
THE TROPHY CLUB
M. MAGEVONNA

LÉA-ROSE DUBOIS

CONTENTS

CLASSY & CLEVER

Copyright

BOOK ONE

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

BOOK TWO

Chapter 1

BOOK THREE

Chapter 1

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

#  Copyright

Copyright 2015 by Magevonna

All rights reserved.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

write to Coffee Ring Novels, P.O. Box 811742, Los Angeles, California 90081

Manufactured by Coffee Ring Novels

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Magevonna

The Trophy Club - Classy & Clever - Magevonna

ISBN: 978-0-9900202-7-1

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book, prior permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you.

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The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but building the new.

- Socrates
CLASSY & CLEVER

# BOOK ONE

# PROLOGUE

March 11, 2011

Sendai, Japan

The steady clacking of Hanna's heels against the tiles was nearly lost in the din of men, women, and children walking around AEON –Ishinomaki's most popular mall. AEON wasn't her first choice of destination in Sendai, but when Benjamin, her husband, asked her to join him for brunch at Barolo, an Italian restaurant on the seventh floor of their hotel, she had convinced herself that AEON was better than another boring meal in a luxurious or austere environment.

AEON's stores were less affluent than Hanna's usual experience with her favorite upscale boutiques and department stores. The mall itself had nothing of note. An updated cinema was the highlight among an array of clothing stores, restaurants, shops, and services. Starbucks was peddled alongside 100 Yen Bowls in the neighboring Daiso; various smells of foodstuff wafted from sophisticated cafés and McDonalds and mingled with the crisp, artificial air of the quaint shopping center. Bay Flow, Global Work, and other homegrown fashion brands caught her eye, while Bliss Point made her reconsider the brands in her wardrobe.

Hanna brushed her ironed hair from her face and smiled at a little boy who had been staring at her since she had come to a stop in front of a shop across him. She'd gotten more than a few curious looks from children and the elderly alike since she had arrived with her husband in Narita, and the staring only intensified when she made the trip to Sendai. Long years spent in the company of socialites and businessmen immunized her from inquisitive glances and longing stares, and Hanna gave them no reason to look away. Even in the suburbs, she merely dressed down to acceptable levels of boho chic. Nude Manolo Blahnik sandals pushed up her shapely calves, accentuated by the rim of her capri harem pants. Her honey vanilla skin glowed healthily even under the drab fluorescent lights of the mall, drawing eyes to her toned arms and flawless face.

The little boy blushed at her smile and ran back to the woman Hanna assumed was his mother. Hanna chuckled and thought of her own children as she continued walking. All five of them were Benjamin's, by his two previous marriages, and were roughly her own age, the youngest being 19. She had been the same age when she met Benjamin Hascott at a scholar's dinner at Brown when she was still taking her undergrad studies as an exchange student. Benjamin's children were naturally suspicious of her intentions at first. Why else would a young university student from an impoverished country marry their father but for his stupendous wealth?

From their first disastrous dinner until their marriage, Hanna worked hard to prove that her pretty face was just an afterthought. She worked her way from a lowly secretary in one of the Hascott plants all the way to supervising manager, and when her talent could no longer be ignored, the board members of the Hascott Corporation offered her a place in the main corporate office in Manhattan. But Hanna knew better than to take the blatant handout, even if it was being given to her out of respect for her accomplishments. She knew she was getting too dependent, too reliant on the ease her unique circumstances gave her. She turned down the offer and continued to work her little plant in Rhode Island, working for the better part of her early twenties until it earned recognition as an outstanding, community-serving venture instead of another branch of the noxious Hascott Empire.

It was at the age of 24 when she finally earned the respect of Benjamin's kids and her own trust. A tiny part of her knew that they were not completely wrong about her intent for their father. As the fifth child in a household built by a teacher and a carpenter, her belongings as a child were worth less than the junk her recycling plant processed daily. The luxuries Benjamin showered on her were tempting, and she spent many nights reminding herself that she knew better. It was at the age of 26 when she decided that she could trust herself to marry a man more than twice her age and half as sensitive.

Three years and a whole lot of arguments later, she wondered if she could've just stayed friends with the Hascott siblings and left their father out of it.

"Nee-san! Want some omiyage?"

Hanna was startled out of her thoughts by the shout that came from an enthusiastic salesman peddling goods outside a sweets shop. The salesman, barely younger than the giggling old ladies who swarmed his shop, gave her a toothy grin as he held out a box of rice cake. His eagerness made Hanna laugh despite herself. She decided that having a whole box of rice cake to herself wouldn't ruin her figure, and if she did gain a pound, her Crossfit trainer would suck it up and get her back on track.

She took a few steps towards the shop when she first felt it—the slight tremble and shifting of tiles under her immaculate sandals and the abnormal waving of the banners draped on the shop's tables. Hanna fought the urge to freeze in her movements. No one else seemed to have noticed the sudden movement and she didn't want to encourage the spike of fear that bolted through her chest. The salesman cheerfully pointed out her reddened cheeks as he wrapped up some boxes for her, and she played along with his joke. He did not need to know that she blushed not because of his homely good looks, but out of an irrational fear she thought she had buried a long time ago.

Her parents and siblings were now in the States, safe in a disaster-proof building that would not easily crumble. Hanna forbade them from going back to salvage what little they could from their house in Haiti, telling them explicitly that there was nothing there but pain and longing.

Hanna hoped it was just her equilibrium that went off-kilter, but another shock and a baffled look from the salesman confirmed her fears. Before the salesman could talk to her, Hanna thanked him for the rice cakes, paid him, and walked away as quickly as she could without arousing any suspicion. She took her phone out of her pocket, scrolled through her contacts and pressed on her father's name as she fought the bile rising in her throat.

Flashes of wrecked houses and streets flitted through Hanna's mind as she made her way down the steps to the ground floor, not trusting the escalators. She shook them out of her mind as she sped through the blissfully unaware crowd. But her trance broke as her call went to voicemail and the people around her began to feel the beginnings of the earthquake.

Before she could march towards the exit, the small rumblings suddenly turned violent. Beams overhead began to shake and moan ominously as people walked as calmly as they could to the closest exit they could find. Hanna had to lean against the sides of shops, accidentally knocking down a few displays and tables in her haste for safety. Eventually, a few people began to scream as the tremors grew worse. For a few seconds, Hanna wished she had worn sensible shoes, before a forceful tremor caused her to fall to the ground.

Hanna heard a few people scream in her direction, and for a wild moment she thought they were reprimanding her, until she noticed the display cabinet full of porcelain falling towards her.

Hanna rolled gracelessly to the side, narrowly missing the crush of heavy wood and hardened glass. Tiny shards embedded itself into her exposed flesh, but she ignored the pain and righted herself up, regaining her composure almost immediately as she strode quickly to the entrance.

Around her, people either stuck to steady, unadorned walls or rushed to the exits. Hanna ignored the screams of those who could do neither, though she could not dismiss the phantom echoes ringing in her ears from a place still ravaged by a similar disaster.

Her senses fled her momentarily as she saw the nearest exit. Before she could assess the situation, she ran forward and felt a warm liquid running down her right arm. Hanna stumbled to the floor and gasped as she saw an open wound on the juncture of her shoulder and upper arm, and the chunk of debris that had chipped her shoulder beside her feet.

A shout snapped Hanna out of her shock. She ran to the exit, all pretenses of calm forgotten, whimpering as people painted their sides with her blood in the crush out the door. Once outside, Hanna pulled her keys from her pocket, spared a brief thought for her forgotten clutch, and began to look for her car.

Hanna tried to look away from the people around her who were still upright. She focused on her steps and crouched low to crab walk carefully into her space. The open parking lot was eerily quiet, its relative silence only punctuated by occasional screams and the constant hum of churning water.

By some miracle, she had finally reached her car, blissfully unharmed, when she heard the scream.

"Kaasan!"

Hanna held her breath as she turned away from her car and looked for the source of the voice. Another desperate cry hooked her gaze to a little boy crying beside a sign for shopping carts, shivering and completely alone. His chubby fingers alternated between curling around the signpost to steady himself and rubbing his watery eyes raw.

"Hey! Little boy," Hanna cried out, catching the boy's attention, "can you look at onee-san?"

The boy stopped crying, his lips wobbling as he hiccupped with the effort to stem his tears. Hanna tried to make the boy come to her, her hands fanning backwards and forwards, but the boy could do no more but stare at the foreign woman beckoning to him. She could hardly fault the child for his lack of response; she could barely move herself. The boy had a nametag hung around his neck, a pink piece of cardboard shaped like a petal with his name printed in childish Hiragana: Kazuki.

Hanna's breath caught in her throat. This was the same boy who ran back to his mother when she had smiled at him earlier. Where was his mother?

"Kazuki-chan?" Hanna tried. Kazuki looked up at her with wide eyes. At least she had his attention now.

"Kochira," Hanna spoke again, fanning her hands frantically. She wanted to run to the child and pick him up but she didn't want to risk scaring him off. There was no time for a chase or any misunderstanding. The ground still rumbled, the people around them either running or locking themselves into their cars. The sound of roiling waves growled ominously from the south.

When she was certain that the boy wouldn't move, Hanna toed her heels off and began to cautiously walk towards Kazuki, her palms held upwards in a placating manner. She didn't interact with children much these days, having left all her cousins and neighbors in Haiti when she started her exchange program at Brown, but she knew that Kazuki needed to feel safe. The heels would only slow her down when she eventually needed to run with the child, and Blahniks were worth nothing to her if she couldn't make it to and from the boy and her car safely.

Hanna began humming a senseless tune under her breath as she neared Kazuki, anchoring herself on the slowly-cracking ground with surefooted steps. The boy started loosening his grip on the pole, lowering his fists down to his nametag as he watched the well-dressed woman slowly walk towards him. He bit his lip and slipped his hand off the pole his mom told him to hold on to and reached out to Hanna.

Neither saw the water coming, surging through cars and concrete, unrelenting and violent, until it was all too late. Hanna tried to scream and jump forward to grab Kazuki, but the boy had already disappeared beneath the foaming grey waves as it slammed into her, knocking her underneath the rushing waters. She kicked and tried to keep her head afloat, tried to shout Kazuki's name over and over, but only succeeding in swallowing the filthy water that gushed from the churning sea.

Hanna's consciousness was beginning to fade, the light waning above the unrelenting waves breaking over her head. Her limbs were tired and her throat was sore from screaming, Kazuki, Kazuki, Kazuki.

Her lids were beginning to fold over her eyes when she felt a solid mass bump into her shoulder. Instinctively, her body rolled in the heaving water and clung on to the mass—a car—until her head broke up the cresting waves and air poured into her gaping mouth.

Colors swirled in Hanna's periphery as she clung on the roof of the car. To her right she was mildly aware of the flood sweeping through the lower floors of AEON, dredging up cars, tables, and people in its wake. She couldn't muster enough strength to turn her head, but the sounds of crashing metal against the haunting silence pressed into her ears. Seconds stretched into minutes as Hanna counted, whispering a senseless tune as she tried to stay awake and look for a pink flower name tag.

Later, Hanna would realize that if she'd just taken the risk to run and grab Kazuki, she migh have been able to save him.

Two survivors from the mall's wreckage pulled her off the roof of a Nissan Altima onto the roof of a sturdier Lexus SUV, but Hanna would not remember this until later. She would remember nothing but the child in a jumper with a pink name tag, standing by a signpost, waiting for a person who never came.

#  1

April 23, 2015

Trophy Club, Texas

It took Hanna three long breaths before she realized that she was awake. On the fourth, shuddering release, she stretched her arms above her head, closed her eyes, and kicked off the thick comforter still swaddling her legs. It had been a long time since she had woken up with unseeing eyes, and it was just her luck that Ben chose to sleep in his own room rather than see her like this. Her psychiatrist told her it was normal, that years and miles away from Sendai was not enough to bury the sound of crashing waves, but a hot flush of guilt and shame still overwhelmed her every now and then for feeling like this.

"This won't do," Hanna whispered as she walked towards the high windows near her bed. The curtains parted under her smooth, honey brown hands, unscarred after sessions with a discreet surgeon who had erased all evidence of the incident four years ago. Along with this surgeon came a fleet of self-help gurus, trained psychologists, quiet clergymen, and yoga instructors who helped rub out the scars inside, like a particularly expensive astringent or luxurious exfoliant.

Nudging curtains into neat, pleated waves on the sides of windows was not part of their recommended regimen for treating her condition, but it was one Hanna made for herself after catching Benjamin's nurse open their bedroom curtains one morning. The help took some time to accept her newest distraction, her years of idly letting them go about their tasks offering them no cause to accept it quickly, but they eventually relented and even taught her how to properly set the curtains apart. Arranging the curtains helped normalize her sleeping patterns at least, and the sound of the brass rings holding the top of the curtains sliding against the poles framing the windows filled the pounding silence in her ears. So, every day, when she was at home and not some other flat, she would wake up a little before sunrise to open the curtains in every room of the estate. Twenty-eight rooms, with four to five windows on every side, and hundreds of windows in the hallways that led to each and every one of them. Cream, gold, and beige silk rolls of cloth stretched over mahogany, oak, and birch in different combinations in each room. She vaguely remembered picking out the colors in deference to each room's needs, but that was years ago, before she even thought of shaming herself for previously needing others to do the simple task of opening curtains.

By the time she finished her task, Hanna had watched the sun rise from the tops of the estate's trees and pin itself on the shifting gradients of the sky above. The colors of the sky and the domesticity of the act had helped her manage her trembling hands by then, and Hanna finally saw herself decent enough for her husband to see her.

Ben was being fed by his nurse when Hanna walked into his study, his stubborn mouth a thin line above his quavering jowls as he tried to take the spoonful of drying oatmeal from the beleaguered young woman. The nurse, a fresh graduate, grinned at her little wave and offered her the bowl as she neared them, quietly alerting his charge of her presence.

"There you are, Gabby," Ben grumbled as he accepted a bite of oatmeal from his wife, "Young Erica here needs to meet with our Matthew and refused to leave me alone until you got here."

"Thank you, Erica," Hanna smiled warmly at the young nurse, who looked like she'd just solved world hunger with her offer of time off to meet with Ben's 19-year-old.

"'Ta, Mrs. Hascott. See you later, Ben," Erica waved goodbye as she hurried to the door, grabbing a small backpack from the foot of Ben's wheelchair as she did.

Hanna was surprised that Ben let the young Briton call him by his first name. The few dozen nurses they had had since the stately Hascott patriarch relegated himself to a wheelchair were never allowed to call him more than his last name with a perfunctory "Mr." before or Sir afterwards. Erica was, Hanna recalled, only a few weeks into her employment at that point, and the significance behind the endearment was not lost on her. Then again, the young woman was dating Ben's youngest.

"That's new," she muttered quietly, her excellent vocabulary leaving her momentarily as she absently wiped her husband's chin with a napkin.

"Come off it," Ben answered gruffly, tugging the bowl and spoon away from Hanna and feeding himself with almost childlike petulance.

If Hanna didn't know better, she would describe her husband as a grumpy old softie whose fortune and disease whittled down his formerly fit body and mind. But she knew, from hours spent at his side or at some satellite office, politely smiling at investors and board members until she can cut them down with well-placed words, that Ben did not grow an ordinary million-dollar company into a billion-dollar industry by being a docile lamb.

V-Metals Industries, named after Benjamin Vossen Hascott and Vincent DiMaggio, was a recycling giant worth $542 billion, and was the only name worth knowing in scrap and junkyard. Nearly fifty years ago, no one thought a single company could ever become synonymous with an entire industry without contention; now, it was unthinkable to mention recycling without mentioning V-Metals or Benjamin Hascott. Long before hitting the billion-dollar mark in the Nineties, V-Metals had stretched its long limbs into other industries by way of high-profile partnerships and conglomerates. Half the world's tech plants used metals recycled by V-Metals plants, construction sites and neighborhoods were supplied with material smelted directly from Hascott-owned smelts, and numerous charities proudly called the now 72-year-old patriarch a dear donor who only wished for his funds to help the truly needy.

Hanna almost snorted out loud at the thought and smothered her amusement by arranging the Mackintosh draped on her husband's legs. Ben was not a man who offered anything without any strings attached. He'd sooner make an orphan write him an I.O.U. than let them get away with an unwrapped gift. It was not cruel—it was just the way you had to be when your own employees and friends clawed at you with words and injunctions underneath veils of simpering idiocy. Ben told her once, two years ago at her thirtieth birthday, that the very bottle of Champagne she'd been sipping on since their guests had left came from the same ex-wife who once tried to use her position as the head of his legal counsel to usurp thirty-percent of his shares to pay for alimony, despite all her children being of age at the time. Before then, Ben had only seen her as a beautiful woman with a complementary law degree. He swore never to make the same mistake again, but two ex-wives and five children with troubled childhoods later proved that nothing had changed.

"You're thinking too much, Gabby. Your forehead's wrinkling again," Ben said with distaste as he rolled himself to where the honey and apricots sat on the table.

Hanna let a snappy retort die in her throat before saying, "Sorry, dear."

"Tsk. Where's that fiery young thing I married three years ago?"

"Still here dear, still here."

"Barely there. You've gone soft, like that accountant we fired last week," Ben grumbled, popping a piece of fruit in his mouth before returning to his porridge.

_Oh, I'm still a firecracker, alright,_ Hanna thought to herself dryly, _but I'm not sure you can handle the extra excitement, old man._

Ben, at one point in their life, had been as outwardly formidable as he was inside. He was stunningly athletic even at the age of fifty-nine, perfectly graceful yet allowing no doubt in the strength behind his movements. His chin, then without excess fat, was cut, and it was clear where his boys and girls got their good looks from. Ben had old-world grace, the kind of charm that Hanna craved at the age where she thought dandies were charming and not old fops who treated her like an ornament or a coffee server during board meetings. She didn't stand a chance when he turned his charms on her.

Now he was a surly old man with a $5000 Louis Vuitton Mackintosh spread over equally-expensive Frette pajamas and a wheelchair made of burnished copper and steel, manufactured by his own company for a medical supply corporation as an excess Ben slowly had to allow in his old age. In truth, seventy-three was not a whole lot, but infirmity made the serpent lose a bit of his teeth's edge.

His venom, however, remained potent.

"You have an appointment with Oppenheimer and Desrosiers later?" Ben asked idly, though nothing that he did was truly idle.

"Among others, yes," Hanna said, feeling her tongue clipped against her wishes.

Instead of the questions she was sure were lingering on Ben's tongue, Hanna only heard her husband say, "Steer me to my favorite room, darling."

Darling. It was one endearment Hanna hadn't heard in a while. She clung to it, precious and slightly unwanted by the part of her that hated how it rolled off his tongue, despite making her feel completely useless in the past few months. It felt like bribery, instead of the warm teasing it sounded like from Ben's lips. The only way she could understand what it truly meant was by asking her husband, and it was not something she wanted that morning.

Ben clucked his tongue at her disapprovingly as they moved along one of the many corridors in his estate, saying, "You used to have retorts for everything."

_I really did,_ Hanna thought to herself as they rounded the corner of a small, carefully maintained room. The room was filled with marvelous die-cast cars and the occasional hand-made crafts shaped like cars from the sons and daughters of particularly enterprising plant employees. Hanna knew from experience that the display case in the middle of the room held Ben's favorite prized pieces, long before her husband began rolling himself towards the case.

"Ah this one, this one is my favorite," Ben chuckled as he carefully fished a blue-and-silver car out of the display cabinet. The toy was plain and crudely made, like a defective car that had failed QC and was subsequently sent to run-offs, and well-worn from use besides, but Hanna's husband looked at it like he did when he had seen the perfect wedding ring for her five years ago.

He handed the car to Hanna reverently, leaving her with no choice but to inspect it.

"Matthew made it for me when I finally relented into giving him a little plastic-making set. Adela was furious that I let him have it; he had cuts and burns all over his hands a week after using it. 1999, I think—you can check the date underneath it."

"It says '1999, Matthew' on the underside."

"Good to know my memory can still stretch to that date. Where was I? Ah, yes. Matthew made it sometime after his fifth birthday, then—you would've been sixteen at the time, hardly at Brown—and still fascinated with toys. My youngest, most spoiled, and the only one who lived his whole life in England. Did you know that?"

"He told me over dinner, yes."

"I was on a business trip to Sussex when he gave it to me. Pulled it out of his jacket, wrapped up in parchment from his mother's gift bags. We played with it all day. Had to send the Sussex team a gift basket each for missing the appointment."

Matthew had told Hanna about his father missing several trips for him when they were younger, once Ben had realized, rather late into his fatherhood, that he had missed the window with his older children. He always spoke so openly of his affections for Ben that Hanna had taken to him rather quickly; it was difficult to bond with people when they disliked you, more so when they'd rather keep what you mutually loved from you.

"And all that play paid off, didn't it? Owns his own car company, uses scraps from his old man's yards, charms the trousers off every lad and lady at all those galas. He's prematurely balding, sure, but when he's every bit as charming as his old man, he has nothing to fear."

Hanna wanted to release a witty repartee, engage in one of hers and Ben's favorite past times of verbal jousting, but there was something in her husband's eyes that made her pause.

"I... am glad he would never inherit V-Metals, you know. He's the only one I raised right, or as right as I could, with me as me," Ben said sadly, putting the blue-and-silver die-cast back into its case.

"Eli and Isley are there to hold down the fort, and both Ivory and Emory made their fame and fortune in their own right, you know," Hanna reprimanded him lightly, unnerved by the sudden put-down.

"And for that, I am always grateful. What kind of parent would wish his own children death threats, hmm?"

"Ben?"

Ben chuckled and lifted the Mackintosh from his legs. He lifted one leg gingerly and hiked up his pants leg, revealing a long white scar extending from his big toe to his knee.

"Sometimes, darling, death threats are not just threats," he explained quietly as he put down his leg.

"You told me that came from a diving accident," Hanna said, alarmed. For all her cynicism, she was still loyal to her husband, the shell of a man she favored all those years ago, and did not weather slights against him no matter how old or imaginary they were.

"It happened while diving, but it was no accident."

"Then your back—"

Ben barked out a laugh and said, "That is nature's work, and a bastard one at that. But I suppose that's just right, having my mobility taken away by the one thing I couldn't fight. It's almost a blessing. How can you top off a life spent fighting your own allies and loved ones? Having it taken away by something you can't fight is one way, even if it is uncouth. It's definitely better than having it robbed from you by an accident rather than an imbecile you can outwit without a crippling disease. No, I am tired, and I'm no longer ashamed to say it. Why should I be ashamed? Fifty years, my darling Gabby, fifty years spent building this empire from a small, run-down plant in Arizona until no one can remember a time when my company did not exist. That never comes without a price, Gabby, it truly never does. You're part of the absurdity of the situation. Imagine me, wasting a few precious seconds of my near half-century long fight to take on another wife who will leave me for power or money. But you're the last stop of my journey, even if we never produce an heir. That is how much power you've given me, and that's how much power's in your hands."

Hanna swallowed thickly, brushing the stray tear that ran down her cheek, the one Ben pretended not to notice.

"Ah, but I'm an old man, and I ramble. Where was I? Ah, yes. I was thirty-eight when I got this scar. Off the coast of Australia, with a duke of some minor country. I never found reason in visiting when I could be digging into a plate of hot buttered pancakes with the prime minister that morning. He had good stocks though, and Oppenheimer recommended him. Desrosiers had more tact back then and a lot less Botox, so she insisted she had no hand in it; not that she hadn't had a hand in the shift of mindsets of my wives," Ben shifted in his wheelchair and raised his left eyebrow at Hanna.

