with summer heat, but her body remained ice-still.

She was waiting.

Not with fear, but precision. Patience wasn't just a trait—it was a weapon.

Let Richard Lansing believe he had the upper hand. Let him assemble his pawns and polish his press statements. She knew men like him. The kind who never swung first without feeling invincible.

Let him feel invincible.

He hadn't made a move yet. Not publicly. But the shadows had begun to shift. Her digital security grid picked up intermittent probes—testing firewalls that used to be impenetrable. Her Macau network reported a sudden withdrawal of funds from dormant Lansing accounts, likely redirected into off-grid mercenary contracts.

And this morning, her Lisbon courier found a tracker under his car.

Richard was playing the long game.

She was planning to end it before it began.

---

"Where do we begin?" her operations chief, Veda, asked.

They sat across a round table in the inner chamber of Gina's private compound—no electronics allowed, no windows, no names spoken.

"Not with him," Gina said. "With those around him. We make him paranoid. Take his peace first. Then his people."

Veda nodded. "The Lawrence merger?"

"Kill it before it flowers. Plant a mistress on the girl's father. Feed the tabloids. Then link the scandal to Richard."

Veda's grin was cold. "Done."

"And the mansion?"

"Blueprints acquired. His server room is exposed if we shut down three power junctions along the southern grid. We can wipe his archives within fifteen minutes."

Gina nodded slowly. "We won't strike yet. But the path must be clean."

She rose and walked to the far wall, where an old photo of her father hung—Jeremiah Michaels in uniform, a rare half-smile on his lips.

"We wait," she whispered, eyes locked on the image. "We let him think he's the wolf. Until he bleeds."

---

In the meantime, she doubled the guards around Davina. Three shadows at school. One embedded in the hospital staff. Another posing as a maintenance man in the gated estate's security booth.

Davina would never know.

And Dave?

She loved him. Desperately.

But this was her war, not his.

So she kept him close—but not too close.

He didn't need to see the things she'd do next. He only needed to know she was protecting their daughter.

Whatever it took.

---

In a warehouse by the docks, an unmarked crate arrived from Budapest.

Inside: a dossier wrapped in oilcloth, a pair of gold cufflinks, and a single message on a black card:

"We remember. Say the word."

Gina's old allies. The ones who owed her their lives. Still watching. Still loyal.

She smiled for the first time that week.

Let Richard plan.

Let him wait.

He wouldn't see her coming until it was too late.

Because the most dangerous part of a queen wasn't her army.

It was her silence before the kill.