Inheritance ✔

Chapter 13 - Counterstrike

Laurier didn't go to bed.

She changed into a black silk robe, poured herself a glass of bourbon, and sat by the window for hours. Watching. Waiting. The glow from the city lights reflected against the glass, casting sharp angles across her face.

She was silent.

But I knew she wasn't resting.

Neither was I.

2:37 a.m.

She stood abruptly. Walked to the kitchen. Her movements were too precise. Not tired. Not relaxed. Tense.

I followed.

"You should sleep," I said.

"So should you."

She opened the fridge. Closed it again without taking anything. "When did we start operating like mercenaries?"

"We've always operated like this," I said. "You just used to pretend it was strategy."

She leaned against the counter. The robe shifted slightly at her collarbone. My eyes caught the faint mark I'd left there three nights ago.

"I can't afford to be emotional about this," she said quietly.

"Then don't be."

"But you are," she murmured. "Aren't you?"

I looked at her.

Really looked.

Her walls were up. But her eyes were glassy. Not weak—just worn.

"I'm emotional about you," I said. "Not him."

Her fingers tightened around the glass in her hand.

Then she said nothing.

And walked past me.

The next morning, we were back at it.

I intercepted a contract update from one of Stallard's "legit" partners—an infrastructure firm based in Mandaluyong. They were preparing a media announcement about a collaboration with Dagon's redevelopment group.

I intercepted it through their PR manager—one who owed me a favor from five years ago, after I'd saved her nephew from a gambling syndicate.

Two messages later, she agreed to delay the press release.

Three hours later, the entire collaboration was "under review."

Laurier stared at the headline on her tablet with a cold, quiet satisfaction.

"Two dominoes down," she said. "How many left?"

"Seven."

"Then we don't stop."

By afternoon, we were in her office on the 39th floor. Security had been upgraded again—more men in black, metal detectors, new protocols at the front desk.

She ignored it all.

Focused only on the laptop in front of her, jaw set as she read a board member's email asking for an "off-the-record" meeting to discuss leadership transition.

She deleted it.

Then turned to me.

"I want to go on the offensive."

"You already are."

"No. I want to speak. Again. A sit-down. Live. Longer format."

"That's risky."

"Good."

I studied her for a moment.

Her hands weren't shaking.

But mine were.

Not out of fear.

Out of the way she made me want to set the world on fire just to keep her warm.

That night, I stayed outside her bedroom door again.

Same silence. Same hallway.

But this time, the door opened.

She stood there, barefoot, in a thin white tank and black shorts. Her hair was down. Her eyes were unreadable.

She stepped aside.

"I won't ask twice."

I didn't wait.

I walked in.

And this time, when I touched her, it wasn't to protect her.

It was to remind her she wasn't alone.

Not anymore.

Not ever.