"We were floating among the reefs when the duke slipped his hunting knife out of his diving pouch. The duke nearly stabbed me right near a major vein: thank God it didn't actually hit anything. It wasn't my first time with such an accident, but it was a lot more refreshing than dueling with words.... He insisted later that it was an accident, but it was a rather weak excuse. Vinnie DiMaggio, you never met him, man's too reclusive to meet my newest wife, apparently, tried to make him apologize. Heard it was quite the dressing down, but the duke never budged. Years later, his stocks in the Asian market are practically non-existent. I'd like to think it's the antisocial bugger's way of apologizing for only communicating through the end of the year reports and other statistics."

Hanna quietly laughed at the end of his anecdote. It was strange, yet it was a good kind of strange, to feel this hum of quiet attraction despite the petulant resentment she feels towards her husband. This was a side of Ben she never thought she could find since meeting at nineteen years old. Refreshing couldn't begin to describe the sensation.

"Why are you telling me this now?" She asked Ben quietly, completely unused to her reserved voice.

Ben looked at her with steel in his eyes and spoke, "Because when you talk to those bastards later, I want you to remember the man I had to sacrifice to create an unshakeable empire. I want you to see the last vestiges of a man buried under the foundation of betrayals and offerings for a future where his children and the children of those brought into the fray will never need to repeat history."

He grasped Hanna's hand as she kissed his brow. "When you face those bastards, I want you to let them know that you are the one sacrifice I do not need to make."

"I missed you," Hanna said almost immediately, afraid that this would be the last time she could find love in her heart for this stubborn old foolish man.

Ben merely tapped her shoulder and directed her to steer them back to their rooms. When Hanna finished fixing herself for the meeting, Ben didn't bother to give her a look-over. He merely made her bend towards him and gave her a peck on the cheek, with strict instructions to make Aldo drive her back home as soon as the meeting was over.

And just like that, Ben was Benjamin Hascott once more, and Hanna his doting, miserable wife.

#  2

V-Metals headquarters was a monstrosity against the quaint skyline of Trophy Club, Texas.

Standing at thirty-eight stories tall, the four metal and glass obelisks protruded from the panorama of the Grapevine Lake, like stakes meant to pierce the sky. Up close, the monolithic structure was far more intimidating than awe-inspiring. None of the surrounding buildings came close to even reaching the heels of the domed glass atrium that served to cover the convergence point of the towers of the two million square meter compound.

Years of driving from the Hascott estate near Bob Jones Park to the reclaimed land off Marshall Point had not diminished the awe it inspired in Hanna. If anything, her admiration grew with each meeting she attended. They were dreadful and wore her down more than anything, but doing business in any one of the four towers made them more bearable.

In a way, she thought one night, enclosed in Benjamin's arms during the younger days of their courtship, being married to one of the men who decided to create, for all intents and purposes, a castle by a lake made her a queen of sorts. The absurdity of her younger self's thoughts filled Hanna with mirth as she navigated the labyrinth of security checkpoints that led to the executive parking area.

After the third checkpoint, she passed into the massive underground parking structure that lay beneath the Northern tower.

Just as she crossed into the soft, white light of the garage, a flash of sunlight reflected off the tower's glass windows and into her eyes. The contrast of the blinding light left her vision temporarily murky with black dots. The black dots, for some unknown reason, reminded her of something she used to see during her early modeling days after hours in front of a photographer's flashing camera.

The sudden sunburst caused her pupils to naturally contract as her eyelids painfully squinted. But it was the feeling that followed that was much darker, causing her mood to smoothly descend with the garage floor's inclines.

A bright flash of excitement and promise followed by a life that only felt hollow in comparison. She had to wonder now what was left for her in life but to care for her grumpy old husband and oversee his corporate empire. Even that would come to an end, she supposed, like the Inca Empire that eventually lost its stronghold over South America due to internal affairs and the impeccable timing of conquistadors. Somewhat akin to what V-Metal is experiencing now.

Hanna's round tipped heels carefully accelerated and braked all the way through the down-spiraling maze path. The 6.3-liter V8 engine's thunderous growl reverberated off every glass fixture, metal beam and concrete wall it passed and soon became a ghost of its own, lingering echoes as it dipped further through narrow wells.

Now only seconds away from her car's drop-off point, the last level of a highly restricted area, she noticed for the hundredth time the many animated phantom images of her car's reflection and other objects being thrown by overhead and her vehicle's lights, stalking, expanding, multiplying, and then vanishing altogether in each set of glass partitions she passed, wreaking havoc on a wondering mind, seemingly surrounded by fears of the infinite imagination and its possibilities of alternate realities of the unknown.

She often thought, _what if an earthquake was to happen? Right now. I would be utterly and hopelessly trapped down here under tons of concrete and metal until someone dug my corpse from the rubble._ A cold shiver passed through her.

The metallic-coated Benz continued to be swallowed by blind spots in the garage's camouflaging shadows. Each shadow deepened her melancholy. She thought to herself, if her life now was a murky gloom of uncertainty, her life after Ben would be nothing more than an assembly of dangerous shadows, advancing, expanding, splitting and slowly fading to only merge and cross her path again.

But, just as she had no choice but to keep driving the same path she took every morning, there was no way to alter the course of her life now.

She was committed to this long-drawn-out battle with execs and competitors. She was committed to Ben. And for better or worse, she _was_ committed to upholding his legacy.

As much as she might wish for a different path for herself, the chance for that was long gone. Her course was set, as immutable as the sun's journey from east to west.

"Hello, Mrs. Hascott," the guard at the final checkpoint said in his usual, dutiful voice.

"Good morning, Mike." She passed him her badge as she gave her usual greeting.

Even getting into the building was an exercise in routine and habit. She imagined she could drive to the V-Metals building, navigate the complex parking lot with all its checkpoints, and talk to each of the guards all with her eyes closed if she really wanted to.

As Mike returned her badge, she considered breaking the pattern, saying something different. She could ask about Mike's family. Except that she realized she didn't know if the man had any family. She saw him almost every day of the week, and she didn't even know if he was married, if he had kids. If he wanted kids.

She decided the awkwardness of admitting her lack of knowledge was too great of a gap to correct with small talk at the moment, especially considering that Mike probably knew almost everything there was to know about her. So she accepted the badge with her usual polite smile, rolled the window back up, and drove on, ever deeper into the gloom.

In truth, the parking garage wasn't that dark once her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight. It was certainly better-lit than any other parking garage she'd seen, with rows of fluorescent light fixtures on the ceiling every ten meters. On some days, she supposed it was brighter down here than it was outside. Yet the artificial lights did nothing to dispel the gloom that hung in Hanna's mind.

Her parking space came into view ahead, the same one she parked in every day. G1. Ben had offered to give her a better space countless times and she'd refused the offer each time. It had been a while since he'd mentioned it and she was expecting the topic to come up again soon.

Her current space was fine, although it was deep in the bowels of the cold earth. If anything, she wished he'd let her move it outside, but that was out of the question. He couldn't abide the thought of her trudging through the elements just to get to work. Someone of her standing deserved a roof over her head to keep the rain at bay.

Of course, she couldn't explain to him what driving underground did to her mood, so she never bothered to bring it up. A dreary March sky was better than countless tons of cement and steel over her head any day.

Once her car purred to a stop inside the space, as precisely as always, she waited for the final security check. A red beam shot from a black metal box mounted on the wall and scanned the parking pass on her windshield, verifying her vehicle was registered to the reserved parking space it was in.

The light on the box flickered from red to green, indicating that the scan was completed successfully, and she could exit the vehicle. Hanna sighed and switched off the engine, taking a moment to gather her belongings and wit before stepping out of the two-seater. The meeting she had come to attend did not promise to be a pleasant one, and she would need to be thinking as clearly as possible to get through it. It was time to end the prolonged conversation in her head, and put away her high-paranoia thoughts. She took one last deep breath, rose the left gullwing door skyward, and climbed out of the cockpit. She closed the door behind her and hit the lock button on her fob. The car's alarm chirped a fleet of rapidly dying echoes.

Today Hanna wore a short-sleeved trench coat over a silk wrap dress, both rib-fitting, in black, by Burberry. Fashionably cradling her neck, hanging loosely, was a pink sheer scarf adorned with a plaid print.

The tranquil enclosed area where her SLS AMG rested had more empty spaces than vehicles, far from vegetation, natural ventilation, sunlight, and the daily chaotic sounds of the metropolitan's busy streets.

The moment her heels clacked against the concrete surface of the parking garage, an armed security guard was approaching her from his post around the corner.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hascott," he said, stopping an appropriate distance from her. "Would you like for me to escort you to the thirtieth floor, today?"

Hanna shook her head as she went through the final motions of her arrival routine. "I'll be fine. Thanks."

The guard shifted to follow her against her request. "Well, at least allow me escort you to—"

She held up her hand to decline the offer, as usual. "I'm sure I can make it to the elevator on my own, just fine. Thank you, Mike." She flashed a polite smile and strode past the guard, allowing the staccato rhythm of her heels to focus her mind as she walked toward the elevator area inside the parking structure. She quietly thought to herself once the lift's car doors opened, _make sure I text Aldo to pick me up after the meeting. Mostly, I won't be in the mood to do anything else after the meeting._

#  3

None of the higher-level executives said anything more than a friendly hello when she entered one of the elevators in the northern tower, but the way the younger staff practically curtsied to her only enforced the joke.

All the joy she felt evaporated the moment the elevator opened on the 30th floor.

"Mrs. Hascott, you are radiant and wonderful, as always."

Wesley Oppenheimer was a plain looking man, completely indistinguishable from one man to another. If it wasn't for his impressive résumé, one wouldn't think of him as one of the country's leading corporate lawyers. Yet it was this plainness, this blank slate that terrified Hanna and Wesley's more sensible opponents. A blank slate meant it could be painted with anything and brushed clean a second later, leaving no trace of familiarity one could cling to in hopes of overturning his quiet and logical arguments in their favor. Plainness meant that every carefully constructed argument against him seemed frivolous, useless, and meaningless compared to his simplicity.

He knew this about himself, and Hanna saw him use this as a shield for V-Metals again and again. Wesley was never a sword, never the one to invite wounds when he could defend against them instead. Having him on the side of some truly vicious fencers did not ease Hanna's fears on the meeting.

"The same to you, Wesley," Hanna answered, her smile brilliant, unwavering, and never reaching her eyes.

"Shall we wait inside? I'm afraid Mr. Oppenheimer and Desrosiers are still leading the charge from the 20th floor."

"I was thinking—"

"That won't be necessary, Wesley, Mrs. Hascott."

Hanna didn't need to turn around to see the face of Finnick Oppenheimer nor the begrudgingly well-cut suit of Elena Desrosiers to know it was them and their small party of board members and lawyers. She dealt with them far too much nowadays for their appearance to truly trouble her much.

"Charming of you to show up so early, Finnick. I only hope your wits are as prompt as you are," Hanna said, not bothering to wrap her barb in sweetness as an unknown figure stepped out of the lifts to the party's left. In her periphery, she could see a clean-shaven man's head stumble out of the elevator to greet the others.

"Very acerbic of you, Hanna. Tell me, did your dry cleaners forget to use your brand of fabric conditioner again, or did your chef simply forget to put a sprig of rosemary on your eggs?" Elena inquired, appearing genuine all but in the simple quirk of her lips and eyebrows.

Hanna admired the woman before all this... mess. Elena was nothing but determined and came from a line of women who raised themselves out of poverty until the next in line could do it, and did Elena ever do it. Strong, simple, and a head meant for leadership, she was everything Finnick and his pompous airs hoped to be. Yet Elena needed Finnick for this scheme of theirs to work; the man simply had too much mastery of the metals industry and business in general to drop. Not to mention the man's extensive network of allies, nor his fleet of private jets.

Quips were traded as they entered the boardroom, none too threatening to make it crass but none too light to make it affable. There was intent with each barb, Ben told her once over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a table full of thorny roses during a dangerously romantic dinner. It was inevitable that she shed a few drops of blood. The trick was to know which prick needed tending or cutting, and which sting to take home to nurse.

"Now, now, Mr. Oppenheimer," Hanna said as she slid smoothly into the seat where her husband usually sat, "Let's begin before your tongue fails to keep up with the syllables needed for sentences."

Finnick visibly fought the urge to sneer at her and said, "Then I hope yours can keep up with the jargon, Mrs. Hascott."

Hanna quirked her lips and thought, "You'll never know what hit you _."_

At once, the people around the table launched into business, all stoic professionalism with straight terms and simplifications natural for men and women who knew what they were talking about. Copper prices had shot up in the Mediterranean, steel had downed in a drastic curve in the Baltic States, and Cuba had upped their need for aluminum after some teenager in one of their sponsored charities found a way to make lightweight car frames for a science project. It was when the meeting had gone into the meat of the discussion—the division of V-Metals—that the pompousness bled out, accompanied by hidden smirks and pointed looks at Hanna's direction.

Hanna remained unfazed.

"Cutting off a bit of our allocations in the labor division is imperative to expand our acquisition in the East Asian market. The Toulouse conglomerate is looking to overtake V-Metals in the area and the only thing keeping us from taking that area is the frivolous projects we've created under Madame Hascott's instructions," Elena said calmly as she studied Hanna's face for her reaction.

"That is logical. We have enough benefits for our employees, and surely the impending division of the company would make the ventures fruitless," Finnick said in full pomposity, his cronies nodding quietly at his side.

"Then you would've wasted a good $43 million on an investment projected to make triple that in three years," Hanna started, the figures she scanned briefly before the meeting flickering at the back of her mind, "And you would damage the company's standing with its labor unions and bank partners. It's already taken a hit from the... austerity measures you gentlemen and ladies imposed since Ben opened negotiations a year ago, and I don't think we need to give The Daily Mail any more gold hits like 'Our janitors can afford a Royal Salute if they saved their wages for a year'."

Finnick reddened and said, "Our company benefits are among the best in the world, even to the smallest contractors and non-essential staff members. Your project on entrepreneurship and financial training only serves to distract our valuable employees from the work they've chosen to do for the company."

"Can you say that with a straight face to the 50,000 freelancers who testified for that online petition the New York Times covered yesterday? Or the three million plant workers who were lifted out of debt after eight months under the austerity lectures in Malaysia? Perhaps you want to take this point up with the accounting firm in Budapest, after they've finished calculating our exact returns following an unnatural surge in profits?"

"You've said it yourself: three years for a profit, to make back the investment sunk into a program expected to only last for five years. We have capable headhunters to fill in the gaps once our employees are weaned out of the program and risk analysts who can ease our investors into supporting our expansion programs," said Finnick.

"Expansion programs that have absolutely nothing to do with our current operations. Online shopping firms? Food services? Pharmaceutical production instead of direct manufacturing of machines? My experience with running the business may only extend to a small state, but a radical shift in business directives can hardly be justified."

Elena's eyes gleamed under her thick, titanium-framed glasses as she countered Hanna with, "A tiny plant in Rhode Island hardly compares with running the East Coast operation of a multi-billion-dollar company."

Hanna regarded her coolly and said, "From what I've read in the dossiers, your staff has more experience in that field than you or I do."

The older woman looked unaffected, but a telltale twitch near her sculpted eyebrows told Hanna that she had said the right words.

"Dividing V-Metals into separate companies is the ideal way of justifying these directives. It is the only way we could focus on these points without turning our market prospects volatile and keeping them from becoming profitable. Smaller vessels are more manageable to steer than a singular, massive boat."

"In the fifty odd years Benjamin Hascott ran this company, has he ever endeavored to run it like an army comprised of small companies, or like a monolithic force of nature all our major competitors learned to fear in their leather-lined seats? Sure, the V-Metals brand has a lot of names abroad, but it has only ever operated under that very name. Now you want to split it up into tiny bite-sized portions for the board to share like finger sandwiches? What would your slice be named, Finn? Gaucherie and Gauche Laboratories, makers of fine cocktail drugs? How about you, Elena, Thelma, Oskar? Do you plan on making your own empires?"

"My clients plan on maintaining the kingdom your husband made, Mrs. Hascott," Wesley demurred, his tone soft and sincere. It unnerved Hanna more than any of the subtle threats and belittlements his employers hurled at her since they sat down for the meeting.

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Small companies appeal more to the public nowadays, you know that. Keeping the impenetrable veneer of the Hascott's empire is less efficient than breaking it up into manageable, public-friendly parts."

"On a face value level, that makes sense, but V-Metals has been one of the few companies to have little or no scandal directly linked to the main management since its inception. It's trustworthy, familiar, yet has enough young employees to prevent stagnancy."

Before Wesley could interrupt, Hanna continued, "Brand visibility isn't an issue, labor policies and profit are problematically unproblematic, and the only real problem we have are small problems our local branches can handle without the big boys interrupting them. I don't see a problem, do you?"

"Benjamin Hascott is _dying_ and none of his heirs have the same ruthlessness as their father to make sure that V-Metals will survive until the next decade," Wesley answered simply, with no malice or amusement coloring his declaration.

Hanna fought the immediate retorts on her tongue. She was on fire. An unexpected surge of rage rose in her well-sculpted frame, but this was neither the time nor the place to unleash wild flames from her tongue. Yet she couldn't help herself from blurting out her words before she could censure it: "I'm not signing a damn thing until Mr. Hascott and I go over it."

Wesley only had a moment to blink at her before Elena cut in with, "The longer you draw this out, the harder it will be for the company to bounce back."

"Bounce back from what, exactly? Have you been promising investors luxuries before you could commission them into contracts? That's not your style, Mrs. Desrosiers. You've always been practical."

"Your stubbornness is pulling resources away from matters that need more delicacy than a simple turnover."

"The future of a million employees and half a century of history is hardly simple, Elena. After a hundred parties with world leaders and billionaires, all wanting tributes from V-Metals, do you think a simple cowing from people I've seen proper drunk will change my mind? Frankly, dear, I'm offended on your behalf."

A small chuckle derailed whatever Elena was about to say and caused the entire room to turn in their expensive, ergonomic seats. A clean-shaven African American man at the end of the table raised his hands apologetically and tried to make himself seem smaller, only to fail when he couldn't quite hide his smile. Hanna caught his eyes and saw sparkles of mischief behind his light brown orbs.

"It's nearly two. We have a meeting with a lending company regarding the acquisition of the plants in South Dakota," Wesley said in the ensuing silence, nodding to Finnick and Elena as he gathered his papers into his briefcase.

#  4

The ensuing rush was not amicable, but it was not as hostile as Hanna thought it would be. She felt like going to the gym to work it all out, but her therapist once told her that acting on her aggressions would only stimulate her anger. The next best thing, she decided, was to use her private cards to buy everything she could want in every mom-and-pop shop she could find before anyone recognized her.

She was halfway across the lobby floor when she saw the clean-shaven man fixing his laces near the entryway, tucked against a side that didn't get much foot traffic, and looking like he had just walked out of the finest show he had ever watched. Hanna knew better than to talk to him. He had been, after all, invited to the meeting by Elena without her knowledge, but he had never made a noise during the entire meeting except to laugh at an unfortunate time.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Hanna intoned as she approached the man, nodding with satisfaction as the man whipped his head from his shoes to look up at her.

"But satisfaction brought it back," he finished her sentence, the same mischief Hanna saw earlier back in his eyes as he straightened up.

"I don't believe I caught your name, nor why Desrosiers invited you as her plus one."

"Travis Lamar Burton. Used to own a cyber security company, GSI Systems Inc., specializing in protecting financial data and systems before the divorce. Nowadays, I'm more of a consultant on what not to do to keep one's business afloat," Travis cheerfully informed her and stuck his hand out.

Hanna shook it blithely and said, "I guess you're one of the risk analysts they hired to help convince me to turn over?"

"That's what they want me to do, but it's nothing official at the moment. Definitely nothing they could hold on to on paper."

"Then they've hired you to fluff up their numbers?"

"I guess you can say that. To be honest, I think they're getting pretty desperate to seal the deal. That was one of the worst pseudo-intellectual debates I've ever heard, and I went to Stanford."

"Pseudo-intellectual?"

Travis shrugged and answered, "It was like watching a bad B-movie, y'know? A poorly-worded one that had a scriptwriter who didn't know what they were writin' about until the last minute."

"That's rather unprofessional of you, Mr. Burton," Hanna said curtly, bristling at the implied insult to her arguments. She wanted to ask, _Just who do you think you are?,_ but good manners prevented her from lashing out.

"Guess so, but what can I do? There were a lot of unnecessary words in there. Granted, unnecessary words can be used to great effect, but they weren't needed in that conference room. You all knew what to say, at what times, yet you all still came to a stalemate. It was like listening to two one-sided conversations in a glass room y'know?"

"Then what do you think should've happened?"

"I have no right to answer that question, but what I can say is y'knew what you wanted to say, but didn't know how to back it up with facts. Bravado's great, Ms. Han, but facts? Facts shut down takeovers before they even become that."

Hanna raised her eyebrows, offended but begrudgingly impressed.

"Are you implying that I'm uninformed?"

"Uninformed, but not ignorant. That's a clear distinction I'm not willing to make for the others, ma'am."

Hanna had to laugh at that and Travis was gracious enough to laugh with her. By the time they wound down, she'd grown aware that her car had been waiting for her outside the lobby long enough for the concierge to throw concerned looks at her.

"I'll call you if I need any more critiquing, Mr. Burton," Hanna declared as she strode past her companion, unmindful of the curious eyebrow he raised in her direction.

"Nice meeting you too, Mrs. Hascott," Travis called out, tucking his hands into his pockets as Hanna looked at him over her shoulder.

As much as Hanna wanted to be skeptical of Travis' advice, the man had a point. Ben threw her into this situation with little to no information. She had to rely on old hurts, phrases that she had engraved into her skull the moment her little Rhode Island plant required a few more meetings at the 24th floor than she had wanted. It had been too long since the last meeting. Before, she chalked up the lack of invitations to people finally understanding her need for independence, but now she could see it for what it was: a bid to discredit her and bully her into signing away her husband's hard work.

Hanna brushed her lips with her thumbnail, scraping off the Mac matte until she needed to apply another coat to replenish its vibrancy. Aldo hummed his disapproval from the front seat, though Hanna knew it was aimed towards the crease forming between her eyebrows and not her abysmal grooming abilities.

She couldn't help the worry showing on her face. Surely, there was no dearth of information for the wife of a billion-dollar company? Yet she knew, with increasing worry, that the information she needed would be nigh impossible to acquire without a lot of phone calls and late nights. Finnick, Elena, and the others simply had too much seniority for her actions to go unnoticed; she was fairly sure that, conscious or not, the underlings she had to mingle with to get to the information worked directly under them.

Then there was a matter of knowing what she actually needed, and why she needed it.

Did Travis purposely plant doubts in her mind? Hanna's neck burned with anger and humiliation at the possibility, but she knew that it could very well just be her own paranoia talking. As much as she loathed depending on someone again, she didn't know what to look for, and asking potential snakes might be the only way she could dissolve all attempts to divide V-Metals once and for all.

"Aldo? Let's return to the estate. I suddenly don't feel much like bringing home a bundle of trinkets," Hanna said, worrying her bottom lip with her thumb once again.

