CHAPTER 4: THE PHOENIX'S FIRST LESSON

The next morning, the Phoenix Foundation arrived at her door.

It wasn't a person, but a team. A severe-looking woman with a platinum blonde bob and a name tag that read "Iris, Executive Coordinator" led the charge. Behind her were a stylist, a public relations consultant, and a security specialist whose eyes missed nothing. They were Kian's people, extensions of his will, their polite smiles as confining as the penthouse walls.

"Miss Meng," Iris began, her voice crisp and efficient. "Mr. Huo has requested we begin preparing you for the foundation's official launch gala. It will be held in three weeks, on November 12th, at the Orion Grand Hotel."

They laid out a schedule of press interviews, photo shoots, and fittings. A carefully orchestrated performance. Her performance.

The old Elara would have recoiled. The new Elara saw an opportunity.

"Of course," she said, her voice a placid stream over a riverbed of stone. She allowed a small, fragile smile to touch her lips, the kind of smile they would expect from a rescued bird. "I want to do whatever I can to honor Kian's vision."

Iris looked momentarily surprised by the easy compliance, then her professional mask slipped back into place. "Excellent. The stylist will begin with your wardrobe analysis."

For the next few hours, Elara played the part of the perfect doll. She stood patiently as they draped fabrics over her, discussed color palettes, and debated hairstyles. But while her body was present, her mind was racing, cataloging every word, every name, every slip of the tongue.

She learned that the PR consultant had previously worked for a senator who'd been forced to resign after a scandal involving Sterling Dynamics. She learned that the security specialist used jargon that hinted at a past in military intelligence. Small pieces. Disconnected fragments. She stored them all away.

Her biggest opportunity came during a break. Iris left her personal tablet on the marble island in the kitchen while she took a call on the terrace.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had less than a minute. Her hands, usually so steady, felt clumsy. She picked up the tablet. It was unlocked. Iris's calendar was open. Most of it was blocked out with generic appointments, but one entry caught her eye, scheduled for tomorrow.

14:00 - Dr. Wu (Sterling Labs, Sector 7) - P.P. Specimen Review.

Dr. Wu. Sterling Labs. And P.P. The initials were a jolt, an electric shock. Phoenix Project?

And Specimen Review... the term was clinical, dehumanizing. It made the hair on her arms stand up.

She heard Iris's voice drawing nearer. With a final, desperate tap, she opened the appointment details. There was a location tag. An address in the city's industrial outskirts—a part of Harbor City she'd never seen. Before she could memorize it, she heard the slide of the terrace door.

She quickly placed the tablet back exactly where it had been, turning away to gaze out the window as if lost in thought. Her mind was a frantic scramble of numbers and street names.

"The gala's guest list is being finalized," Iris said, stepping back inside. "Mr. Huo has personally approved it. He believes you'll be pleased to see some familiar faces."

She handed Elara a new tablet, this one logged into the foundation's official portal. A list of names glowed on the screen. And near the top, one made her breath catch.

Liam Feng. The Feng Family Trust.

Liam. He was being invited. No, not invited. Placed. Placed in the same room as her, under Kian's watchful eye. Was he a friend being forced into a role, or was he a willing participant? The burner phone in her room suggested one thing, but his presence on this list suggested another. Every person in her life was now a question mark.

Later that evening, after the team had gone, she stood in her personal studio, the only space that was truly hers. It was a small ballet studio, complete with a barre and floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

She didn't look at her reflection. Instead, she faced the mirrored wall that adjoined the main living area, the wall she knew was monitored.

She began to move.

It wasn't a dance of beauty or grace. It was a dance of jagged edges and sharp, broken lines. A dance of rebellion coded in a language only she understood. She mimicked the clinical precision of a doctor, the rigid posture of a soldier, the frantic typing of a hacker. She incorporated a stumble, a near-fall—the exact moment her mother's car must have spun out of control on the Sea Cliff Expressway.

She was telling a story to the hidden cameras. A story of everything she had learned that day.

Her dance ended with her hand held up, fingers splayed, then slowly closing into a fist. A gesture of defiance.

She didn't know if Kian, or anyone, would understand the specifics. But they would understand one thing.

The specimen was learning to fight back.

The butterfly was sharpening its wings.