"Bundle, miss?" Aldo asked teasingly as he quickly corrected his course, "I think the appropriate word is mountain."

Hanna's chest quivered as she suppressed a laugh. "That's quite enough, Aldo."

#  5

Had Hanna been a lesser woman, her hands would have shaken. As it was, only her stubbornness kept her hands steady on her lap, curled into loose fists as she listened to her psychiatrist carefully shuffle his notes around. Leó Agostino was a great conversationalist outside his office, but within the four walls of this maple-lined room, he was nearly as indiscernible as Wesley.

"Have you been meditating, Mrs. Hascott?" Agostino asked, his head carefully tilted to one side in measured sympathy.

"I have. I do, every morning, just before I meet Ben for breakfast," she replied. This, she could do without using any of her higher brain functions. She knew the importance of the sessions to her health and to her success, but years of insulating herself had made any attempts to actually open up end with a cheap bottle of Bacardi or another closet full of clothes.

Agostino hummed and brought out a list of medications he had prescribed her two months ago. It had been a few years since he had changed Hanna's prescription, and the only reason they were rotating them out was because of their marked improvement over previous iterations of the medicine.

He then asked her routine questions, assessing her physical activities, her work load, and her children by proxy. He even asked about Ben. Agostino never let the conversation dull and kept Hanna talking, establishing a sense of monotony she allowed herself to be lulled by. It was easier this way, to let her thoughts drift freely as her body did the work for her: imperceptible shifts on her shoulders, hands, and face; the slow pointing of her foot; a polite widening of the eyes and twitch of the mouth.

Hanna should've known better than to try her tricks on Agostino.

"How are your nightmares?" asked Agostino, "do you still dream of Japan?"

Hanna controlled herself before her back could straighten in betrayal.

"Japan's a jewel, yes. Of course, I still dream of it."

"Kazuki was the name of the boy you attempted to save, wasn't it?" Agostino's face was as impassive as ever.

Heat flared within Hanna's chest as she tried to look unaffected by the mention of the little boy's name. Her psychiatrist knew that the boy's name was Kazuki Moraoka, and he knew that he was a kindergartner whose mother was found trapped by a telephone pole as she attempted to unlock her van and drive herself and her son to safety. They both knew he loved the sea and even won a small contest at his school for rendering the local beach line in a pretty, if smudged, outline of oil pastels and watercolor.

Agostino knew this because Hanna told him all about it. Against his wishes, she had had investigators dig up Kazuki's files mere months after the tsunami happened. It took another few months for anything of substance to show up, but when it did, Hanna memorized it all like her life depended on it. She even had the boy's winning artwork framed on her nightstand, blissfully untouched by the disaster that claimed its artist.

"It is."

"Was. It was his name. Do you remember when you last dreamt of Kazuki?"

Hanna shifted in her seat and looked away for the first time this session. She hated admitting defeat, but she hated appearing weaker more. Yet in all the seven years Agostino had been mentioning Kazuki's name, she still couldn't meet his eyes.

"Two weeks ago." The lie bit at Hanna's tongue as flashes of this morning came to her, unbidden. Distant sounds of roiling water wound uncomfortably at the base of her ears; the smell of sea salt mingling with upturned dirt and human smells tickled her nostrils; Agostino's gentle maple walls gave way to a mall in Ishinomaki.

Sweat began moistening her hands.

But with a few blinks and a quick pinch on the ends of her fingertips, the building reverie was quickly silenced.

Agostino nodded, seemingly acknowledging her brief struggle and for a brief moment, Hanna felt the same rage she thought she had reined in long ago, when her grief progressed to anger and found its focus in the placid psychiatrist in front of her. She knew it was his job to pick her thoughts apart and to help her put them together again. It was a mantra she burned into her mind every hour before she stepped into this office, on the 19th floor of a metal and glass building built with materials sourced from V-Metals plants on a plot of land owned by the Hascott Estate.

There was no sense in fighting people who actually wanted to help her move on from the tragedy, and Hanna knew that perfectly well. However, there was an insurmountable block in her mind that prevented the rest of her from accepting it as fact. The best she could do was control the impulse to see it as a complete failure on her end.

Unfortunately, today was a bad day. Three days after the meeting in the headquarters and she was no closer to forming a sliver of a plan, much less concrete steps that would take her to her goal. Her dinner plans with Matthew had also fallen through yesterday, leaving her with a cold report on the young man's company, XIX Motors, and a grumpy Benjamin.

"And the flooding?" Agostino asked, bringing some part of Hanna back to the office.

"I don't feel comfortable answering this question," Hanna said in a challenging tone, eager to finish the session.

Agostino wasn't having none of it, as usual. "What other dreams have you been having, Mrs. Hascott?"

"I read in a journal a few weeks ago that dream therapy isn't all that it's cracked up to be, Mr. Agostino. Reading into things fired by sleeping neurons isn't exactly scientific, isn't it?" Hanna lashed back.

"Yet here we are again, negotiating with the landscape of your mind. But I can admit to an inequality here, and I don't care to use flowery language. Simply put: we're not in the board room, Mrs. Hascott. No one needs to win anything here. This is a marathon, not a sprint. Let's try pacing ourselves before we burn out; we've got another thirty minutes to go."

Agostino's youthful but lined face crinkled slightly before returning to its stony façade. Hanna unconsciously gave him a small smile even as shame and a bit of thankful resentment floated in her chest.

"Are you ready to tell me if I hit a sore point?" the psychiatrist asked.

Hanna rubbed her palms together briefly before responding, "I'll come back to that. You asked me about my dreams, the ones I have when I'm asleep and not aching around a recycling plant. They changed. I think you already knew that, and I think you know I thought about Kazuki. This morning wasn't like any dream I've had of him since the very first time my brain conjured him up during my sleep."

She paused and glanced at her psychiatrist before continuing, "This time, it was chronological; too chronological. It was as if I was telling the story to the police again, to Benjamin, even to you. It started inside AEON, turned around the time I realized what was going to happen to the mall, and ended just before I was swept away by the seawater."

Hanna looked away blankly in the distance. "Some of the details I remembered weren't even in the statements I've given to police or the media. The color of the _omiyage_ I bought. The _sentai_ sticker on Kazuki's hat. I don't know what it means... Or maybe it's due to all the pressure I'd been under lately?"

"There's something else, isn't there?" Agostino scribbled lazily on his legal pad.

"I..." Hanna hesitated. "Lately, I feel more exposed than usual. It's not the usual feeling of paparazzi or overzealous assistants. You've had your share of attention, you know the feeling."

"Do you believe that it is a legitimate threat?"

"No. At least I believe it's not a threat yet. I'm having trouble establishing whether it's even real. Once, there was a little calendar on the desk of an intern displaying a quote: 'All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusion is called a philosopher.' I don't know who the quote is by, but it stuck with me for some reason."

Her psychiatrist rubbed his face with the back of his fingers. "Bierce. Cheeky old chap. Writing a book named The Devil's Dictionary takes a healthy amount of irreverence and silliness. No wonder he said that line... But to answer your unspoken question, Mrs. Hascott, I don't believe you are delusional, mentally ill, foolish, or eccentric. Some may believe that you are the latter two for reasons beyond the scope of this session. That is their opinion: their slanderous, thoughtless opinion."

Hanna might have given in to laughter at that moment in any other circumstances. Her mouth could care less about mirth at the moment. "What happened in Japan continues to affect me to this day. I know that this isn't normal. Having dreams of the same event seven years after the fact isn't normal. Fearing the ocean in the middle of visiting a factory in a landlocked, desert country isn't normal."

"PTSD is not a Balenciaga t-shirt you can toss and procure at will. It will last as long as you will on this world and I hope—for the sake of the Hascott's and the world—that you will last for a long time. It's not something we can discount entirely, much like how many sleepless weeks you've had since the V-Metals board decided that a hostile takeover was smarter than admitting their mistakes," Agostino answered. "I'm not a gambling man, but I am willing to guess that this is not the only thing on your mind?"

"No, it's not," Hanna admitted freely. There was no reason to pretend any longer. "Since talks for the merger began three weeks ago, I have the oddest feeling that something, someone, has been following me. It might be nothing, an after-effect of being in the industry for too long or having paparazzi hound my every step, but last week, the security for my condo downtown asked if I had guests over. They showed me footage of men and women in normal clothes lounging in the lobby, nothing suspicious. But when I walked past them, one of the women pulled out a camera and took a picture of me while one of her companions pressed something in his ear while talking to someone unseen." Hanna's right hand tightly gripped her left hand to keep her thumb from worrying her bottom lip. Agostino noticed the gesture and then returned his gaze to her eyes.

"The security first wrote it off as an isolated event, but the same group of people in different permutations and different times kept appearing in the lobby every time I used the unit. My security detail in the Hascott estate cross-referenced their footage and saw that the same group looked similar to the homeless people who would camp out near the gates of our grounds whenever I'm home."

Agostino frowned. "This is more than imagined. Your family hires the best men for security: I should know because I've personally assessed the heads of your staff. But I could see why this would upset you, and why your dreams may have changed. Would you care to share them?"

"The dreams themselves are largely unaffected, Leó. A few suits here and there, standing or sitting like they're not affected by the seawater sweeping in the parking lot. It's not the dreams that are beginning to unravel, Leó. It's me."

Hana didn't know what she expected Leo to say. She thought the psychiatrist would make one of his irreverent quips or dose out sage advice, but he continued to sit across from her, waiting for her to continue.

So she did. "There are others who run the company with me. Benjamin's ex-wives are generous with their time and continue to steer clear of the merger debate while performing their duties. Their children, too. You know how long it took me to win them over. Even outside the family I get help. There are literally millions of employees out there who don't know that the company keeping them and their family fed and clothed is having one hell of an internal struggle."

"I admit, I'm a little curious about that," Agostino said, his face shedding a little of its stiffness to convey his interest, "I don't see much in the media other than rumors from business sites and the occasional piece on Financial Landscape defending the Hascott name."

"Finnick and Elena know that they can't afford to have the company look weak while they're ironing out the details of their little takeover and believe me, it's a takeover all but in name," Hanna grumbled, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"I would like to hear your thoughts on Mr. Oppenheimer and Ms. Desrosiers, but I think we're getting a little side-tracked here, Mrs. Hascott."

Hanna sighed. "Nothing gets past you. As I was saying, there are literally millions of people running the company with me. That fact... that fact is in my mind every single day, on every hour. That millions of people unknowingly put their futures, their family's futures in my hands every time I wake up to do what my husband did daily until his body couldn't take it—that fact... this..."

A cube of ice made its way to a tall drinking glass and floated upwards as water poured out of a misappropriated Ravenscroft decanter and into its crystal kin. The ice made its way into Hanna's mouth when she accepted the glass from a knowing Agostino.

"I consider myself a strong woman, if not an intelligent one, fairly emotional when worked up about things I consider valuable or endearing, and there are a lot of things that I consider precious. Benjamin, my family, V-Metals, Matthew and the kids, the—the various charities I have—all of them know me for being strong and resourceful at every turn," Hanna said when the ice had melted.

"Sounds absolutely exhausting."

"It _is_ positively revolting. Oh, sure, having control in something feels _great_. If I can't have control in what goes on in my mind, then I want control in ventures that would make sure that other people would have the same fears."

Agostino reclined in his seat. "And that requires a lot of self-capital, I imagine."

Hanna's lips quivered. He nodded. "It's neither healthy nor wise to constantly suppress unwanted thoughts and emotions, though I can see how this has served you well. Bravo, Mrs. Hascott."

"I would take a bow, but I don't feel particularly victorious at the moment."

"A vacation would help victory settle deeper into your skin, I think."

"A vacation," Hanna repeated, chuckling, "Oh, wow. I'm sure... quite sure, that if I took my jet somewhere that's not related to the merger, Finnick and Elena would have the company in their grasp within days."

"It does not need to be a purely pleasurable one," Agostino suggested. Hanna nodded at him to let him continue, "Benjamin often took vacations under the guise of business trips. Always complained that it cut his time with Emory and his other children or his wife at the time, but those vacations always ended up being more productive than any official visit actually is."

Agostino paused and made notes on his pad. Hanna drained her glass and contemplated his words. It was true that Benjamin often disguised his globetrotting ways with some technical, official business. Their second honeymoon in Costa Rica, for example, was written off as an inspection of V-Metals's new eco-friendly recycling plant and an interview with the local women who were to exclusively administer the plant. In practice, it was one of the most memorable trips she had ever taken, and had uncovered a crime being planned by one of the foremen against the administrators.

"There's merit to this reverie," Hanna said. "Yet there's no occasion or new acquisition for me to use as a scapegoat lest it send signals that I'm tacitly approving the board's grander schemes."

Her psychiatrist patted her hand before easing his face into a smile. Their session was at an end.

"You'll find a way, Mrs. Hascott, I'm sure of it," Agostino told her as he collected her glass.

The sound of bones cracking and clothes shifting filled the room as Hanna stood from the chair and stretched her limbs. When the room was back to its precise neatness and blood circulated back through her limbs, Hanna walked to the doorway with her psychiatrist. She turned the brass doorknob, intent on having Agostino's comforting but unserviceable reassurance the last thing that she would hear from this office today and stopped.

"Do—" she began, her tongue betraying her intent. "Do you believe I could do this by myself?"

"Even islands need millions of years and a myriad of geological forces to form, Han," Agostino said as he patted her shoulder, "Think of that when you step out of this room and begin your life again."

#  6

Ben stopped by Hanna's desk five hours after her return, quietly wheeling himself into the room with a mug of half-wet oats and raspberries and looking more concerned than he had in years. Hanna recognized the look from when Jamie and Dolores had pretended they were each other: the look on Ben's face at the twins' antics could be described as despairingly fond and exasperated.

"You won't find anything of worth in there, you know," Ben said knowledgeably as he put the mug of oats beside Hanna's tumbler of coffee.

Hanna primly picked up the mug and stirred its contents with a spoon as she replied, "Oh? My full USB and legal pad would like to say otherwise."

"You're using the company encyclopedia and news sites, aren't you?"

"That's correct. They're very thorough and well-sourced. Our encyclopedia has almost everything on the company history and its current contracts. Anything that isn't confidential is in there."

Ben nodded and said, "I remember signing off the papers for that project. I made sure nothing of worth could be released there. Too many impressionable young people in our IT department who think Snowden's a hero and not the unruly snitch that he is."

"You've met the man and you agreed with him and his stance on information before. You didn't seem so argumentative back then."

"Because what he did is exactly what our competitors—and quite frankly, our own people—want to do with our information. This is why you won't find the names and contracts you need on our servers, private or public. You need to access our server and record rooms for that."

Hanna swallowed the oats in her mouth thickly before saying, "You know they won't let me in just like that, especially after this meeting."

Ben quirked an eyebrow at her and retorted with, "And why not? You're my wife! You have every right to that information."

"Being your wife doesn't grant me authority over your company records."

"The board representative of the CEO has that authority."

"Let's say you're right, dear—"

"—And I'm always right—"

"Wouldn't you think that my authority would be slightly curbed by today's events?"

"And when has that ever stopped you?"

Hanna chuckled. "Not everyone has your confidence, dear."

"And that is why no one else is fit to lead this company but me," Ben answered as he put Hanna's notes down on her desk.

Hanna leaned back against her office chair and stirred her oats around, contemplating Ben's words. It affected her more than she thought it would, the implication that no one could take his place after he was gone. It was the truth, and one she reminded herself of on days where they had a rough fight.

"What do you propose that I do, then?" she challenged.

Benjamin scratched his chin ponderously before clapping his hands together.

"Ask Isley," he said, and scoffed at the puzzled look on Hanna's face, "My lovely daughter, and my eldest. Head of legal department ?"

"I know, dear. My confusion isn't due to her name, it's due to her connection with me." And this was true.

Isley Hascott was a fiery redhead, much like her mother Christabel, with whom she shared the position of leading her family's empire of lawyers before Christabel's retirement. She was also the first of Ben's children to veto the idea of her father marrying her, then a doe-eyed student from Haiti, with the sound argument that she was—and Hanna could quote from memory—a "money-grabbing, air-headed bitch."

She was also the first of Ben's children with whom Hanna attempted to impress and foster a non-hostile relationship. For all her spite and vindictiveness, Hanna knew right away that Isley fiercely loved her father, perhaps more than his other children, even with years of divorces and missed birthdays. The woman was also dangerously savvy, and although Hanna had never managed to earn her friendship, she accrued enough good-will with Isley to never experience legal grief in her dealings with and outside V-Metals.

Yet Hanna knew that this good will was not enough for her to get the goods that Ben hinted at. That level of information, she thought, required more than a passing acceptance of her existence.

Even Ben, who had an almost quixotic view on Hanna's relationships with his family and everyone connected to him, seemed to know how insurmountable this challenge was. He turned his chair away from her desk and fiddled with the stick on the armrest until he rolled all the way to the windows facing the estate forest to Hanna's right.

She considered telling him about a piece of trivia one of their horticulturists had told her the other day, but restrained herself. Ben was clearly trying to think, and she'd rather not strain his attention. Instead, she returned her attention to the computer screen on her desk.

Despite Ben's misgivings, her research into the names and companies that figured in to Elena and Finnick's plans for the company's future was not entirely pointless.

#  7

She had the basic facts and names of the pharmaceutical companies that Finnick had already convinced or was planning to convince. Meanwhile, the Southeast Asian governments Elena wanted to form bonds with were not exactly silent in boasting the almost oligarchical proposals that she had given them, and various news sites and bloggers took up the task of reporting every single movement in that regard.

What she didn't have were the names of the experimental drugs Finnick's goons were producing, nor the exact nature of the deals or definitive paperwork that would prove the Southeast Asian journalists' speculation. Nor could she find anything that Thelma, Oskar, and other board members could possibly want.

There was also the matter of the government inquiry that sprung up during her internet search. The inquiry was isolated to the Asian division, yet there were links to their African segment. Hanna considered Oskar's silence at the meeting and the absence of Vincent DiMaggio, their Asian representative and Ben's co-founder, completely banal at the time, but the revelation had her running down a thorough, but ultimately fruitless, search through the database.

"I only told her that I'd use it for emergencies," Ben muttered, catching Hanna's attention.

"Told who what?" she asked, leaving her legal pad on the desk to walk over towards him.

"Isley, Gabby dear, Isley," Ben looked away from the greenery and turned to Hanna with somber eyes, "We have this phrase, you see, that we made up when she entered the company. It's a phrase we passed on to her other siblings. We only ever used it once, to save Ivory from marrying that horrible oil mogul who was even older than I am."

Hanna shuddered at the memory of the old, lascivious mogul. It had truly been an emergency. She asked, "What's the phrase then?"

"Italy 1978," Ben answered, "And may you never need the context for that phrase."

"Should I mention it to Isley right away?"

"No, no, you're underestimating yourself. Use it as a last resort. Reason with her first. Tell her that you need the details on what Finnick is planning with GlaxoSmithKline or the contracts Elena drew up with those countries. You'd want to take records from 1998 until this year. Some of these deals have been going on for decades. Ask her for the consolidated reports or you'll never emerge from this study again."

Ben left shortly afterwards, leaving Hanna with his phone in her hands. She dialed Isley quickly and was greeted with a confused but welcoming, "Father?"

"It's Hanna," she said, "Ben lent me his phone after he advised me to call you for help in digging up some records."

"Do these documents have anything to do with the petty arguments you've been having with the board?" Isley flatly asked.

"For your sake—yes, these documents do have something to do with these 'petty arguments'."

"Tell me a good reason why I should give you these files."

Hanna worried her bottom lip with her thumb, reigning in the flash of anger and hurt she felt at Isley's accusatory tone. "We are on the same side, Issy. You love your father enough to work at his company when you could've gone on and founded your own platform by your own merit and capital. I love your father for his ingenuity and integrity. His company, his legacy, V-Metals, is under attack, and I need your help in keeping it as strong as it is now."

"And you think that stopping the merger the board has collectively reviewed and approved will make it stronger, instead of painting a huge target on its back? There are vultures circling V-Metals right now, waiting for my father to bite it. The way you are supposedly helping my father out is diverting the few people who could stop the company from being devoured to meaningless work."

"Would you rather roll over and let the board dissect the company to their whims? You're making it sound as if there is another way to fight it, but I'm not seeing people lining up at my door with proposals."

Isley huffed and curtly said, "Quite honestly, Hanna, I'm far too busy for this jingoism you're trying to stir up. If you need documents, you should have called the archives, not me."

"Ben advised me that going to you would be the easiest way to get the documents," Hanna said, trying to intone her words with understanding instead of drawing from the fury bubbling in her chest. "Archives won't give me these records without making a fuss. They would also alert the board. Too bureaucratic, and you know it. You're the best shot I have at getting these documents."

Isley took after her mother in her ruthlessness, but she had her father's tendency to preen at what she perceived as calls for help from desperate people. Hanna could tell that her words had affected Isley by the way she had paused and the sound of rustling paper on her end of the line, one of the few tells the skillful negotiator had.

"Even if I am your only option," Isley started, her tone considering, "Wouldn't you think that the board would find a way of twisting our relations into their favor? They may think that we're conspiring, that—"

A sigh made its way out of Hanna. She had tried, truly she had, but she had no patience left in what she thought was a bottomless reserve of virtue. A part of her was also curious at what would happen if she actually used the phrase that had laid on her tongue so heavily since she called Benjamin's first baby girl.

"Italy," Hanna sounded out, letting the syllables roll off her tongue, "1978."

The effect was instantaneous.

"Please hold while I begin the necessary preparations for the procurement of your requested documents, ma'am," Isley recited automatically, as if she had gone on auto-pilot out of shock.

Hanna herself was startled by the woman's abrupt change in tone. It was as if the conversation they had before the phrase had been uttered never took place. But she took it in stride, had to take it in stride, really, and said,

"I'll hold my call."

"Thank you," Isley said curtly, already gaining a measure of control back. "I don't know what my father was thinking, giving you this phrase, but if the situation's so bad that he gave you this, I have no choice but to do my best. The best you could do right now is to hold on the line while I prep. So hold please."

And with that, Hanna was left with silence. She scratched the back of her calves with her toes, unsure of what to do in the meantime. The conversation with Isley convinced her that the research she had been conducting truly had no end. It was too early to report back to Ben, and by this time, Erica would be with him for his physical therapy.

She looked around listlessly before her phone rang. Thankful, she took her phone and answered it, but felt regret immediately when the person at the other end of the call said, "Are you interested in a new home loan, ma'am? Our company offers the best in bro— "

"I'm afraid you have the wrong number," Hanna said quickly, thumb moving to cancel the call.

"You might want to slow down there, Mrs. Hascott: it's just me. The man who presumed to critique the board meeting like it was a play and not a struggle for power? Mr. Oppenheimer and Desrosiers' almost-consultant?"

Hanna lifted the phone away from her face to check the name on her phone and chuckled.

"Regular folks normally introduce themselves with their names with people they've only just met," Hanna reprimanded Travis playfully. "What if I dismissed your call and blocked your number without looking at your name? Then you wouldn't have the opportunity or means to apologize for your stunt."

"It would've been worth it. Really, it's a skill to block numbers quickly enough that you wouldn't see their names," Travis replied, completely unrepentant and amused with her comeback.

"It's a skill you should try developing. Whether you are dealing with frenzied bank managers trying to sell you poorly-termed UITF's or overzealous financial reporters trying to break into actual journalism, blocking numbers will help you out of dubious circumstances."

"Oh, but for all the skills I'm lacking, Mrs. Hascott, the ability to get out of sticky situations isn't one of them."

"Good to know," Hanna said as dryly as she could, fighting the urge to laugh at his blasé freeness, "but I doubt that you called me to tell me about your skills."

"Who says I don't randomly call acquaintances to tell them about my specific set of talents?" Travis teased, though Hanna could tell that he had gotten the message. "But you are correct, Mrs. Hascott: this isn't exactly a social call. You heard anything from Finnick lately?"

"No. As far as I know, he and Elena have been quiet." Hanna frowned. Perhaps she should've been more suspicious of their sudden quiet: Finnick wasn't known for keeping his mouth shut for more than a day at a time.

"You're in luck, then. Finnick may have let slip a few details crucial to whatever he and Elena have going on. Tell you the truth, thought he'd slip up earlier. Anyway, I overheard him talkin' with your African and European heads, uh, what were their names?"

"Oskar Reedus and Thelma Min," Hanna answered immediately. She felt her heart sink a little. Both Oskar and Thelma were barely in the country due to their positions, and the few times they socialized with Hanna out of work were pleasant and actually enjoyable. If they were in talks with Finnick, the very few allies she could have on the board had been depleted.

"There you go! Mr. Reedus and Ms. Min were heading out of Ms. Min's office for lunch, if their complaints about not having a good sushi place nearby were anything to go by. Unfortunately for them, Finnick caught them as they were about to enter the elevator. They did _not_ look pleased, lemme tell ya. But Finnick got enough of their attention to stop them in their tracks."

"How did you learn about this?" Hanna interrupted, genuinely curious.

"There's a good explanation for this," Travis mumbled, sounding embarrassed, "But there's no way of saying I got lost that won't lead to more humiliation."

"You do know that there is staff there that could help you?" Hanna said as she laughed.

"Everyone looked too busy, okay?" Travis said defensively, "Gotta make sure that everyone keeps busy and keep this empire on the up."

"Whatever makes you feel better. Did you hear what Finnick told Thelma and Oskar?"

"Heard enough to know that it's important, but not enough to know what they are. Send my love to your architects: they really made your meeting rooms soundproof. They were in one of the rooms near Min's office for a long time too. When they came out, Mr. Reedus and Ms. Min looked like they swallowed some limes."

That brought Hanna some measure of relief. She sighed and wiped the sweat that accumulated on her brow and said, "Did they say anything after they got out of the room?"

"Did they _ever_. Problem was I couldn't understand what they said. I deal with computer languages, data, and not actual living languages spoken in Lithuania or cities like Cape Town. Finnick cut their conversation short though. Nearly ran out of the room to catch up with your board members."

"Then what happened?"

"Calm before the storm, ma'am," Travis said sagely, "Narrative breaks. The first thing out of Finnick's mouth, by the way, was 'I apologize'."

Hanna snorted. "Are you sure you didn't mishear anything?"

"Quite sure, Mrs. Hascott. I heard and saw him say sorry with mine own two eyes. Then he went on to remind them about a conference in Vegas. Was very, very quiet, he said, all hush. I think he was trying to allude to you at one point, mentioned something about—" Travis cleared his throat and pinched his nose, — "Dear old Benjamin's lovely young wife' not joining them."

"That sounds like him, alright, but a conference in Las Vegas?"

"He said it was a conference, but it honestly sounded more like a private meeting between the board members and representatives of some companies they're attempting to merge with or acquire. Takes place this weekend."

Before Hanna could throw out a quick clarification, Travis offered, "I'm no Vegas expert myself, but I do know enough people in the hotel they're holding the meeting in that a little snooping would be tolerable."

"What are you planning?" Hanna said, raising her eyebrow.

"No schemes here. What I'm doing is offering you a way to make YOUR planning easier."

"Are you offering to accompany me to Las Vegas, Mr. Burton?"

"Quite the gentlemanly offer, don't you think?" Travis said breezily.

"No." Hanna muffled her laughter against the back of her hand before elaborating, "Don't misunderstand me: your company would be most welcome. If nothing, if you're in Vegas, you're not in my headquarters."

"Then why not say yes outright, Mrs. Hascott?" Travis sighed dramatically. Hanna suspected that he was even making elaborate hand gestures.

"I've been off the market for years now, Mr. Burton, but I still know flirting when I hear it." Hanna smirked at her own reflection in the window in front of her. "It's doing wonders for my ego, but it's hardly appropriate, given that my husband owns the company your half-employers are trying to take-over."

"When you put it that way," Travis grumbled, though he ruined the effect by giggling at the last second. "But I will see you there?"

Hanna hummed and considered her options briefly before answering.

"Yes. I will see you in Las Vegas, Travis ."

#  8

The glass panes of the window felt cool and tempered against Hanna's forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed in and out, misting the clear pane and robbing it of its nippiness. Finnick and Elena were moving too fast for her tastes. She hadn't even gotten the information she needed from Isley to make a clear move.

"Isley!" Hanna gasped as she brought Ben's phone, long forgotten, back to her ear. "I'm sorry Issy, one of the administrators in the Rhode Island plant called and I am so, so sorry for that."

Isley sniffed. "No matter. Even if you hadn't ignored me for the past two minutes, it still wouldn't have changed anything."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the files you're looking for are beyond my clearance, which is ridiculous. You would think that the head of a company's legal department would have access to everything, seeing as I head the department responsible for keeping the company out of the slammer, but alas, bloody loopholes have reared its ugly head on us."

Hanna's stomach dropped somewhere between her ankles.

"Then," she spoke slowly, "We don't have a way of accessing the documents at all?"

Isley made a frustrated noise and replied, "We do. There's always a way. Always, always, always. But right now, I—"

She cut off abruptly, alarming Hanna, who gripped Ben's phone tighter and said, "Issy? What's wrong?"

"Eli!" Isley shouted excitedly. Hanna heard the sounds of a chair being pushed back and a door slammed closed with enough force to audibly reverberate.

"Ma'am?" Hanna heard someone say, to which Isley replied, "Send a message up to the CEO's office, I'm going up," before she shouted, "Reserve some tickets to Les Misérables or Hamlet, make it out to 'Eli Rathbone Hascott'!"

"Make it front row tickets too, he prefers it to the box seats," Hanna suggested.

"Front row tickets, Les Misérables! Bung in a dinner with the lead actor, too."

"That's a little bit of overkill, isn't it?" Hanna questioned in a playful sarcastic tone.

"With what we're about to ask of him?" Isley said, breath not even trembling even as she was clearly jogging up the hollow, concrete stairway to Eli's office. "We are going to need all the bribes we can get."

The sounds of heavy wedges banging against concrete and steel filled Hanna's ears until it was broken up by a steel door swinging open, where the wedges found new tracking grounds to bang against with occasional squeaks in return. A hurried "I have an appointment" to an unheard secretary let Isley push a set of what sounded like steel doors forced to the point that its hydraulic dampers whined for oil as each slowly closed behind her.

A few deep, controlled breaths later, Hanna heard Isley say, "Eli, call Hanna right now."

A beat and a polite cough barely made it to Isley's phone receiver.

"Please."

Moments later, Hanna's phone rang.

"You're on a conference call, Hanna," greeted the deep, sonorous voice of Eli, Ben's eldest and the current acting CEO and President of V-Metals Industries.

He, among Ben's three boys, resembled his father the most. Right from the generous amount of coiffed hair on his head down to the moles on the right side of his temple, Eli was an almost genetic clone of his father. The only things that distinguished him from a picture from Benjamin's past were his proclivities, brown hair, heterochromatic eyes, and infinitely kinder disposition.

"She knows, she's on my phone too," said Isley, who had mostly recovered by now. The steady thumping of wedges against uncarpeted wood placed her in front of Eli's desk, most likely pacing, as she would normally do when stressed.

"I'm sure you can hear it on your end, Hanna, but she's walking a hole in front of my desk again," Eli said, clearly amused at his sister's uncharacteristic nervousness.

"She has her reasons, I assure you," Hanna said.

"Should I presume that your phone call has something to do with my sister's anxiousness?"

"Presume away, though you would be only half right if you pin this all on me."

"Oh, you know I don't bear well with surprises. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Italy 1978," Isley cut in, stopping in front of Eli's desk with a loud thump.

As with Isley, the effect was instantaneous and extreme even if Hanna could only hear it through the phone. Gone was the unaffected casualness of Eli's voice; it was replaced with the cave-deep, cold tone Benjamin affected during particularly sanguine meetings with bloody-minded investors or competitors.

"Please hold while I begin the necessary preparations for the procurement of your requested documents, ma'am," Eli said quietly.

Nothing but the sound of keys clacking mechanically and hurried shouts at a harangued staff filled Hanna's ears for the next few minutes. Isley attempted to break into her brother's frenzy at points, but nothing deterred Eli from what he was working on.

It was then that Hanna realized how important the code word really was. Eli was not named Benjamin's temporary replacement for his age or position as the Hascott patriarch's eldest child. He was picked for his mental acuity and instinct for others. At the same time, he was truly incapable of removing humor and comfort from any situation, even in life or death business ones, and it was this fact that made him seem an unsuitable heir for V-Metals for the board.

This Eli, however, reminded Hanna of the ruthless Benjamin of yesteryears. If she were in the same office, she had no doubt that she would slink away from the man. She truly admired Ben's ability to compartmentalize and channel his power into every action, but this quiet was far too uncomfortable and hostile.

She took a breath and opened her mouth.

"What exactly is Italy 1978?" Hanna asked.

For a few brief seconds, all activities ceased on the other end of the line. It took a few half-hearted clacks on the keyboard to get the noise started again, but the taps were somewhat calmer now.

"Father didn't say anything, then?" Isley asked quietly.

"No," Hanna admitted, "He only gave me the phrase. I don't know what it means. Your father only told me that it was a phrase I should use in emergencies."

She listened to Ben's eldest work on her request, waiting on Isley's reply, but received no further comment from the other woman.

The purposeful silence clung on until Eli quipped, "You crazy bastard."

"What's wrong?" Hanna asked.

"Come take a look at this, Issy," Eli said, ignoring his step-mother's query.

A few hard thumps of heels on wood and a soft scraping of a monitor later, Isley replied, "Hanna, you and father may be on to something, searching for these documents."

"What makes you say that?" Hanna said, alarmed.

"'The documents you have requested require a one-day waiting period. We will refer all processing details to your support staff. Thank you'," Eli read out in a monotone before snorting. "I'm the acting CEO of a global recycling giant and the first-born son of a billionaire genius philanthropist listed on Forbes' list of top CEOs' every year, and I can't get these files unless I wait for an entire day."

Hanna sank in her office chair. "The board would know by that point."

"I know, I know. But I could ask the archives to keep this request quiet until we get the information. It's less than ideal, but this is unfortunately the only option we have at this very moment," Eli muttered.

"At the meantime, try to avoid the board as best as you can. Isley and I will call you if there are any changes."

The call was cut short without any further pomp or ceremony. Hanna stretched out of the chair and crossed the room to the door of the study. There wasn't any point to doing more research, and while it would've been ideal to have the information she needed before the Las Vegas meeting, there wasn't much she could do.

Hanna spent the days leading up to her flight acting as normal as she could with the knowledge that half the people she worked with daily were plotting an insidious takedown of the very company they had worked for. The only thing that kept her composed were Ben's reassuring words every morning and night, unusual and treasured, and Travis's coy and ridiculous text messages in between.

It is conventional to avoid semicolons in speech text, so I've replaced them with commas or full stops.

In this passage, I would choose to call the psych either Leó or Agostino exclusively rather than switching back and forth between names. (My preference is for his first name, as that seems more intimate, and their relationship is pretty intimate.)

One big-level editorial suggestion I have for the beginning of this is to spend some more time fleshing out the relationship between Benjamin and Hanna. In their first scene together, he seems equal parts distant and loving, which is an excellent set-up, but I think it would help to show more concretely how much he trusts her intellect, since he gives her so much control in the company he cares so much about. I think the scene where she feeds him is a great place to start building this "trust," since that's such an intimate activity, and I would spend some more time discussing exactly how the trust between them works so strongly. I would also spend some time in this section thinking through why Ben gives Hanna but not his children control of his company, and explaining how that situation came to be. (Especially considering that in this situation it's Hanna against both Isley and the Board, both of whom Ben ostensibly trusts a lot.)

Convince to do what?

I would spend a minute explaining why a recycling company is dealing in experimental drugs. How did Finnick get into this scheme, and how does it relate to V-Metals? How does Hanna know about these drugs? I think we need some more context for the pharmaceutical scandal.

I'm intrigued by why Travis has decided to help Hanna. It seems like flirtation alone isn't enough to make him decide to take a risk this large. Is he going to renege later? If so, I might have the very smart Hanna feel some anxiety and suspicion in this scene—after all, why should she trust this man? If not, I might spend some time setting up why Travis is definitely trustworthy, or why he decided to help her.

I would spend some time in the earlier scene explaining how exactly Ben is invested in this investigation of the documents. He seemed pretty detached, but it seems as if he should be involved. 

#  9

On the day of her flight, Hanna entered the garage and saw Aldo polishing one of the Bugatti's while chatting with Erica, who had her coat on and looked like she was ready to go home. The young nurse turned her head at the door and gave Hanna a little wave before walking towards her.

"Mr. Hascott told me that my station wagon was 'unfit for a young professional who works with a high-profile client'," Erica said, throwing up her hands to form air quotes with comedic solemnity. "Aldo here was helping me choose a car that won't attract too much attention in town. It's a lot more difficult than we thought it would be."

Cars were Ben's one vice, other than his children, and he spared no expense to create an opulent collection. In Hanna's humble opinion, even the cheapest of the cars in Benjamin's private fleet was garish compared to regular sedans and coupes- an Audi A6 TDI wasn't a car you would leave alone in areas proven to be crime hotspots, as uncouth as it was to call them that.

"If I had to pick a car for you out of the collection, I would recommend none," Hanna said before fishing out a slim cardholder from her purse. She tossed it to Erica and said, "Buy yourself a sensible car that doesn't guzzle too much gasoline. I'd tell you to buy one from XIX Motors without Matt knowing, but you know how that boy micromanages his baby."

Aldo wrinkled his nose at that. "Master Matthew will throw a tantrum if you insist on funding your new vehicle by yourself, if he doesn't build you a new automobile himself."

Hanna left Aldo telling Erica stories about Matthew's childhood when she got in her Audi R8 and sped away. She needed to speak with her plant manager before she got on the plane that afternoon to iron out last minute details. There was also the matter of a new wardrobe: if cars were an aphrodisiac for Ben, new sets of clothes were hers.

As she rounded the corner of the highway leading away from the Hascott estate, she noticed a black Hummer and a similarly-colored Cresta bounding the road behind her. She paid them no mind as she entered the city minutes later.

However, when she saw the cars twice even after turning away from major roads, she felt nervous. Her security staff trained her in spotting dangers and the patterns shown by the cars were alarming.

She swallowed as she decelerated and parked between a Corolla and a Mustang. With her head tilted down to her phone, Hanna watched the two cars slow down a few feet away from her own sportster. When the cars parked across the street from her, Hanna rolled her eyes. Whoever hired the people in those cars should've hired people who didn't play too much by the book.

Unfortunately, she was proven wrong when a man and a woman emerged from the cars with all pretenses dropped as the pair walked straight for her car.

Without pausing for breath, she pressed the shifter down and to the right and didn't bother glancing at the reversing camera, startling a few pedestrians behind her R8, before speeding away. Hanna didn't bother looking behind her as she swerved around cars. Sweat precipitated on her brow as her phone continued to ring with no response.

A small muffled crash startled her away from the road ahead of her and forced her to look at her rearview mirror. The black Hummer, in its haste to get to her, had apparently bumped into the back of an SUV, but the incident did nothing to deter it. It even used the accident to its advantage, swerving on the road erratically to clear a path for the Cresta to catch up with Hanna's R8.

"Mrs. Hascott?" Aldo's voice was tinged with concern, but it relieved Hanna to hear him.

"There are two cars pursuing me downtown," Hanna said, eyes skimming the left side of her car to see where the Cresta was. "I'm near... Church at Trophy Lake. I need extraction."

"Oh my- yes, of course, Mrs. Hascott. Please try to reach the Baylor Medical Center; the team will be near that area."

Hanna cursed an affirmative and spun her wheel around, making an abrupt U-turn and barely missing a cab as she wove in and out of traffic.

The cars pursuing her reminded Hanna of the leeches in the Shimna River in Ireland, how they clung to her skin even as she scrubbed them off with a pumice stone. Clinging to every bit of skin they could sink their teeth into and hanging on until they're removed one-by-one.

As it was, she knew she couldn't sway them by her skills alone. Every turn she made was countered by quick acceleration; every inch she gained she lost with every car that cut her off.

Her palms were moist and she could feel her knees shaking as she tried to get away from her pursuant. Their movements made it clear that they weren't after her to take her somewhere. It was for intimidation- she knew that perfectly well, and yet she couldn't help but give a little to the fission of fear that crept up her ankles and settled on the base of her spine.

"Mrs. Hascott, are you still on the line?" Aldo's voice was still high-pitched.

"Please have good news," Hanna said, hardening her voice even though she wanted to scream.

She almost sobbed when she saw the BMC in the distance, but her delight was cut short when she only saw a familiar 2010 Bugatti Veyron illegally parked near the building.

"Aldo, please tell me you're not in the Bugatti and you're the only person on the extraction team," Hanna whispered.

"I'm afraid I'm still in the estate, ma'am."

"Then who— "

"Please trust me. Park the R8 near the Bugatti and enter the lavatory nearest the main entrance of the BMC."

Hanna bit her lip as she parked. The Cresta and the Hummer were mercifully stuck in traffic some twenty feet away from her, but she could spy a person emerging from the Hummer. She walked as quickly as she could to the two-story brick and EIFS building, mazing her way through orderlies and harangued patients and never stopping until she was deep inside the building.

A quick query from a fatigued nurse at a computer workstation directed her to the lavatory, which was mercifully empty.

"Aldo?" Hanna said, hating how she shook even though she was wracked with fear.

"Right, are you in the lavatory?" Aldo asked.

"Yes, I'm in the restroom. There's no one here."

"What? Oh, for goodness sake, please put me on speakerphone."

Aldo's voice reverberated around the tiled restroom. "Would you please stop playing games and come out?"

"Don't yell, you penguin. Mrs. Hascott's way more fit than I am, yeah? A bit too much to ask me to squeeze into this dress in record time?"

The creak of a restroom stall door drew Hanna's gaze and the person who emerged from it further distracted Hanna from her panic.

"Erica?" Hanna said, a half-hysterical laugh escaping from her mouth before she could stop it.

The young nurse was dressed exactly like her, from the way her make-up highlighted her cheekbones down to her Louboutin heels. The only thing that distinguished them from each other was Erica's shorter stature, rounder features, and ponytailed wig.

"I'm your extraction. Well, distraction," Erica said, spreading her arms out.

"No," Hanna said, because fear was not an excuse to endanger Ben's nurse, Matthew's girlfriend, and his fiancé.

"It would be fine," Erica said, rolling her eyes.

She walked forward and took Hanna's bag from her after a few hard tugs.

"This isn't necessary," Hanna protested weakly as Erica adjusted her dress.

The nurse huffed at her and said, "No buts. I know you loathe having your choices curbed, but...you know this is the only way."

"You've brought the Bugatti over then?"

"Even packed your bags in it and all."

Hanna hesitated. "Do you have a safety net?"

"A few of our security staff here will meet a few streets away from there," Aldo answered, "Some of the GLE SUVs will follow you on the way to the Hascott's Airstrip in Fort Bend."

Westheimer Airpark, in Houston, was acquired by V-Metal in 2014 for execs to have access to a fleet of private jets for business trips. Later, Ben claimed it as his own airstrip once the board found a new and more economical strip of land for their private jets.

"I'll go out first, of course. Give you enough time to get kitted out in these." Erica handed Hanna a bag full of clothes. "They're not as posh as your usual dresses, but it's nothing someone who can drive that bloody sports car wouldn't be caught dead in."

When Erica began to walk to the restroom door, Hanna held out a hand to stop her.

"Thank you, dear," Hanna said, a little overwhelmed by the quickness of the events.

Erica shrugged. "Never one for standing around when there's something to be done. I think it's bad influence from Matthew, really."

Hanna gave her a small smile before straightening out. "Take care of that boy for me while I'm gone."

"Him, Aldo, and Ben. Won't lollygag for a minute."

The nurse put her hand on the restroom door. "Any last minute requests?"

Hanna paused. She walked towards one of the stalls and paused when Erica opened the door to the main building.

"Just... tell Benjamin that I'll be back before Monday. And that he'll go back to his comfortable retirement in a few weeks," Hanna said slowly, embarrassed that this was how she expressed her concern for her husband.

"I'll tell sir that," Aldo said before hanging up.

Erica nodded at Hanna one last time before she left.

Hanna took a deep breath. Before she closed the stall door, she looked at her reflection on the opposing side of the room and sighed. Her eyes were slightly red, and her brow was glazed with sweat, and her hair was in huge disarray.

She shook her head. This Las Vegas trip better be worth it.

#  10

"Welcome to Las Vegas, Mrs. Hascott." Travis grinned at Hanna as she entered the marble-on-marble lobby of Hidalgo's Chateau and Casino, teeth blindingly white and muscles rippling under the thin excuse of a shirt he was wearing. The consultant didn't look like he was a day away from confronting his former prospective employers. His board shorts and beaded bracelets made him look more like a young professional on vacation in an equally-sunny, but coastal vacation town and Hanna didn't quite care for it. She, however, could admit that he was a sight for sore eyes.

"I have some records from the eighties that my sources managed to take out of the archives. It's incomplete and they'll need more time to pull out all of the records I originally requested, but I've been reading through them for the past four days," Hanna replied, stopping in front of him to pull out some files from her bag.

A frown graced Travis' face when she handed a sheaf of papers to the consultant. "Is there something amiss?"

"Nothing's amiss, though I do think you need to slow down a little here." Travis raised a brow and crossed his arms. "Come on, Mrs. Hascott. Live a little."

Hanna sighed. Travis truly was as charming as his profile made him out to be. In truth, a part of her expected this conclusion. After all, Benjamin wouldn't hire the man as a mole if he didn't trust him.

That revelation, unlike Travis' infuriating charm, was a little harder to take in.

Suddenly, her cellphone chimed _Stand By Me—_ Ben's favorite song— interrupting her naughty thoughts. It was Benjamin. Wow! _How ironic?_ , Hanna thought to herself. She presses the green button to accept the call and place the device on her right ear.

Travis walked away from her side in silence while she took the call.

"Hello, dear. I was just thinking about you. Wow. The time of synchronicity is something else."

"Ahh... nothing happens by chance... especially, when you'd had your wife's phone bugged." After a long period of silence, he laughs. "Just kidding. Boy. I can only imagine the look on your face a minute ago was nothing less than shocked or terrified." He laughs again. "No worries. I trust ya."

"Well, that's comforting to know after all we've been through."

"Did you have a chance to go through the information I sent... on the analyst?"

She quickly pulled the phone from her ear, opened her mailbox and skimmed through the email he was referring to. "Yes, I received it... thanks for the heads up."

"Hanna, did you expect anything less of me?" Ben said on his speakerphone as she checked the profile he sent her through email earlier that day. "I would never let you fight usurpers with unscrupulous men, let alone leave you in Las Vegas with one."

She was flabbergasted and a little nauseous at the admission, though it might have been the plane's turbulence that caused the latter symptom.

"This isn't something you reveal to your wife while she's on an airplane," Hanna admonished weakly as she read through documents clearly approved by Benjamin himself.

"Your pursuers gave me no choice, dear."

"So, if he _technically_ doesn't own a firm? What have he done since his university party days, then?"

"Hanna, manners. Stanford is no common university." Hanna imagined Ben's chest puffing out in indignation at the perceived insult to his old university. "The young man earned degrees in Computer Science and Finance. 'Tis disappointing that he went into volunteering for anti-poverty organizations since then."

She frowned. "If he's spent the last decade as a volunteer, why did Desrosiers and Oppenheimer invite him to become a risk analyst?"

"Dear, I may not be able to grasp new technology as much as I'd like to, but surely it's not inconceivable to you that a computer expert like Mr. Burton could, say, 'adjust' his personal records? And truly, we need someone who understands how money works to figure out how to neutralize the threat our beloved board members pose to us."

Hanna felt the curve of her spine mold into the same, stiff posture she affected on the plane upon the confession. Even with the evidence before her, it seemed nearly impossible for Ben to arrange this much without attracting the board member's suspicions.

Then again, she thought, this is the same man who turned his business into a multi-billion scrap company.

"It would've made my life easier if you told me this earlier. You didn't even need to tell me that Italian phrase word that made Isley and Eli into drones." Hanna sighed.

Ben chuckled. "That was an unexpected side-effect. As for Travis, it wouldn't be respectful if I didn't even give you a good amount of time to work it out yourself."

And so, Hanna stood there, considering the man whom Ben trusted enough to enlist in this hare-brained scheme, and whom had lied through his teeth about his intentions.

"Well, don't have too much fun without me... love ya... talk to you later." Ben ended the call without giving her a chance to return pleasantries. He gets this way when he clearly doesn't agree with something but has no choice other than to deal with it.

Hanna tucked her phone away and located Travis. "There's nothing to suggest that you're the kind who gambles, Travis?"

To her satisfaction, Travis' eyes sparkled at her use of his first name. "Having lived through several poker games with mathematicians, no, I'm not really the type to gamble. But the slot machines here are something else."

The two of them walked up to the numerous slot machines dominating the room without Hanna noticing it until they stopped in front of some players. She blamed it on the poor lighting and ignored the little voice in the back of her mind telling her that she was beginning to get used to Travis' little quips. It had only been a few minutes, for god's sakes; even Ben's quirks took her a month to get used to, and she'd been head over heels with the man to begin with.

"I'm looking. But I don't see anything that shouts 'spectacular' about them." She was never interested in technology, unless it had to do something with recycling and manufacturing, and even then, her knowledge was perfunctory. To her, the slot machines operated and looked the same for every person who used them.

"Look at the man in the white shirt. He's about to pull the lever. Watch how long it takes for the animation to stop. Four seconds, on point. Now look at the woman in the ill-advised tartan print. It's nearly undetectable to the normal observer, but there's a point five-six-two delay. That delay was enough for her to have two cherries instead of three."

"The hotel is cheating its customers, then? Hardly a surprise."

"It's not the hotel's fault. It's the manufacturer. The slot machine was produced by a tech manufacturing arm known for a famous racketeering bust by the vice squad of Vegas county police last year. Fortunately for them, their trick of selling their machines for cheap turned them out a pretty penny right before they declared bankruptcy."

"I find this fascinating, but I have a feeling you're trying to get to something I can't quite grasp."

Hanna had to momentarily look away from the intensity of Travis' pleasing smile. If put to the knife, she would admit that it was too disarming to stare at for too long. "I've heard rumors from the service staff that a board member of a prominent global company would be negotiating a buyout for the company within this weekend."

She frowned and chewed on her lip for a few seconds before realization dawned on her. "A prominent... Do you mean the conference Finnick and Elena set up is entirely about buying a washed-up company?"

"No, this one's Elena's own move, I think. According to an email I saw on her desktop-"

"You looked into her personal email?" Hanna interrupted, incensed despite Ben's earlier disclosure of the man's extra-legal abilities.

Travis held up his hands and said, "Look, if she didn't want anyone to read her email, she should've shut off her screen, at least. Now, _according_ to the email I saw, she seems like she needs more funds for a project with a lot of Asia-based companies."

Hanna frowned and allowed Travis to steer her towards the bar, too focused on understanding the new piece of information to realize where they were headed. "Ben's friend and co-founder heads the Asian division. Elena's never left her post as the head of V-Metals North America since she was appointed. What would she want out of Asia?"

"That's one of the things we'll find out later, I think. Now, enough with office politics." Travis gave the bartender a dazzling smile, which was apparently enough to communicate his need for an amaretto sour and a '57 Chevy with a white license plate. "And more shots?"

"I have a feeling there's a story behind that smile," Hanna muttered behind Travis' proffered '57 Chevy to hide her smirk. "Bartenders are perceptive, but they're not mind-readers."

"The bartender's an old friend, Ms. Hanna," Travis said, letting his tongue linger on the n's of her name. Hanna ignored the smile it elicited in favor of knocking back a jelly shot. "Does nothing get past your keen ears, Ms. Hanna?"

"Once, maybe. Benjamin's rectified my temporary deafness by telling me who you really are, though," Hanna said curtly, startling herself with the abruptness in her tone.

Travis blinked at her. He knocked back a shot of whiskey before sheepishly holding her gaze once more. "This was not the way I wanted the truth to come out."

Hanna shrugged. "Almost nothing happens the way we want them to happen. I thought I was solving my own problems until Ben informed me that I was getting copious amounts of help from him. And you."

For a few, blessed minutes, they enjoyed their drinks with only the background noise of distant conversation and casino sounds filling the space between their bar stools. Travis, as Hanna expected, was the first to break the strangely comfortable silence.

"First had an amaretto sour and a '57 Chevy the year I turned legal while volunteering for Bise à Fantôme." Travis frowned at his drink. "The amaretto was because some group of jackasses that drove Fantôme to the ground. The Chevy was the chaser."

Hanna turned her stool to face the unusually subdued man. "Wasn't Fantom a huge anti-poverty group in the Nineties?"

"Fantôme, Ms. Hanna; Bise à Fantôme. French. 'Ghost Kiss' in English. 'Poverty is a storm that leaves nothing, but ghost kisses' was their whole motto. The guy who funded the organization was this super rich business magnate from Morocco. He kind of hunted me down for the position. A lot of his advisors and shareholders where originally against it, but he still moved forward with the project. The people who came up with the organization's name and tagline are too dramatic for their own good... after a couple of years of bad press floating around Bise à Fantôme, he decided to sever all ties linking him to the 'non-profit organization that gone mad' and left it to its fate."

"But it did attract eyeballs to the group before it folded."

"Kind of lost that effect when a bunch of investors used us like a freakin' ATM," Travis muttered, knocking back the amaretto with practiced ease. "Imagine the headlines: a 20-year old charity known for its relentless investment into sustainable growth, only to show its true colors later after inquest revealed that half its recipients were imagined or fake."

He laughed bitterly. "The day we shut down, the sign outside our office read 'Poverty is a storm that you created'. Not as catchy as the original, but our tagline had never rolled off the tongue anyway."

Hanna handed him the rest of her '57 Chevy and ordered another set of shots. Suddenly, she understood the real reason why Ben hired him, why Travis agreed, and even the true reason behind the chuckle in the conference room that first brought the young man to her attention.

V-Metals was not in the same conundrum as Fantôme was, but she could see why the prospect of leaving so many people homeless after a takeover would spur Travis into action.

Bartenders were not mind-readers, but they were perceptive. The shots were held back after finishing their second set, but the bartender kept their drinks topped up in the long silence that followed Travis' anecdote.

Between drinks three and four, Hanna's mind drifted back to the reason why she flew all this way to Vegas. However, before the sobering thought truly penetrated the mild alcoholic fog in her mind, her drinking companion laid an arm across her shoulders.

"I can hear you think over this bad rendition of 'Stay with Me', Hanna," Travis spouted. Something about the focus in his eyes told her that this display was calculated to make it seem like the casual skinship was a casual act of a seemingly inebriated man to their equally-intoxicated friend.

He smiled, friendly and innocent, despite the hint of something darker within the deepening crow's feet beside his eyes.

She never noticed that Travis had specks of gold within his almost-hazel, nutmeg-brown eyes under the lights of a bar in Las Vegas and slightly reddened by sweet alcohol.

"Bathroom." Hanna untangled herself from Travis and walked as quickly as she could towards the ladies' room without tripping. Once she reached the empty restroom, she braced herself against the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the door and steeled herself from hurling.

#  11

Her heart, which pounded erratically whenever she drank alcohol, was throbbing quicker than it normally did, causing her skin to flush around her cheeks, neck and chest. It shamed Hanna slightly that others, Travis in particular, saw her like this, the gorgeous aftermath of a spontaneous drinking session. Others often told her that it was a good look on her, apart from her Ms. 24/7 perfectionist persona she carried with flawless grace, though she has never really considered what others thought of her looks since she married Ben.

Having Travis close to her like that made her fret about her looks more than any other poor soul she was infatuated with in seventh grade.

"Honey, if you're going to leave your boy toy defenseless out there, he's not gonna be there much longer," says a woman standing behind her.

Strikingly exotic beauty, lean-curvy, and wrapped in an Elie Saab mosaic dress, the long-haired stranger who made the quip continued to smirk at Hanna even after she gave her a look that most people would interpret as a sign to look for a nuclear shelter.

"Oh wow, you're... now I understand why Hugh was so intimidated by you in that marketing meeting with V-Metals last month," the stranger said before laughing and turning to her companion, who was counting the amount of chips in her purse while frowning.

"I can't believe I lost five grand at the backgammon table. I mean, who does that?" her companion said. The cut of her face and the pout of her lips reminded Hanna of someone who was decidedly not a gambler.

Hanna hesitated before saying, "Jane Estermayer?"

The chip-counting woman snapped her head up at the name. Her eyes grew comically wild as they focused on Hanna, who was starting to get some amusement from the bizarre situation.

"Courtney Courtland, actually. Jane's one of the roles her clients can choose when they hire her as their fake beau, or sister, or in one case, both," said the Elie Saab-clad woman with almond eyes. "It's a shame. I think she took classes in acting in-between her law classes."

She only smirked at the rude gesture Courtney made.

"I'm Felicia Ruthenberg, by the way. We've never actually met before, but I've seen you in some red-carpet events. Hugh, my husband, also had nothing but compliments about you and your unerring ability to accidentally kick his shin after proposing ridiculous ideas for online ads."

Hanna blinked. Felicia laughed in return.

Perhaps it was the alcohol or elation, a strange sensation to feel this close to an important, life-changing corporate meeting, but Hanna couldn't remember being escorted out of the restroom by Felicia or Courtney.

When she had full access of her faculties once more, she was already standing beside a girl watching another woman arguing with a chef over the state of the samosas on his table.

"I can't understand half of the things she's saying, but the chef looks really angry," the girl beside Hanna said. She had a grin on her face that made her look even younger than her shirt dress and Gatorgirl thigh-high boots with a matching clutch suggested. "Your friends asked you if you wanted a blue hurricane or a vampire's kiss by the way. I said they should trust your liver a li'l and give you some ol' fashioned tequila... or water, if you're not up to... seeing your condition now."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Hanna said, shifting her gaze between the girl and the woman picking apart the chef's other food.

"No! I'm Tyla!" The girl laughed and extended her fist forward..." A friend of Felicia's. Dios mio, but as fashionable as that girl is, her manners can be so... what's the word... it sounds like a planet... rhymes with cereal."

"Mercurial?" Hanna offered as she bumped Hazel's hand hesitatingly.

Tyla winked and pulled the sunglasses that made her neckline further sag down her cleavage from her shirt. "Exactamundo."

"Do you two mind? We need impartial judges," a female voice shouted somewhere in front of them.

Hanna and Tyla turned to look at the source of the request in time to see the woman arguing with the chef flip a pan full of what looked like samosas over a hot griddle once commanded by the buffet staff for reheating purposes.

"My name's Patricia, and this one's made the cold, stuffy samosas he claims were freshly made on this plate," the woman said, pointing a plateful of food at the buffet chef before thrusting the plate towards Tyla, who claimed two for herself and one for Hanna.

While Tyla ate hers with gusto and took three of Patricia's own samosas while commenting animatedly, Hanna nibbled ineffectually at her lone, cold pastry. She was only able to finish it when it seemed like Patricia had finally lost her patience with the chef, who valiantly tried to defend his food against reasonable commentary, and looked like she was about to flip the buffet table.

Before Hanna could open her mouth to attempt mediation, a familiar voice shouted out: "Giancarlo? Is that you?"

Hanna turned around to see Felicia ambling her way towards the buffet table with a chagrined Courtney trailing behind her.

"Now, I know it's presumptuous of me to offer this," Courtney started as Felicia began reminiscing with her unwilling target, "But would you like to join me, Tyla, and her plate of samosas at our table while Felicia's doing... this."

Hanna nodded without hesitation.

Courtney herded Hanna and Tyla through the crowd with her elbows and sharp Jimmy Choos. The table she led them to was laden with drinks by the time they got there and thankfully, no almond liqueur or car-sounding cocktails were in sight.

"You're aces, Courtney," Tyla said in awe.

Courtney, ever the actress, bowed deeply and said, "Milady is too kind. But milady must also remember that we have an honored guest in our midst."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Tyla grumbled before faking a little bow herself. "Go 'head, Hanna. Pick your poison- swear they're all safe."

Hanna, naturally, hesitated. Tyla noticed her reaction and, without prompting, stuck her finger in a Paloma before presenting the finger for inspection and inserting it into her mouth.

"Pretty sure you know by now that this is anti-date rape polish. Can't convince you if you think otherwise, but it's the truth." Tyla shrugged.

Hanna picked up the Paloma and frowned. This was, truly irresponsible. She had a meeting in the morning and drinking with a group of strangers was not wise. However, she couldn't bear to walk away from the strange group she found herself with.

Because, in the few, strange moments she's spent with them, she's given up on thinking, the one task a man with brown eyes and a passion for volunteerism failed to accomplish earlier that day.

"Are we starting the party already?" teased Felicia, who, Hanna was convinced, had the ability to appear at the most inopportune times for other people.

Hanna looked at her and saw Patricia standing by looking like she witnessed the apocalypse and survived. When she caught her eye, Patricia, whom she later learns a bored housewife who loves food almost as much as she loved arguing with others, only gaped at her silently.

Hanna Hascott, recycling plant owner, Brown graduate, and gatekeeper to the Hascott Empire, sighed and drank the Paloma in one, smooth gulp.

If she was pressed to recall the night's events later, Hanna would have to admit defeat. The alcohol blurred the words of the four women who, for a few short hours, managed to make her forget that she was herself. What she could remember was the exhilaration their company brought her and the way they made her feel like a young woman in her late twenties who, truly, deserved a bit of a break.

But the memory of an event that literally happened just a few minutes ago came with a short burst of guilt for forgetting their stories, what they did and who they married.

Hanna cursed at the ceiling of her hotel room, in which she was deposited upon her request by her newfound friends after recalling that she is somewhat of a Corporella who likes to keep a tight schedule. She began to ramble on about not having their contact details and thinking out loud, something she rarely, if ever, did. She thought looking them up on the internet or having her investigators look into the matter was too uncivilized for her taste.

"Uncivilized my ass," Patricia had articulated as she and Courtney helped her onto the bed. "Half the chefs in so-called 'uncivilized' countries have more dignity and cooking prowess than the idiots they hire in some of these hotels."

Hanna forgot what Tyla said in response, but she remembers Felicia putting down her purse on her stomach before slipping a piece of paper inside.

"Just in case you're still interested in this... whatever this is," Felicia told her before she and the others left Hanna's room.

Hanna took her handbag off her stomach and shook out its contents on the bed beside her before sitting up, cursing the softness of the mattress briefly before she managed to complete her task. She scattered her belongings around carelessly, not sparing a thought for the liquid cosmetics or absurdly expensive Gresso smartphone, she accidentally knocked to the floor in search of the piece of paper.

She found the paper wedged between a small copy of 'Pygmalion' and her Revlon foundation pad, cracked open with the force of her search. The paper held the contact details of all four women, but what was truly remarkable was the note underneath the numbers and e-mail addresses.

"Let this paper be proof that The Trophy Club was A Thing, and that no amount of mai tai's or secret conferences can erase that, MRS. H.H."

Hanna read the note over and over again, her giggling giving way to a belly-deep laughter.

#  12

The sound of running water filled the cavernous warehouse, echoing off steel and stilling on concrete, gently masking Erica's entrance. For all the precautions Matthew took in securing the repurposed loft, acoustics were never in his plans. Perhaps the warehouse's location on a cliff overlooking the nearby V-Metals compound gave him the idea that nothing inside his home could be heard. Erica thinks it's the bug sweep the man performed every week.

The nurse didn't bother masking her steps as she climbed the stairs to Matthew's room. Her own room was on the ground floor, adjacent to the open plan kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. Matthew needed all the space in the generous second floor for his workshop, or at least, the planning half of his workshop.

It took the combined power of Hanna and Erica to convince the youngest Hascott to leave the fabrication part of his abattoir in a small building outside the warehouse. Erica still felt indebted to Hanna for that and the blisters forming on her feet from the woman's perky heels did nothing to diminish that.

Erica began to take the heels off as she reached the top of the staircase. Her clothes followed shortly after that. The only garment left on her by the time she was in front of the bathroom door was her black lacy panties and a golden tennis bracelet.

She carefully untucked herself from her thong bottoms, slowly pulling them down on her long, slender legs and then gathered them from her right ankle to toss into a nearby hamper.

Steam billowed into Matthew's bedroom as Erica opened the bathroom door, an action that went unnoticed by the man in the shower. Much to her bemusement, Matthew was solving a mathematical problem with his waterproof marker on the equally-watertight whiteboard hung underneath the showerhead. If the million other times she's caught him scribbling equations or schematics while showering taught her anything, the equation will either be forgotten as soon as Matthew stepped out of the shower or would eventually be refined to another product by XIX.

Erica paddled quietly behind Matthew and slipped her arms easily around his trim waist. "Your hands are very cold. How long have you been in here?"

A snuffle from the young man in her arms answered Erica's question.

"The GPS tracker logged a touchdown at the Hascott private airstrip an hour ago," Matthew murmured as he scribbled on his whiteboard. "Did the people following you suspect anything?"

"No. They followed me all the way back to the estate. They tried to overtake me before the exit to the grounds. Obviously, since I'm here, they fumbled." Erica nuzzled her boyfriend's hair and sighed. The only real arguments they've ever had as a couple was of Matthew's hiding his health status from everyone and his determination to have all his hair shorn off. His reasoning, that he was _going bald anyway, might as well nip the problem in the bud_ , had promise, but it was a shame to put the mass of fluff to blade before its time.

Matthew grunted noncommittally in response. Erica supposes that other women would find this rude, but she had grown to understand Matthew's eccentricities in the past year they've been together.

She slipped her hands from his waist and began washing their bodies with a loofah. "With your father's permission, I ran the plates on the pursuers against the company database. They're registered to Desrosiers' security firm, but the drivers are not from De Fleur. That security firm trains armed diplomats, not brutes who drive shoddily in pursuit."

"Papa's hunch turned out correct." Matthew's face lit up with glee. "Do you suppose I'll be as astute as him when I reach his age?"

Erica rolled her eyes. Brilliance was Matthew's catnip, a trait he shared with Benjamin. It was, along with stubbornness and drive, the traits that distinguished him as Hascott's youngest heir.

"You should had seen me dressed up in Aunt Hanna's clothes today. I almost felt sharp and dashing as her... For short while, her stalkers," she says was a faint smile, "couldn't tell us apart. Can you believe that?"

"Hanna must have looked majestic as well." Annoyed as she was, Erica still preened at the compliment.

"Did Aldo leave for Vegas with Aunt Han?" Matthew allowed Erica to maneuver him into a towel to dry off. "Or have we left her to the mercies of that Burton fellow?"

"Why did your father even hire the man? And don't tell me he hired him as a financial analyst, that's a lie and you know it," Erica said, knowing that her boyfriend was the only other person who knew about Travis' true employer.

She guided the young man back into his room as he continued to solve his math problem, having detached the whiteboard from its place. And picked up his work tablet from a glass top console table by the bathroom door.

"He's very good at what he does. Even when he reverses his methods."

"And what methods are we talking about?"

"Something like what I'm doing now," Matthew looked up from his tablet, "reverse engineering."

"Sounds like a very dangerous man. Who to say he's not playing both sides?"

"Let's just say," Matthew gives her a winningly smile, "we're covered in very high places."

"What does that supposed to mean?"

"It means we have nothing to worry about, my dear," he returns his attention to his Autonomous tablet.

"You know I hate it when you hide things from me... especially when I feel it will affect us both."

"His analysis of the various mergers and acquisitions Uncle Fin and Aunt Elle are making is impeccable. Accounted for every cent. Papa was impressed," Matthew said tersely, frowning at the equation on his tablet. "As for his other activities, we've established that the only company I'm ever holding as its CEO and President is XIX."

Matthew copied his scribblings from the whiteboard onto his tablet as he sat at the edge of a platform bed with long panels. Erica watched him rapidly tap on the device, face crunched in concentration, before rummaging through his closet for pajamas. "So, you're going to let him do what he wants. Desrosiers and Oppenheimer may not want to continue your father's legacy, but what happens to them affects your family as well."

She pulled a pair of Issey Miyake sweatpants out and popped the buttons on its sides before making her way to Matthew. Dressing him, whether in fine, three-piece suits or rumpled old things from MIT was her greatest pleasure, even if he didn't notice her efforts.

"Papa knows what he's doing. He's dying, not developing dementia." Erica looked up from his legs to raise her brows questioningly at Matthew. "Don't look at me like that. Papa and I had a good cry over his mortality already. I penciled it in after our Monday afternoon appointment last week."

That Matthew scheduled a time to experience an emotion, and that Benjamin acquiesced to it, no longer surprised Erica.

Once, when Matthew was merely the son of her employer, Erica would think his ability to compartmentalize parts of his life was unnatural. Objectively, she knew it was a sort of coping mechanism or a learned behavior. The stories Ben and Hanna told her of the young man and his childhood informed her that the young man was barely aware that people other than his family existed before he went to university.

Personally, she believed that this was, in a strange way, his gift. His accolades and the fact that his two-year-old car project was a Fortune 500 company was little of note compared to his gift of complete and utter focus. He could find a string untucked in a tapestry and pull at it until it became entirely unraveled. In a person, he could needle, charm, and question until he knew a person inside out.

"That's why I like you, Erica," Matthew told her once, after he indulged her needs. "You're the third greatest mystery in the world."

Third greatest mystery. The first is, inexorably, his father. The second, Hanna.

If Erica didn't know better, she would be jealous.

"I would think you're a better candidate to assist Hanna, but I don't share." Matthew walked from the bed to the standing desk surrounded by screens. "Besides, Hanna needs a break from infants and old men."

"You're hardly an infant," Erica huffed as she began to pick up the clothes scattered around his room.

"She's nine years older than me. Papa's decades older than her. Burton's just about the right age."

"A minute ago, you were worried about 'that Burton fellow'. Now you're pleased that Hanna's with him."

"I did just say that papa's hanging on a thread, didn't I?"

Erica stiffened, shirt in hand, and narrowed her eyes at Matthew. It took a few seconds for the pause in conversation to register, but Matthew abandoned his musings readily enough when he noticed her discomfort.

"I'm not pushing her towards another man," he began. "She needs a person who will care for her as fiercely as my father. Sentiment has its uses. In this case, sentiment may negate the negatives of having Burton on auntie's side."

"And what if sentiment isn't enough? What if he does what you think he's planning anyway?"

"We learn."

Erica huffed. "You should've told your father about him."

"It's too late for regrets now." Matthew shrugged. "And I'm quite sure that if Burton truly has anything nefarious planned, he would've started it by now.

He turned back to his work with an air of finality that brooked no argument. Erica could only sigh in return. As well-meaning as their actions were, she couldn't help but feel that the Hascott men were manipulating Hanna's choices a bit too much. She could only hope that Hanna could forgive them when she's found out what they've done.

* * *

"In a survey conducted in 2008, five years before the enforcement of the welfare act, employee absence rates in plants and lower-level subsidiaries averaged at 53.67 percent. The resulting hit in profits was approximately $1.3 billion. When asked, 71.32 percent of respondents said they missed work due to other work commitments, which most V-Metals plants and subsidiaries allow under section four, article six of the 2003 revised universal contract on-site laborers and C to E class employees." Travis paused.

He put down his tablet on the coffee table, stood up, and winced at the twinge the movement produced in his lower back. It's been three hours since he plunked down in his suite's sitting room and his legs were screaming at him to use them. There was no exercise equipment in the room, but he could still do squats.

Physical exertion would make blood rush to his head anyway, and with luck, it would clear the jumble of words and images in his head.

Most of the mess swimming in his mind was legalese and company-related data. The other half was what he was truly worried about. Figures were his forte and using them to manipulate odds to his favor was his gift. Remembering the way Hanna's eyes softened under the influence of '57 Chevys was not something he was prepared for.

It was true that he initiated the flirtation. He made no secret of his polite interest in her. She was beautiful the way most people could only hope for: physically fit, well-put together, and equipped with a mind honed by years of stubborn work.

He also wasn't lying when he told himself that it was just that: polite interest. Who in their right mind wouldn't be interested in the woman who was almost single-handedly taking on some of the most powerful people on earth?

But something in their dynamic changed tonight. Hanna was the first person outside Bise à Fantôme who knew about the story behind his drinks. Somehow, when her sharp words tore into him at the casino, he was unable to put up his usual walls. He let her chip at his armor with single, long stabs of her formal words. Instead of seeing her, reading into her more than he could with casual glances, he was the one exposed.

It had, unfortunately, borne other kinds of desires for Mrs. Hascott.

Travis huffed and kicked out his legs before continuing with another set of squats. "Not this again," he muttered to himself.

He truly thought he's outgrown infatuation. Infatuation had led to his first divorce years ago. The low curling of heat in his stomach and heart this time around was fiercer though, spiking in his flesh and heating his blood.

What was truly wretched was that he knew that it was reciprocated too. His attempts at flirtation would not be reciprocated so handily had there not been any heat in Hanna's words. She was too precise in her words and intentions for it to mean otherwise.

At least both of them knew they had their limits.

Travis stopped his cardio exercise fifteen minutes later, his legs reasonably worked out and sweat running down his back. It was utterly useless in getting rid of his thoughts about Hanna. If anything, it made him more aware of his physical traits.

Married as she was, Hanna kept herself fit. Her naturally-bronzed legs were lightly muscled, firm and defined even in low light. Though she wore modest skirts and trousers, it was undeniable that the definition on her legs went on to her hips. More than once, Travis wondered what could've happened if Hanna hadn't left the bar, if they had a few more drinks, if he could have found out if-

Travis dropped down to couch suddenly, cursing when his shin met the edge of the coffee table as kicked his legs out.

"Get your head in the game," he muttered, digging the meat of his palms against his eyeballs.

In a way, he's glad to know that he's matured enough to refrain from proceeding down that train of thought, but he was only human.

Travis adjusted himself discretely and proceeded to continue with his task. There's a long road to ruin, and he has no plans to start trekking down that dusty path anytime soon.

But, a little traitorous voice piped up in the back of his mind, if it leads to one Hanna Hascott, he might have to reconsider.

#  13

Grit met Hanna's fingertips as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. They weren't amenable to opening yet, but she needed to do all that she could do to coax them open. Though her curtains were drawn and the alarm on her phone hasn't gone off, it was time to go.

Despite the drinking binge she unwittingly stumbled into yesterday and a throbbing headache as a reminder of her carelessness, she moved in an orderly fashion as she tidy up the place before starting her day. She shown none of the usual affects one might display when suffering from a hangover. When thought upon, she would like to believe this so-called _inner-strength_ harboring insider her, like the old soul of a sensei, had something to do with the countless amount of literature she'd read over the years along with personal trials and tribulations she endured rather than conquered and had yet made peace with. Hard lessons. A source of wisdom and courage she'd come to trust and rely on when facing tough situations that's out of her hands.

A quick, refreshing shower later, Hanna emerged from the bathroom feeling more like herself than she had in the past two days. Last night was begrudgingly what she needed after a long period of fretting over the company. She knew Ben's occasional hints for a vacation had merit, but she was as stubborn as one could get.

She picked up her phone and called room service to order special meals for the TWC. It still felt silly calling a group of grown, professional women by the nickname, but the solidarity it implied made her inordinately happy.

Ever since the hullabaloo with the company started, she slowly lost contact with her university friends. Perhaps it was unfair of her to cut them off, but anxiety and paranoia dissuaded her from drawing them into her mess. It was refreshing to have others bring her to their own mess and to accept her troubles without question. Then again, the alcohol helped.

Hanna just finished zipping up her wrap dress when she heard knocking at her front door. Judging by the weight of the knocks, she guessed it was Travis. The thought strangely enough, didn't fill her with anxiety. If anything, it excited her. Between storming off from the bar and waking up in her room, Hanna decided that there was absolutely nothing wrong with having fun with the man.

She finally allowed herself to admit that she underestimated the analyst. The man obviously knew when to get to business if he's kept his employment with Ben secret for this long. The heart stopping moment at the bar didn't have to mean anything. It could just be, as she now thinks of it, a momentary lapse of judgement, a joke made more of spontaneous truths than constant ones.

Hanna was, as the Hascott men, Erica, and even Aldo reminded her, still a young woman and allowed the luxury of interacting with people the same age as her. And if last night were any indication, flirting and friendly if vitriolic jokes were par on course for people her age.

She straightened herself out and walked confidently towards the door. It was time to get her head back in the game.

* * *

Travis ran the list of things needed to debrief Hanna on before the meeting: The Employee Welfare Act of 2011, the 2015 environmental assessment of the Hascott plants, and whatever Hanna's masterstroke was were only some of them.

He was certain that he was prepared. A hundred squats made in place of pots of coffee ensured that he had enough aches in his body to distract him from his own thoughts. If he was going to continue this partnership in good conscience, last night couldn't happen again.

Travis Lamar Burton was a great many things- an incredible hacker for one, an incorrigible flirt for another. He wasn't, as his ex-wife apparently was, a homewrecker.

Walking towards Hanna's room on the third floor made the trip from the fifth infinitely shorter. He took a deep breath and lifted his fist to rap on Hanna's door. He will do just fine.

"Travis?" Hanna opened the door, revealing her trim figure ensconced in a wrap dress. The morning light streaming behind her haloed her unadorned arms and legs, revealing miles and miles of soft skin and deceptively tight muscles.

He will not be fine.

"We have a lot to talk about, Mrs. Hascott," Travis said, hoping to put a bit of distance between them.

Hanna was having none of it. She took his arm and pulled him into her sitting room, unknowingly making Travis' life harder. "I'm afraid we don't have breakfast to talk business over. And weren't you the one to insist on first names?"

"There are a few more numbers I need to run by you before the conference." Hanna let go of his arm and walked towards the sofa, where a pair of stockings lay underneath various accessories and a pair of killer heels.

Travis swallowed. "And the last phase of your presentation- I still have no idea what you're trying to accomplish there."

"Right now, Travis, I haven't any interest in numbers other than my own measurements." Hanna encircled her waist with her fingers. "I think all the alcohol I drank last night made this dress tighter."

Travis blinked. Was this really the same woman who told her repeatedly, in no uncertain terms, that she might have her chauffeur run him over if he keeps up his flirtations? "Do you still feel woozy?"

"No, but I do need you to speak numbers to me now if we're to reach the meeting in time." Hanna waggled her eyebrows and laughed at her own joke. Travis certainly wasn't.

The next ten minutes proceeded similarly, with Travis shifting uncomfortably in place while Hanna finished preparing herself. His matter-of-fact tone was trumped down by Hanna's glib comebacks; solid facts were countered by similar arguments colored by glee. His few attempts at turning the discussion into a formal one was dismissed with turns of phrases that he would've found charming if last night didn't happen.

Travis knew that he could move around the room and project a posture that could communicate the urgency in his words. It had been instrumental in securing his wants before. The ease he had in those scenarios did not come as readily as it had this time around. Personal feelings always made deceiving marks more difficult. Deceiving marks who were putting on their stockings was even worse.

He turned to the windows while Hanna rolled her stockings up her thighs. "Thus, if you're opening with employee satisfaction, I recommend pulling up the profits from 2001 as a comparison point."

"Mmm. I see you've thoroughly prepared for today. Almost as much as I have." When Travis turned to face her, Hanna seemed as surprised as he was as she fixed her bangles.

Mirth shone in the depths of Hanna's eyes, but there was something else there too, something Travis can't even fantasize about even if he wanted to. Challenge; Hanna was, in the way she stared at him, challenging Travis. At what, he didn't know, but it was there, and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

He suddenly became hyperaware of how her hand felt under his when she allowed him to escort her to the bar. Her hands were smaller than his, slighter, smoother. From what Benjamin told him of her, Hanna had experience in manual labor, but the years have been kind to her hands. He wants to ask her about them, how she managed to scrub away marks of her past and not erase it entirely as he had.

"Travis?" Hanna's voice broke through his thoughts. "You alright?"

Her brows arched upwards questioningly. Travis shrugged and turned to the door. "Shall we?"

#  14

The walk to the conference was surprisingly relaxed, despite the confrontation. The time it took to walk to the lounge of the fourteenth floor was taken up by revisions which Hanna actually took seriously. It gave Travis enough time to find his balance once more. He can't slip up again; like Hanna, there was so much more than his reputation at stake.

Travis sighed. He pressed a palm against his face and muttered, "Do you ever feel like you're repeating things to convince yourself instead of reminding yourself of things you need to do?"

He was surprised to hear Hanna reply, "All the time, Travis. All the time."

They walk down the hall just a short distance and used the stairwell.

Travis had no time to say what was on his mind, as men in black suits accosted them the moment they stepped out of the stairwell to the hallway of the fourteenth floor.

"What are you doing here?" was the first thing Finnick said after security led Hanna and Travis to the lounge outside the 14th floor conference room.

"I'd ask the same, Finnick," Hanna replied coolly, nodding to an astonished Elena by his right. "I was on my way to a room when these lovely men requested I accompany them."

Elena shifted her gaze to Travis, who shrugged in return. "They're under the strictest orders to apprehend unauthorized persons from entering this floor, barring guests."

Travis replied, "I'm a guest, aren't I? And Mrs. Hascott's not exactly a stranger."

The De Fleur guards looked at Elena for confirmation before stepping away from Hanna and Travis.

"Las Vegas is an unnatural place for either of you to visit in the middle of the year," Hanna commented, affecting genuine curiosity.

"I could ask you the same thing, Hanna," Elena replied, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Ben told me you were on a holiday. I wasn't expecting Vegas in your itinerary."

Finnick looked at Travis and inquired, "Did you know anything about this?"

Travis, ever the professional, answered, "Nah. I bumped into Ms. Hascott last night at the lobby. Told her I'd bring her up here to meet you two since she's Mr. Hascott's wife and all."

Hanna saw Elena's expression shift from quiet outrage to predatory curiosity even before she spoke. "Bump into her or escort her out of her room?"

Travis tried to speak but Hanna held out her hand, palms stretched outwards and lips pressed together in a thin line. It was one thing to dig at her character and another to imply mortifying things about her acquaintances.

"Is it necessary to throw accusations like that, or bring malice to friendly actions? And if there's anyone here who deserves answers wouldn't that be me? Finnick prefers Cuba for his holidays and you rarely leave the Midwest on your rare days off," Hanna said courteously despite her mood.

Neither Elena nor Finnick budged as the woman replied, "I'm only trying to find an explanation for your own peculiar vacation pattern. If there's nothing to implicate, then there's no need for all this cattiness."

There really was no need for all this cattiness. Travis unwittingly provided the groundwork- all Hanna needed to do now is build on it. A roll of her wrist made the bangles on her arm clink, reminding her of her alibi and the slight corrections it needs to absolve them of suspicion.

"Travis did escort me from my room up to this lounge." Hanna raised her brow. "He promised to take me to both of you last night at the bar. I met him there while I was trying to find my friends."

"And who might these friends be?" Hanna could already see the gears turning in Finnick's head. There were CCTV cameras in all the public hallways and rooms of the casino. She knew what damage he can cause if he could get his grimy paws on their footage.

"Felicia Ruthenbach, Courtney Courtland, Patricia Ingiberg, and Tyla Hernando." These women were, on a time scale, technically acquaintances but it wasn't truly lying if it was technically true.

They might have only met last night, but if the invitation for a repeat was try, then Hanna doubted that the women would object to her calling them friends.

The barrage of names did nothing but give Elena pause, though it was enough time for Hanna to palm her phone from her purse and shoot off a quick text without pulling it out. She hoped someone would respond to it in time.

"Such known names in... certain circles," Elena sneered, still unimpressed. "Can anyone but Travis vouch for you? I doubt his account will be partial, despite our mutual connection to him."

"Your misgivings disappoint me, Elena," Hanna said, narrowing her eyes at the woman across her.

"Forgive me my doubts. The circumstances that brought you two together in your room seems like one of the cases my security firm is hired for. A young ingénue meeting with a capable young man in a very liberal setting such as Vegas -"

"Are you suggesting-"

"I'm not suggesting anything, Hanna. Unless you feel the need to confess to certain crimes?"

"Meeting with friends in coincidental circumstances is not a crime."

Elena laughed. "We're both a little too old to think of anything as circumstantial."

Hanna turned around to see the origin of the voice and was greeted with the sight of Tyla shaking herself loose from the arms of a De Fleur guard. A simple nod from Elena rid the young woman of the guard. She gave Hanna a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before moving in front of her, acting as a shield between her friend and the two bewildered board members.

Tyla nodded at Travis and said, "You're Matthew, then? Thought you were white?"

Travis snorted. "I'm not her step-son."

Felicia snapped her fingers until she could recall what she wanted to say: "Then you gotta be that assistant guy waiting on Hanna or something!"

"Excuse me, miss," Finnick interjected, missing the incredulous look Travis gave Hanna. "We are in the middle -"

Perhaps uncaring of the power the two executives in front of her wielded, Tyla laughe d. "Oh my god, you're definitely Finnick and Elena! Hanna also mentioned you two! Didn't think you were actually in town."

She leaned in and gave them a conspiring wink. "If I did, I wouldn't have made Hanna defend your honor when I said those things about you last week in our private chat."

"Who is this?" Elena snapped, staring at Felicia's loose braided long hair.

"Felicia! I'm a buddy of Han's," Felicia answered, launching her hand forward. Finnick shook it reluctantly but Elena stared at it like it was radioactive.

Felicia gave Hanna a thumb up behind her back and began telling a worryingly candid account of last night's events. Littered around the mostly-true account were false anecdotes of internet correspondences that could only be proved by searching through Hanna's personal records.

Hanna fought the urge to smirk at Finnick's appalled look or Elena's stone-faced tolerance of her friend's recollection.

When she sent an SOS to The Trophy Club, she thought she'd see the catty Patricia or the conniving Courtney. Seeing either executive's reactions made it clear why Felicia was called to the scene.

Hanna looked at Travis, expecting her amusement to be mirrored. What she saw on his face was equally arresting, if unexpected. She nudged Travis subtly, startling him out of the deep reverie he seemed to have immersed himself in. When no explanation followed, Hanna nudged him again. This time, an apologetic shrug was thrown her way before he focused on Felicia's animated re-telling of the previous night.

His reaction gave Hanna pause. The presence of Elena and Finnick explained his stoicism, but she expected a cheeky aside just to be contrary. Possibly a phrase turned his expression sour, or Felicia's account was too flowery for his tastes. Whatever it was, it had to wait, as Tyla seemed to be slowing down from her verbal assault.

"And that's how it ended. I gotta say: Hanna's suite is bigger than ours, and I thought we had the biggest one... until I saw hers," Felicia groused, pouting briefly before switching back to her manic smile. "Then again, she IS a Hascott. Kind of ruins the glamour if she doesn't have it all. You know what I mean?"

"Thank you for that... instructive recollection, miss," Finnick said, face purple as he suppressed the cocktail of emotions threatening to spill on his face.

Elena chose not to speak at all and let him continue, "Is there anything else, or may Ms. Desrosiers' staff escort you out?"

Felicia primly curtsied at the older man. "Yes, her men MAY escort me back to my room."

She allowed the De Fleur guards to guide her out of the lobby, tapping a quick 'you're welcome' in Morse on Hanna's shoulder as she glided out.

Hanna risked a glance at Elena after Felicia's departure, expecting a controlled detonation that could only come from Desrosiers, only to find a cold stare waiting for her on the other end. Before she could say anything, Elena turned around and walked towards the conference room with Finnick in tow.

#  15

Movement in her periphery alerted Hanna to the stream of people beginning to pour in the lobby and the conference room. Most of the people who pooled into the lobby were, as far as Hanna could tell, were lawyers from various corporations known to deal with V-Metals' various ventures. Some were politicians and heads of businesses V-Metals has yet to negotiate with, all obviously wary of Hanna's presence there.

De Fleur staff must have held the guests in a room before leading them here after letting Felicia finish. Hanna admitted that it probably wouldn't do anyone good if they heard her friend's anecdotes, nor see Elena or Finnick's reaction to them.

Hanna tried to catch Travis' eye to snark about their unease, but empty air met her gaze when she looked at where her companion used to be.

"What's you're play?," Hanna mumbled, eyes narrowing at his retreat.

In hindsight, a direct confrontation might've worked better after noticing the man's unnatural silence. Yet what could she have done, being in the position that she was in? The work Felicia put in confounding the board members could've been undone by a sudden need to speak with Travis without any witnesses.

Anger was the most heated emotion that Travis' sudden departure conjured, though it was tempered with pity and concern. Suspicion, unexpectedly, never made an appearance. Last night's Chevy and amoretto sour hit the right chords and checked out with what Ben told her of the younger man. The insight into the man's life before this mess also made her sure that, no matter the outcome, she would have another person on her corner to cheer her on.

Hanna perused the contents of her purse, steeling herself for the task ahead of her. Travis' sudden bout of sulking aside, the man kept up with her in preparing for the conference; she was certain he would do his best because of it. All she needed to do now was-

"Mrs. Hascott?"

The man who called Hanna's name was slight. The sit he wore, finely-tailored as it was, left the impression that he was willowy, reedy. A breeze wouldn't knock him over though a sufficient gust might move him from where he stood. Still, there was steel behind the gentle blues of his eyes, a firmness undermined by the laugh lines framing his mouth.

What intrigued Hanna the most, however, was his hair and the memory it summoned. She remembers the shape f his parted hair in a photograph of Benjamin's taken in the nineties and set in the headquarters of V-Metals before it moved to Trophy Club. Ben told her that the photo was taken shortly before the man standing in front of Hanna had taken to sending missives or Wesley instead of showing up in person.

"Mrs. Hascott, I don't believe we've been formally introduced." The man untucked an arm from his side and held it out in front of him. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Benjamin's partner. Vincent Di Maggio."

As she returned the pleasantry and shook his hand, Hanna recalled a story Ben told her of his partner.

"His hands were swollen with stings the one time we vacationed in Papua New Guinea together. I say vacationed, but that years have given me enough space and insight to call it what it really was," Ben opened one day as he sifted through his albums for the photograph that allowed Hanna to recognize Vincent, "A clever ruse to get me to do volunteer work instead of having a well-earned rest."

The light streaming through their bedroom that day might have deceived Hanna's eyes, or that time colored it with fondness, but the scowl on Ben's face wavered between fondness and irritation as he told the story.

"He accidentally landed on an ant mound while catching a child that was about to fall from a tree. We were in a village, you see, teaching children simple arithmetic and distributing goods. The child was chased up the tree by a dog they riled up.

I tried to get us back to our hotel, but Vincent pushed through. He made me carry his belongings the rest of the week and carry those children. I believe the one child who treated my neck as her personal throne runs the Australian division on Vincent's behalf now."

Those snippets of humanity made the vague image Hanna had of the mysterious co-founder of V-Metals. She knew that time and complexity meant that the picture was incomplete, perhaps unfairly skewed to his favor, but it was rare for Benjamin to speak of someone so fondly.

"It's time, sir." Hanna and Vincent's hands unclasped as Wesley came to view, suspiciously unobtrusive. If pressed, Hanna would even say that the lawyer exercised his barely-used facial muscles to approximate affection for Vincent when he stared at the older man.

Vincent nodded at Hanna and walked to the conference room, leaving Hanna with more questions than she knew what to do with.

But like fireflies, they dropped one-by-one as Hanna stepped into the conference room. As she expected, Elena and Finnick were seated at the head of the 40-seater glass-and-metal table, flanked by Wesley and Travis on either side. Vincent was on the other end of the table, waiting patiently for events to transpire.

Hanna sat down beside Travis, all business-like as he shuffled his notes in front of him. "I handed the slides over. Nothing major was revised. A few figures adjusted here and there, but the notes here should cover most of them. I doubt you'll need the reminders. Doesn't hurt to be prepared, though."

"We need to talk after this," she muttered as the room settled down. She could feel a dozen pair of eyes on her, wondering why and how she got wind of this meeting. If she had any doubts that this conference was anything but malignant, they perished on the spot.

"There's nothing to talk about," Travis said curtly, causing Hanna to raise her eyebrows.

"Obviously, there is, if your behavior's done a complete three-sixty," she said.

Travis only tipped his chin towards the podium at the head of the table, where Finnick was preparing to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hidalgo's Chateau and to this conference. It's taken us months to arrange this, but I'm glad to say that this will be worth our collective efforts," he opened.

"As you can see, we're joined today by the co-founder of V-Metals and the head of our Asian division, Mr. Vincent DiMaggio." Applause rang out in the room, much to the consternation of Vincent, who looked abashed at the attention.

"And the plant manager of our Rhode Island factories and the wife of our beloved CEO, Mrs. Hanna Hascott." The applause for Hanna was no less enthusiastic; though she was fully aware of the wary looks she was being given.

Fortunately for her, the palpable tension in the room was broken with a single indelicate, "I wasn't informed that Mrs. Hascott will be joining us today."

The inquiring woman was, to the best of Hanna's memory, the president of a conglomerate specializing in oil trade and lending. She bit back the laugh threatening to spill from her lips. If all went according to plan, the woman would have a lot more to be cross about than Hanna's sudden appearance at this covert meeting.

"I came here on a whim. I was invited by one of you fine people, but I didn't give a formal reply until today," Hanna answered smoothly, batting her eyelashes.

Elena cleared her throat. "Her appearance at this conference changes nothing in our agenda today. Please don't be alarmed. If you may, Mr. Oppenheimer?"

Finnick continued. If he was nervous or opposed to the idea of letting Hanna sit in, it didn't show on his face. "Let's get to the bottom of it. As we've noted in our earlier meetings, V-Metals is now entering a crucial phase in its lifetime. Not only is its leadership in question, its operations are in question. Many of us showed concern that the current practices of the company, as a whole is not sustainable in the long run. Subsidizing and consolidating administration may work at the moment, but diversifying our operations will ensure that the company may continue."

"And as I've noted before," Hanna said, taking advantage of Finnick's pause, "The Company has never, not even in the brief periods that our current CEO has taken, divided itself into separate entities linked together with the flimsiest of connections like organizations in a university."

Finnick's eyes hardened. "It would be appreciated if our guests could keep their commentaries to themselves until the presentations are finished."

"That's an unfortunate way of conducting this business." Hanna was surprised to hear Vincent interpose; the man hardly looked like he wanted to draw more attention to himself. "Mrs. Hascott's argument has its merits. Listening to different viewpoints in discussions can only make one's point stronger, if not change it entirely."

Finnick looked thrown by Vincent's words while Elena looked like she was slapped in the face.

Vincent shrugged. "Wesley told me that I was invited to approve a proposal. I couldn't do that without knowing all sides of the argument."

Comprehension wormed itself into Hanna's mind. When it was obvious that formal appeals to Ben would never work, Elena and Finnick reached out to the only other man who could make their plans a possibility. Vincent was no longer in a position to formally decide the direction of the company, but his relationship with Benjamin and position as the company's co-founder could turn their plans into reality.

Having one of the company's co-founders in the room was definitely a gambit to make it seem like their plans to divide V-Metals was feasible. If Vincent seemed even remotely positive towards Hanna's suggestions, then their already tenuous grasps on their investors, made further rocky by her appearance, may loosen enough for their whole plan to fall apart.

"Mr. DiMaggio has a point," muttered one of the lawyers sat between executives and creditors, causing a small wave of ascension among the people in the room.

The cracks were already beginning to show.

Resigned, Finnick said, "Acknowledged", and continued with his speech.

Emboldened by Vincent's unknowing support, Hanna confidently glided through the meeting with solid figures that even the most stoic businessperson couldn't ignore.

Representatives of major oil firms, including the inquiring woman from earlier, predictably raised their voices over the austerity clause on fossil fuels that neither Elena nor Finnick deemed important to share.

"The clause has been approved for five months to give way for a new partnership with Tesla, local farms dealing with biodegradable fuel, and companies specializing in solar panels to deliver more alternative sources for our machinery and electrical grids," Hanna explained. "I do believe it was reported as a momentary lapse in funding, but five months is hardly momentary and I'm sure quite a lot of you are here to ask why V-Metals suddenly dropped its shares in some of your companies."

"The clause was a temporary measure that was to go public in a month after many revisions," Finnick responded, hand still hovering at the direction of the presentation behind him. "It was restricted to internal affairs until the interests of all parties could be secured."

"Recycling plants need fuel to operate. Our companies should've been part of the development of this clause," quipped the inquiring woman from earlier, receiving murmurs of assent from others.

Hanna pounced on the opening and said, "Speaking of development, the adjustments made to the interest rates to lower-level employees were unapproved when you announced them to our creditors, Mr. Oppenheimer."

"Those changes were done with the help of our partners," Elena replied, ignoring the looks she received from some parties around the table, "Only Mr. Hascott's signature was needed for the changes to be made official and that was given a day after we presented it to our partners, some of whom are present here."

"Then they're aware of the changes Mr. Hascott made before you hastily approved them without their knowledge?"

"What are these changes?"

"The new lending initiative for our first-level employees and contractual workers."

The murmuring around the table increased. Finnick's attempt to bring silence to the table through pointed coughs failed, whereas a simple "A little decorum, please" from Vincent succeeded.

A nod from Vincent allowed Hanna to continue her speech. "While our partners are not legally bound to make changes to our policies, your arrangement called for their knowledge on the initiative Mr. Hascott added before signing it. In your haste to have it signed, this was overlooked."

Elena pursed her lips. "The initiative will be phased out."

"It will only be phased out if your partners agree to decrease the current rates for loans. The change in the legalese was enacted to prevent that very thing from happening."

"This leeway will give our high-risk employees a way to take advantage of our already generous loan programs."

"This leeway is part of the welfare program which, the facts and the people themselves agree, have been very beneficial for the company." Hanna opened a folder Travis handed her during Finnick's half of the program. "According to numbers pulled out by some of our independent financial analysts, approximately $1.3 billion was lost five years before any "leeway's" were given to employees in plants and lower-level subsidiaries."

"The leading cause of this loss was employee absence, which averaged at 53.67 percent. According to a report by our analyst, 71.32 percent of the employees surveyed said, and I quote, "they missed work due to other work commitments, which most V-Metals plants and subsidiaries allow under section four, article six of the 2003 revised universal contract on-site laborers and C to E class employees.""

On her right, Hanna could see Travis smirking underneath the hand covering his mouth.

"And allowing these truants access to more loans will help?" Elena's brows furrowed together, disposing of some of the poise she normally exhibited.

"Allowing our _employees_ access to loans will help cut down the remaining truancy rates in these subsidiaries and plants that our increase in their minimum wage couldn't close." Hanna was impressed with her control. "To inform the rest of the room, profits increased by 23 percent since the enactment of the welfare act, the effects of which I've advocated since our previous meeting at the Hascott headquarters."

Hanna paused to look at Vincent. The older man's eyes were closed, but everything in his posture suggested that he was listening to the meeting. Wesley's aggressive note taking by his side ensured that whatever he missed could be reviewed in a later date.

"And now's a good time as any to reveal one of the final projects for the welfare act." Hanna stood from her seat and walked to the podium. Finnick relinquished his spot with reluctance and handed her the remote.

The projector transitioned smoothly to Hanna's presentation. The cover slide was a picture her own plant, silhouetted by the afternoon sun and made luminescent by the glare from the solar panels surrounding one side of the huge compound.

"One of the many problems our employees in certain areas around the globe are the substandard conditions of their workplace despite V-Metals' long history of being one of the safest companies to work for." Hanna clicked on the remote. The next few slides showed pictures of grimy chimneys and floors littered with wastes that the appropriate waste bins could not contain.

"It has come to the attention of several plant managers and country coordinators that recent cutbacks to their budgets have been used to fund these plants." Two huge recycling plants came on screen, each with their own smoking chimneys and old-model trucks rolling out of automatic gates.

"I see that most of you know what these plants are. The plant on the left is the Beckett-Sanders plant in California while the one on the right is the Farouche plant in Mexico. They were promised to be the cleanest of our plants, but as the following video will reveal, the plants have the highest emission rating on the company's history."

The video Hanna played came from The Autonomous' marketing department. Using Matthew 's status as Ben's son, the auto firm's little underlings were able to take videos of the plants mostly unsupervised. The worse shots were, unfortunately, left out due to security interfering.

What they did manage to capture flew under Finnick and Elena's notice, judging by their reactions. Beckett-Sanders and Farouche were technically advanced: the production rate in other plants paled in comparison to their output per ton of metal processed. But their emission rates were worryingly high and were reliant on fossil fuels for work. The few solar panels they did have might as well be decorative for all the power they produced.

It took The Autonomous a long time to shoot the videos just to get enough footage for the presentation. Hanna remembered receiving an update on the project just after the meeting where she met Travis. The changes made from here to then was outstanding.

Hanna peered around the room as the video ended. She didn't expect much of a reaction, but the few stunned looks she did see informed her that not everyone in the room knew of the plants' duplicitous nature.

"There must be little doubt in your minds what this project entails after that video." Hanna let a small smile appear on her face. "In light of these discoveries, the Beckett-Sanders and Farouche plants will be closed next year."

The resulting uproar was worth the wait.

#  16

Watching the conference room empty out felt cathartic, a sudden release of pressure that unlocked the vise that Hanna's mind had been in since Ben took her to see Matthew's first custom-made car. She wasn't ashamed to admit that seeing Elena barely keeping her temper at bay while Finnick scowled his way through the final leg of the meeting satisfied a part of her that didn't mind petty revenge.

Those were the only immediate benefits to this matter anyway. Her chances of having a talk over a celebratory drink was crushed when Travis disappeared after the meeting let up. Felicia and the others were already on their way back home or to some other errand. The thought of drinking alone felt underwhelming after such a victory.

Hanna resigned herself to an early trip home and packed her belongings for the long walk back to her room. As she stacked the last of the folders, a hand appeared beside her purse.

"May I look at the folder pertaining to the survey in Bangkok?" The hand on the table curved around Hanna's proffered folder. "Thank you, Mrs. Hascott."

"Call me Hanna." Vincent smiled at her as he opened the folder.

Hanna wanted to say something to the man- a thank you, perhaps, or any of the questions that's been buzzing at the back of her mind throughout the meeting. Wesley, silent and strangely reverent of the man reading her files, beat her to the punch. "Mr. DiMaggio, the plane leaves in twenty minutes."

Vincent nodded in acknowledgement. He handed the folder back to Hanna and opened his mouth to speak before closing it again. It took a few more seconds before he could articulate what he wanted to say. "That was an informative talk. Elena and Finnick were not forthcoming with details even after they requested that I supervise their dealings."

The corners of his mouth twitched when he saw the grimace on Hanna's face. "Supervise. Supervise is the key word."

Another twitch of the mouth. "You'll be a game-changer in the future. Does Benjamin still use that word? Game-changer?"

Hanna laughed. "He does, but only on very special occasions."

Vincent nodded and motioned to Wesley. As he walked out of the conference room, the co-founder of V-Metals looked at Hanna one last time before saying, "We will meet again soon. Regrettably, it won't be as pleasant as this, but we will meet again."

Hanna's throat locked up as she tried to speak, her mind racing as her mouth attempted to catch up with it. Vincent was economical with his movements and speech. He should've been an easier read. If it was any other person, perhaps she could've gleaned a bit more meaning from their bare exchange of words. In his case, it was more likely that she was the one who had been read.

The door to the lobby opened once more. Hanna hoped to see Vincent but saw Travis instead.

"Thought you went back to your hotel room," Travis said with relief as he walked to her.

"I could say the same thing-" Hanna began to tease and stopped as she saw how nervous her friend looked. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing bad, nothing good." Travis gathered her bag and folders on the desk and motioned his head towards the door. "But we're going to find out soon enough."

"Where are we going?" Hanna asked, alarmed as they paced quickly out of the conference room and the lobby.

Travis stopped at the door to the stairwell and let a few people pass by before saying, "Thelma Min and Oskar Reedus wants to meet us in their room."

#  17

"What do they want from us? They haven't even attended the meeting," Hanna hissed at Travis as they cut up the stairs to Thelma and Oskar's suite.

"They were at the meeting. There were several webcams placed around the table for a live stream exclusive to investors or members unable to attend the meeting," Travis replied, not pausing as he looked at the floor number beside the door.

"If they weren't there physically, then who approached you for this thing?"

"The people handling their webcams approached me after the conference. Caught me on the way to the elevators."

"The elevator? You were going to leave me alone? What if they cornered me for questions afterwards?"

In lieu of replying, Travis opened the door of the 17th floor and looked at the number plates on the doors directly in front of the fire exit before proceeding to the left. Recognizing defeat, Hanna stopped herself from shouting at the man and followed him.

They continued until they reached the end of the hallway to the ornate door of Room 1712. Travis knocked unhesitatingly and was greeted by a besuited woman presumably part of the room's security staff. Hanna and Travis followed her warily.

Sitting cross-legged on a plush couch that complemented the almost Regency-like style of the room was Thelma Min, the European division head. The only acknowledgement she made of their presence was a sweeping hand towards the sofa across from her and a shuffling of the papers on the coffee table in front of her. Neither Hanna nor Travis took the seat.

"That's no way to treat our guests," complained the regal-looking man being lead out of an anteroom by the same besuited woman from earlier.

"Aware, Oskar, very aware of that fact," Thelma acknowledged.

She took her glasses off and smiled at Hanna and Travis, making her lineless face even younger looking. "Was merely offering you two an option to begin this meeting without Oskar's usual dramatics."

Oskar laughed. Hanna knew from her brief dealings with the pair that they were old friends from Oxford. Their relationship had a friendly, if vitriolic aspect that only competing for Latin honors and top positions at a company later in life could develop.

"She does have a point. Please, sit down." Hanna and Travis took Oskar up on his offer and took a pair of folders that the older man offered as he sat down beside Thelma.

Hanna opened the folder on top of the stack. "This is the contract Finnick signed with a pharmaceutical company in India."

She reviewed the same contract while preparing for the conference today. Benjamin refused to approve it and left it to flounder for an approval.

"Didn't the deal fall through?" Travis asked, having read the same files as Hanna. "The company had to produce the drugs with another manufacturer. Overall, it wasn't a risk for V-Metals, and-"

Hanna looked at the open folder Travis had and saw the same page open. She tapped the file on her own folder and looked at Thelma and Oskar. "Where signature is this? Only Ben can approve deals of this magnitude."

Thelma answered, "That is Vincent DiMaggio's signature."

"What?" Travis exclaimed, face torn between shock and incredulousness, "The same DiMaggio who practically tried to copy a chameleon in the conference?"

"One and the sae as the DiMaggio signed on that contract," Thelma said. "You would find the same signature in the contract in the second folder."

Hanna put the pharmaceutical folder down and flipped the second folder until she reached the end of the contract. The same signature appeared at the bottom of the contract.

"The DiMaggio in the conference room were not Oskar or Elena's biggest fans," Travis said as he re-read the contracts.

"He's not, but those are his signatures," Oskar said before turning to Hanna. "Did he say anything to you personally? Ask any questions, anything of that nature?"

Hanna hesitated. "He apologized to me before he left, but I don't know what he was apologizing for."

Oskar raised a supercilious eyebrow at the information. Thelma then asked, "Did you see him leave with anyone?"

"Just Wesley."

"That boy follows Vincent around like a puppy. Do you remember when he was younger, Thelma?" Oskar asked as he reached for the bottles on the small drinks shelf under the coffee table. "He was almost literally the man's shadow. Followed him everywhere he could."

He sighed and pulled a bottle of Rémy Martin and a tulip glass from the drinks shelf. "But when his master's not around, that boy avoids humans like the plague."

Hanna raked her mind for anything that could explain the sudden turn around. From the brief dealing this morning, Vincent was amiable and quiet. The description fir the man Benjamin described to her to a T.

The man who built V-Metals was silent while Benjamin was boisterous; contemplative where Ben was tempestuous; concise while Ben was excessive.

Before Hanna, it was Vincent himself who held V-Metals to humanitarian standards. His operations made it possible for Hanna to build her own initiatives.

The man wasn't all bureaucratic in his dealings either: Hanna remembers Ben telling her that the 'fool man' cut his salary thrice- once in 1989, then in 1997, and finally in 2001- to inject more resources to the Asian division. His executives followed suit, allowing the company to raise the flagging salaries of the lowest-rung employee.

His austerity measures also gave way to a quarter of the plants and facilities in the continent to be retrofitted with equipment and rooms suitable for handicap persons. The renovations allowed the company to employ thousands of new employees and opened it to dozens of awards lauding their fight against poverty and ableism. Vincent, apparently, couldn't care less about the recognition and allowed Wesley to claim the accolades on his behalf, content to continue his role behind the scenes.

"Then... was this all a waste?" Hanna asked, choosing to succumb to curiosity instead of the gaping hole that seemed to have appeared inside her gut.

"Not a wasted. Don't be fooled by his track record or silent act. This is a different Vincent we're dealing with here," Thelma said wryly.

"This is a bad question to ask. This guy's virtually done nothing wrong his whole career. If he's signed these off- and I'm sure these isn't all of them- then we gotta be missing something here." Hanna shot a thankful look at Travis for articulating what she could not.

Oskar leaned back and drank from his glass, letting the whiskey swirl around his mouth before swallowing. "Have you ever wondered why V-Metals remains a billion-dollar company despite almost creating a monopoly on recycling?"

Hanna shook her head uncertainly.

"V-Metals hit the million-dollar mark in the early seventies. It was a remarkable period of growth. Time and other bigshot magazines declared it miraculous, and it was nothing short of sensational. Two fresh-faced university graduates creating an empire in a matter of years? It's less common then as it is now."

"Then, fifteen or so years later, it breached a billion in profits. Our little debutant finally turned into the society darling it was always meant to be. Controlled growth, responsible growth, all kinds of bloody growth was attributed to the flowering of V-Metals. What was consistent was the certainty that the company will continue to grow- and it has. Equipment and automobile manufacturing, raw material production, even construction. All of it were hardy branches of the same Hascott tree."

"What did I tell you about Oskar's dramatics?" Thelma said briskly, earning a laugh from her friend. Her own playful expression disappeared almost instantaneously. "Throughout everything, Benjamin and Vincent were the greatest of partners. Most of their competitors attempted to pry them apart, but Ben's nothing but possessive and Vincent is loyal to a fault."

"You do know that all of this is convincing us of the opposite of what you're tryin'a tell us, right?" Travis said in disbelief.

Oskar smiled genially. "Let her finish before anything else."

Travis blanched at the nickname. Hanna looked at Oskar enquiringly, confused at the sudden familiarity and the strange epithet, but only received a shrug in return.

"However, there was an incident in the earlier years of V-Metals that almost tore them apart." Thelma focused her gaze on Hanna. "Do you know the phrase 'Italy 1978'?"

"Benjamin gave me that phrase while I was looking for information," Hanna said unthinkingly, causing Oskar to choke on his drink.

Thelma thumped her friend on the back as she said, "Do you know the significance of that phrase?"

"No. He only gave me the phrase to use on Isley and Eli. They objected to my requests for information at first, but when I used that phrase, it was as if I flipped a switch."

"As it should. I don't think you're aware of the great power bestowed on you, Ms. Hascott."

"Could we cut down on the drama and get to the point?" Travis interrupted, still upset. "We're not spies. There isn't no need for this kind of secrecy."

Oskar poured himself another measure of cognac and wagged a finger at the younger man. "Very impatient. Settle down, these things need set-ups for their pay-offs."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Travis here. It's disquieting to hear all of this... talk without any context," Hanna spoke honestly, "Besides, what does 'Italy 1978' have to do with Vincent? How did you two know about it?"

With a sigh, Oskar stood up and drained his glass. "I was hoping for a little more flair than this."

He walked around the couch and headed for a door opposite of the one he emerged from. "Keep the pups entertained while I get them ready."

"Get what ready?" Travis asked quizzically.

Thelma waved his concern away and pulled her phone out. A minute of watching her flick through something on her phone later, Travis nudged Hanna and nodded to Thelma. Hanna shook her head in response, opting to wait for the woman to carry out her ministrations.

She was rewarded with a picture on the phone, showing Benjamin and Vincent laughing while curled up on a bench. Their background was the ocean, frozen in time in the middle of roiling waves, their foreground a mess of beads and open jars. The two men in the photograph never looked younger in Hanna's memory. She never saw them that close either.

Even in Benjamin's meticulously put-together albums, she never saw a picture where they touched, much less lean against each other like in the photo on Thelma's phone.

"Lemme guess," Travis said, squinting at the screen in disbelief, this was taken at Italy in 1978."

"October 1978, at a beach in Italy. Ben never specified the details." Thelma drew back. "It was in this trip that V-Metals almost broke down.

This was taken around the time that Vincent and Oskar began receiving offers for the proprietorship of the company. Obviously, neither agreed to turn their child over. The companies that offered to buy V-Metals weren't even in the recycling business. Many were existing companies looking to expand their trade to other areas. Because of the business they were drawing in, V-Metals was seen as the first step by a lot of competitors to creating a multi-faceted business.

While they never sold the company, the idea of creating a true empire, one that reaches beyond recycling planted itself in Vincent's mind. Benjamin let him entertain the idea until they went for a vacation in Italy."

At that moment, Oskar walked back in the room carrying a box and said, "Obviously, the vacation wasn't a vacation. But Ben didn't know it 'til they were already in a conference room full of the same men and women they've rejected endlessly."

He settled the box beside Hanna, who said, "Was it anything like the conference earlier?"

"With a little more pomp and circumstance, perhaps, but essentially the same," Oskar confirmed and walked back to the other room.

Thelma picked up the sentence, "Different dancers, same mastermind. Italy 1978. Ben made sure to never forget."

"Why did Ben conceal this from me?" Hanna asked, genuinely confused.

"More than thirty years later, he still uses a phrase that reminds him of that year and placed as a final stopgap for emergencies." Thelma sighed. "It cut him deeply, Hanna dear. Vincent was more than a friend, closer than a brother. There were a lot of reasons why he became the hardened old man you married, but if there was a singular moment that truly signaled the change, this is it."

"You're saying Vincent wanted to split up V-Metals like Finnick and Elena's plotting' to do right now?" Travis asked, frowning as Hanna considered Thelma's words. "That doesn't make sense. V-Metals isn't as big as it is now back then. Barely anything to split up."

"Interrupting others is poor manners," Oskar said in a sing-song tone as he reappeared with another box. "Let Thelma finish."

"That was an astute observation, Travis," Thelma said, ignoring the noise Oskar made on his way back to the other room. "Vincent wasn't planning to sell the company piecemeal: he tried to sell it wholesale. After their near fallout in Italy he never tried to do it again."

"Until now, you mean, "Hanna interjected.

She couldn't describe what she was feeling at the moment. Anger, definitely, rage even, anchored by sympathy for her husband. Yet at the face of such a betrayal, there was awe underlying the hurt.

Thelma, surprisingly, laughed at Hanna's conclusion. "Hanna, Vincent's too smart to try the same tactic twice. Finnick and Elena simply chose to believe otherwise when they approached him for help."

"This isn't a retread of a failure. The fact of the matter is they're only getting Vincent's support because their play for power advances his own interests. After today, I doubt he'll have much use for them.

He has all the contracts from their friends and none of them bear Finnick or Elena's signatures. Who's to say that they weren't merely envious for Vincent? They'll put up a fight once he collects on those contracts without them. None of them will work once Vincent's plans are in full motion. Thirty years of momentum tends to do that."

"The truckload of blackmail his little puppy has on them and their little friends doesn't hurt either," Oskar added cheerfully as he added another box on the pile beside Hanna. He took his place beside Thelma before saying, "Your plans may have given him an out with Finnick and Elena, but they've largely hindered his schemes, especially where A.C.E. is concerned and their weaponized drones."

Hanna suddenly felt lost. What was the man talking about? She looked to Travis, hoping he at least knew what questions to ask. But instead of looking engaged, he had gotten a faraway, slightly puzzled look, as though he was trying to snag a fleeting memory.

Thelma must have seen Hanna's confusion. "What Oskar is trying to say is the plants you've shut down, or plan to shut down, are heavily involved in weapons production," Thelma spelled out.

That brought Travis back from wherever he'd gone, but he didn't seem to be convinced of what Thelma had said. He let out a short, almost derisive laugh. "Weapons manufacturing? How did we get from a decades-old, crazy conspiracy to armaments?"

"Take it from me, foundling," Oskar said dryly, reaching for his abandoned cognac and tulip, "A decade spent in Africa has repeatedly pressed the importance of weapons production in any megalomaniacal oligarchy designed to topple world economies."

Hanna inhaled sharply. She was not a daft woman by any measure. She had an inkling that this was where Thelma and Oskar's long-winded spiel was headed, though she didn't anticipate the scale of Vincent's plans.

Unlike her, Travis seemed to be unable to comprehend what had transpired.

#  18

"The 'Clean Millennium Project' is a seven hundred-megawatt facility to be established in California and Mexico'," Hanna read aloud for the third time. Beside her, Travis was typing furiously on a laptop generously left behind by Oskar. "'It will use biodegradable waste sourced from primary V-Metals facilities, subsidiaries, and associated companies as the primary fuel source. Instead of converting fossil fuels'... I can't make out what this says."

Travis grunted. Hanna looked at the screen of the laptop and saw that he was drafting emails asking for help regarding clean energy. He's been glued to the laptop since Oskar handed it to him an hour ago. She never saw him this focused before, and she thought she's seen him at his worst, preparing for the conference earlier that day.

She could scarcely deign to divert her attention herself. The journals bequeathed to them were an absolute goldmine: ideas for ventures that eventually made it to actuality, schematics for failed programs, and experimental proposals that never saw the light of day were written on the pristine, if yellowing pages.

Oskar told her that these journals were entrusted to him by Benjamin a decade ago, when he was still hardy and able to walk. He was told to never look inside and burn them, but a drunken party with Thelma later found him reading the journals with rapt interest. He never thought that the journals would amount to anything but idle reading until he heard of Hanna's ventures, and thought it best to keep it under wraps until he could hand it to her.

They've been an absolute gold mine, but the most intriguing idea to have popped out was 'Clean Millennium Project'. With her research, she could see that her husband and Vincent had every intention of taking this idea out of their notebooks and turning it to reality. The space for the facilities were obviously paid for- and now ill-used as apparent weapons manufacturing facilities- and the legalese for the acquirement of in-house raw materials was now being used for scrap acquisition.

All they needed now were consultants who could help them create a proposal for V-Metals' power section.

"They'll be here in a few minutes," Travis sighed, leaning back into the sofa. "You don't need to worry about secrecy. They've worked on enough private contracts to know confidentiality like the back of their hands."

Working in Bise à Fantôme apparently lead to working in industries completely unrelated to humanitarian work. A good portion of the former employees and volunteers of the organization went into IT like Travis. The rest either went into law or science. Some, apparently, went into clean energy, a pursuit as penniless as bettering other yet equal in serving as a balm for the soul.

"I'm grateful for the incoming help, but it's curiously convenient that you have friends in the industries we need help in," Hanna said, rubbing her own eyes as she re-read the plans for the power plant.

"Working in IT means you always have strange acquaintances." Travis put the laptop aside, stood up, and stretched. "They're a county over. Going to take them an hour at most."

Hanna didn't want to hide her smirk. She smoothed down her skirt and put the journal aside before holding her hand out. With the slightest hint of hesitation, Travis pulled her up and took his hand away immediately.

"What did you have in mind?"

Hanna meant to play off the question as a flirtatious joke; no real heat but with all the amiability a jest implies. What came out sounded like her in her innermost thoughts, the part of her that forgot the faint shadow of a ring band around her left ring finger. She could always chalk it up to her voice going rough with disuse. This seemed more implausible the longer Travis stared at her.

A sudden spark of memory saved her from the cold dread and swirling heat in her stomach. "There's a two-for-one special on tchotchkes in the gift shop next to the casino. There's also an arcade next to it, though I'm not too familiar with that sort of amusement."

Travis seemed to have snapped from the lull she accidently put him under. In place of his discomfortingly electric gaze was the cheeky smile she learned to associate with him. "Then, allow me to introduce you to the wonders of childish pastimes."

And so he did.

The trip down to the arcade was largely uneventful. They took the elevator instead of the stairs, too exhausted to even begin a repeat of earlier, and passed through the lobby to the amusement part of the hotel-casino.

Hanna was surprised to see people of her own age and older milling around the technicolor displays and loud game cabinets. She thought the allure of earning cash while spending it would lure more into the casino itself, but the elderly couple dancing in front of a machine at the entrance of the arcade proved her wrong.

Before she could ask, Travis took her to the counter to exchange a few wads of cash for tokens.

"My treat," he said, before she could fully protest. A barb was on the tip of Hanna's tongue, ready for deployment. The softness she found in his eyes deterred it from changing its disposition.

Instead of forcing the words out, she allowed him to steer her to one of the gun cabinets. There, she was able to find her words better.

"On second thought, I think I'd rather lose face over craps or waste my cash on some tourist show than play at the apocalypse," Hanna said dryly as Travis picked up a plastic gun enthusiastically.

Travis, shedding his formal decorum once more, laughed in return. "Call it longing for the old times."

"Even with your background in computers, I admit: I didn't peg you for the type who played games."

The tell-tale twitch at the corner of Travis' lips told Hanna that he was fighting back a smirk. His eyes, however, told her that there was a story behind the man's expression.

"Aesthetics can only get you so far, m'dear," Travis said smarmily, in an accent so affected and outlandish that Hanna burst out laughing without realizing it.

She knew he didn't want their conversation to deepen yet again. Whatever hurt he nursed from the conference was still there and mingled with the heady emotions last night had summoned. Still, Hanna was in a gambling mood and she wagered that she could get the story out before the day ended.

Hanna waved an equally pompous hand at the screen and, with an accent she heard in numerous parties, said, "Puh-roceed, Mr. Bahrkehr."

The resulting laughter was worth the turned heads in their direction.

Hanna first settled for watching Travis shoot highly-detailed zombies on-screen then moved on to participating herself when Travis took her hands and showed her how to hold the gun.

"I don't need it, but a friend once told me a trick," Travis told her the fifth time she had to plunk tokens in, "She said you have to imagine someone you truly loath, even for a minute, and your aim'll improve like crazy."

It was immature and elementary, but Hanna indulged in the brief fantasy of blowing her troubles away with a well-placed shot of a fantastic laser canon.

Her aim, strangely enough, did improve.

When the vitriolic charm of the game ran out, and Hanna ran out on her share of the tokens, Travis toured her around the arcade. She was never one for amusement, though seeing the various attractions made her wish that she could have taken her younger siblings to arcades.

Playing the games felt childish and unbecoming for someone like her, yet the tiny girl inside of her that still lived in Haiti felt gleeful and content. It was as if she was in her teens again, completely charmed with the lights of the big city and its various conveniences, taken for granted by citizens who never stepped out of the concrete jungle that was their home.

She couldn't deny that a part of her enjoyment came from the man currently teaching her how to drive in a virtual racetrack. The quip earlier was just that- a witticism meant to play on the delicate balance she and Travis established. It was nothing meant with certainty; this was what she told herself as she gave in and enjoyed the feel of his hand on hers as he maneuvered the gear stick on the cabinet, what she had to reason with when he stepped in closer to adjust her aim or show her how a dance move was pulled off.

But if, for a minute, she spoiled herself with make-believe that what she felt was real, then no one but her needed to know.

They've gone on for an hour before a friendly ring of Travis' phone summoned them to the lobby. If Travis was anything to go by, Hanna learned not to expect anyone formal waiting for them there. She was right to think of this when they saw, to her delight, a trio of eccentrically-dressed people who nearly ran to Travis upon stepping into the lobby.

#  19

The meeting with Travis's former associates from Bise à Fantôme seemed almost refreshing. While not exactly drinks and chit-chat poolside, compared to the tension and vitriol of the meetings she'd recently endured with V-Metals stakeholders, the atmosphere felt mellow, and the people laidback. Hanna didn't quite know how Travis had managed to get these people in V-Metals corner, but between them they seemed to know everything there was to know about the state of sustainable energy around the world, and they were willing to share.

Eng Choe, a small man who somehow made his tiny wire-rim eyeglasses look too large, spoke so quietly that the room hushed as if by agreement at his first word. "The challenges with large-scale renewable energy projects come in a complex package."

He stopped speaking, but when everyone else sat waiting for more, he smiled, an expression Hanna would have to call disarming, if not plain sweet.

"Let me explain.," he continued. "When hydro-electric power took the field as an alternative to coal, the industry and even environmentalists hailed it as renewable. And of course, it is, as long as rivers don't run dry." He chuckled. "But it turns out dams aren't so very good for a river's ecology. That has long term effects, but in the short term it puts people who depend on the fish either out of food or out of a livelihood. And the people mining coal and shuttling it around the world—also out of work."

Choe stopped speaking and rose from his seat, making it clear he'd said all he intended for the moment. Hanna watched as he refilled his water glass and—with almost childish delight—snag a chocolate-dipped cookie from the tray of refreshments she'd had room service bring up. Then it seemed like everybody spoke at once.

Hanna said, "I'm not okay with putting people out of a job unless we can find them another one."

Travis said the other half of what Hanna was thinking. "But V-Metals isn't even thinking about hydro-power."

Sheila, a woman with striking red hair, dark freckles, and not a shred of fashion sense tossed her tomboy bangs out of her eyes and said, "Are there good ideas out there? You betcha! You've got your solar and your wind." The woman, old enough to have been part of Bise à Fantôme at the same time as Travis, from Minnesota judging by her accent, exhibited all the enthusiasm of a college grad.

Hanna realized then that the trio hadn't come to help her rescue V-Metals. These were people who believed in renewable energy. They were backing the cause, not her or her business. Hanna cared enough about doing good in the world that she felt right at home with them, but she didn't lose sight of her immediate purpose. V-Metals needed to get out of the weapons business, where it never should have been in the first place. "I'm intrigued," she told the group. "But I—and my husband's company, V-Metals—face a specific challenge. What I need to know is how to turn facilities currently utilized for producing... let's say used in a non-sustainable way... into viable participants in the renewable energy field. As you know, the company's staple product is recycled metals—"

The third person Travis had called in, Abbot, hadn't even said hello when he'd shook her hand in greeting. Now he spoke for the first time, interrupting. "Wind turbines," he said, his voice booming and his Scandinavian accent barely detectable. "V-Metals could do that well."

Over the next hour, the trio helped her hash out how it could work, with Travis asking all the right questions, something for which he seemed to have a special knack—and Hanna felt grateful for it. The light of intelligent interest in his eyes was a little distracting, as to Hanna's eyes, it made him seem even more attractive. She pushed the thought aside, though, to focus on the better future she hoped to move her husband's company and those who depended on it tomorrow.

What V-Metals had in spades was steel, and wind turbines needed steel. Precision steel, electrical steel. And the same machinery that tooled weapons parts could, with some alteration, produce turbine blades. The people working on weapons wouldn't lose their jobs. They could keep doing what they were good at, but they'd be producing something beneficial for the world, not deadly. The plants already sported solar collecting panels, and they could be expanded to provide nearly all the energy for the plant. Scrap metal to steel, steel to turbine blades, and the last step, manufacturing, placing, and maintaining the towers. They'd be creating new jobs, not cutting them, and after the initial conversion, the enterprise would become completely self-sustaining and stay that way unless they outpaced the market.

The plan had a certain elegance, and Hanna liked feeling like she could be part of something meaningful. When she'd gleaned the information she needed as well as find facts and figures to back up ideas, she thanked Travis's friends profusely, offered them dinner and drinks at the hotel on her tab, and promised to let them know about opportunities as things moved forward.

"Your friends were fantastic," Hanna told Travis when they'd departed. It shouldn't have surprised her that less hostility meant more productivity. Genuinely pleased with the outcome of the meeting, her grin felt like it was stretching her face, and she had to stop herself from throwing her arms around Travis in a hug. She told herself the impulse didn't mean anything inappropriate. _I'm just happier than I'm used to being these days. I would have wanted to hug anyone._ Nevertheless, guilt formed a tiny cloud in her sunny-skies mood.

Travis looked up from texting Oskar and returned her smile, though he seemed oddly reserved. Hanna debated whether he'd just become completely disenchanted with her, or perhaps had some reservations about V-Metals making it in the renewable energy market. She tried to find out. "Is something bothering you?"

Travis hesitated before answering. "Not at all," he finally said. "Oskar and Thelma are waiting for us back in their suite. They've just come back from dinner, but I think they're sober enough. Let's get their help on getting this proposal in shape. You're going to need to be more than ready for the board."

The hour and a half they spent hammering out the proposal seemed grueling at times, partly because of Oskar's habit of trying to turn every word he shared into a scoop for the gossip rags. Thelma mostly kept him on task, though, and Hanna appreciated their long-honed wisdom when it came to dealing with some of the riskier elements of the proposal.

"Finnick and Desrosiers are right about one thing," Thelma supplied. "The board is as a whole a conservative body. If you're going to get your quorum, you'll need to convince them that V-Metals is less at risk by doing things your way than if they followed Finnick's lead—or even left things at status quo."

Once they had the proposal laid out, Hanna left Travis and Thelma to do some smoothing and refining, while she engaged Oskar to help her work through the list of people to contact, setting up a board meeting for the next day. She concentrated on the few board members she could call allies—or at least not enemies—first, doing what she could to convince them their presence and votes would be paramount to V-Metals health. Meanwhile, Oskar worked on those people he knew best, including a couple who owed him favors.

When they'd done with those calls, Hanna phoned Grace. "I'm sorry to bother you—I know you're off duty, but something's come up and I need to get a board meeting together tomorrow. I'll be back in town tomorrow morning and at the office in the afternoon. Let's schedule for two o'clock." She ran down the list of the people she'd already alerted, and asked Grace to make sure the rest got the word. She'd have a problem if too few showed up to approve her plan, but if a couple of her enemies failed to make it, that surely wouldn't cause her any sorrow.

She sat apart from the others for a moment, sending the encrypted document to Grace for her to do her secretarial wizardry and get everything ready for the next day's meeting. While her fingers did the work, her mind was busy evaluating what they'd come up with. The four of them hammered out a document that was as beautiful in its simplicity as it was perfect in detail. No loopholes, no targets for anyone to take aim at in an effort to shoot it down. The re-purposed plants would make money for V-Metals and remove a big threat to its long-term well-being. People would keep their jobs. The environment—something Ben had truly cared about when he created V-Metals—would reap benefits. That in turn gave the company a gold star in the public eye, translating to goodwill for future ventures. _It's win-win-win,_ Hanna thought. _Except Travis doesn't look enthused. Maybe I'm too optimistic._

"So then," Travis was saying to Thelma as Hanna rejoined the conversation. "We've got a proposal you and Oskar are ready to back Hanna on when she takes this to the board tomorrow?"

Thelma nodded and opened here mouth to reply, but Oskar spoke before she had a chance.

"I, for one, am ready to back Hanna on anything that's going to loosen Vincent's stranglehold on the company. Finnick doesn't realize what he's done, playing right into that man's hands."

"Vincent has covered his tracks well, though," Thelma said, "so it's really not so surprising the others don't see his works for what they are."

"That just makes him all the more of a viper," Oskar said, sounding a bit venomous himself.

Hanna wasn't ready for more sneering gossip, so she interjected. "I'm starving. Join me for a late dinner, anyone?"

As she expected, Thelma and Oskar begged off, but she was surprised by Travis's half-hearted nod. They took their leave, Travis still, noticeably, saying nothing about any doubts he might be harboring.

This time Hanna decided not to dig, but as they purportedly headed for dinner, she realized she didn't really care about food at the moment. Thinking she'd be more interested in a meal if she freshened up a bit first, she decided to head for her room before going down to the restaurant. She was struck with awareness of her desire to look her best tonight, though she didn't want to examine her reasons. _Nothing to do with Travis..._

_Now, what to wear?_ She mentally flipped through the clothes she'd brought with her, and pictured herself in the extravagantly printed silk midi slit up to the top of her thigh. It was fitted at the waist and fastened at the side with bindings and buttons of black silk, matching the black silk sheath which alone made the outfit decent for public places. The thought of wearing it for Travis made her feel _so_ sexy.

With a sigh, she mentally hung it back up in the hotel closet, opting for skinny leather slacks and a lightweight, fitted silk jacket that was as serviceable as it was classic. Then she wavered. _Well, we'll see._

#  20

Travis and Hanna left Oskar and Thelma's room in silence, walking down the softly lit halls of the hotel next to each other, each lost in their own thoughts.

By the time they boarded the spacious elevator, Travis was still in deep thought, staring at the floor. Hanna made a point of not looking at his reflection in the smooth gold door but reaching out to jab the button for her floor before Travis had time to object. She needn't have rushed. He didn't notice what she'd done until the bell chimed and the door slid open.

"This isn't the lobby."

Hanna strode from the elevator, confident that he would follow her.

The crushing of the plush carpet under his leather-soled shoes proved her right when she was only halfway to the door.

"I thought we could head back to my suite." She unlocked the door with her hotel card key and slipped inside without waiting for his reply. The first thing she did was kick off her heels. She considered removing her stockings as well, they looked fabulous but were terribly uncomfortable.

Based on Travis' behavior today, she knew such a display would only put him more on edge. Exactly what had changed since last night remained a mystery. One she would have to solve some other time.

She lowered herself onto the suite's luxurious sofa and crossed her legs to watch as Travis wore a groove in the floor, pacing back and forth. His strides were long, and he covered the space between the window and the door in less than half a dozen paces. Hanna found that she was watching him closely, admiring the tailored fit of his bespoke suit and the fine leather of his shoes. She'd always found men's clothing to be much more boring than what was available for women but Travis somehow made his plain black suit look unique. After two minutes of watching him, she shook the thoughts loose and began contemplating what she could do to force him to spit out whatever was on his mind.

Before she came up with anything, his incoherent mumblings solidified into three words: "Atlas Complex Enterprise."

Hanna uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them, folding the opposite leg on top this time.

"Where have I heard that name before?"

She raised an eyebrow. He wasn't looking at her, but there was no one else in the room for him to be addressing. "How should I know?"

Travis continued to pace and mutter, as if Hanna hadn't said anything at all.

Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he froze mid-step and locked eyes with her.

Staring into his light brown eyes that were an almost perfect match for his smooth, chocolate skin tone, she forgot what she was there to do. For a brief moment, she was on vacation with an attractive, ambitious, intelligent man, not wrestling with conniving old business people to save her aging husband's company. The sensation lasted only an instant, but it was so intense that Hanna would have been positive it went on for longer except that Travis was still looking at her as if no time had passed at all.

"South Africa," he blurted.

Hanna couldn't manage a reply before he continued.

"Atlas Complex Enterprise, or A.C.E., as they prefer. I ran into them, or heard about them, rather, in South Africa."

Composure restored, Hanna lifted a hand. "Woah, slow down. What are you talking about?"

"A.C.E., the weapons manufacturer Oskar mentioned, I knew I had heard of them before, I just couldn't remember where until just now."

"So?"

"So, when I was down in South Africa, I heard A.C.E. was building and selling A.I. spy drones on the black market. It was all rumors and hearsay, of course, and I dismissed it at the time, but now—"

"What were you doing in South Africa?"

"A Business acquisition. I was only there for a few days."

"And in those few days, you managed to overhear details about the black-market drone business?"

"No, not details. Whispers, rumors."

"Rumors?"

"That must be it," Travis muttered, half to himself. "The key to Vincent's plan. If he's got a fleet of A.I. drones, he can do anything, be anywhere. Truly limitless power."

"That's quite a leap, don't you think?"

"A leap? No, I don't think so, not at all."

"Well, I do. Unless, of course, you know something more you're not telling me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come off it, Travis. You overstepped when you just happened to have information about some obscure weapons manufacturer from Africa that just happens to be the key to what DiMaggio is trying to do. I'm not that gullible."

Travis blinked once, then a coy smile slid onto his face. His shoulders dropped an inch and his arms hung loose at his side. "Come on now, Mrs. Hascott, haven't I earned your trust yet?"

She leveled what she hoped was a skeptical, intimidating glare at him. If she was honest with herself, she did trust him. Part of her did, anyway. But there was a part of her that she didn't allow to the surface much these days. "No," was the answer she gave Travis, though she did soften it with the faintest hint of a smile.

Travis exhaled then pursed his lips. "Let me put it to you this way. You know that I'm a freelance financial consultant, right?"

"I know that's what you want me to believe."

That must have been good enough for Travis because he pressed on. "That, of course, means I work for the highest bidder. Some of my clients are willing to pay rather large sums to keep their projects off the books."

Hanna came to her feet. "Are you saying A.C.E. was a client of yours?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all."

The denial sounded like a backhanded admission, but Travis' face gave no clues and Hanna decided not to press that particular issue any further. She took a few slow steps closer. "But you are saying you'll work for whoever pays you the most money. And you expect me to trust you?"

"Of course," came the smooth reply. Her attempts to fluster him with her proximity weren't working.

She stopped six inches away, close enough that she knew he was getting a heady dose of her Moiré –Aplomb perfume.

Still, his face remained calm. He didn't betray so much as a sliver of discomfort by shifting his weight or batting an eye.

"Why on earth would that make me trust you?"

Travis's smile broadened. "Because who could possibly have more money than Mr. Hascott? I would think it's obvious that I'm on his side."

Hanna couldn't help but smile. "You have a point there."

Travis turned away, breaking off the sizzle of the moment and putting some distance between them.

"If you're trustworthy, why didn't I know about your real role in all this until yesterday?

Travis gave a casual shrug then turned back around to face her. "You'll have to ask your husband about that."

She almost frowned at the subtle reference to her marriage, but settled for taking a step closer to Travis instead. Best to keep him off balance even though she didn't even know exactly what kind of game she was playing with him.

"I leave it up to my clients to decide if and when to reveal the nature of our relationship." He paused for a beat. "Are we done with the interrogation?"

Hanna was enjoying the interrogation, as he called it, for its own sake but she had to admit it wasn't leading her to much new information. "It seems like I still don't know very much about you."

She eased closer to him as she shifted to a more personal level of conversation.

Travis stepped past her and grabbed a barstool within the kitchenette area, unbuttoning the top button of his suit jacket as he sat. "You could say I'm something of an arbitrator. When you've got two parties who don't quite trust each other, and billions of dollars are on the line, I can..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Smooth things out."

"That's what you're doing here?"

A curt nod. "In a manner of speaking, yes, you could say it is."

She realized he'd sidestepped her real question by keeping his answer professional, but she let it drop. For now. "So how do you think this mess can be smoothed out?"

"Not easily," he said after a moment's thought.

Hanna gave a dry laugh. "Thank you for that marvelous insight, my expert arbitrator."

He acknowledged her jest with a brief smile, then went on. "Honestly, Mr. Hascott, you might have to give a little ground if he wants his company to stay in one piece."

"I thought you wanted me to believe you were on our side?"

"I am, believe me," Travis insisted. "But DiMaggio has a lot of pull and, like Oskar and Thelma said, a lot of momentum. We're not going to shut him down without paying some kind of price."

"So you're saying we should let him build his drones?"

"Of course not," Travis said, almost before she'd even finished her sentence. "What I'm say is... this can't be a zero-sum, all-or-nothing game. It never is. Things are always more nuance when you're dealing with this much money. I mean, I don't have to tell you what kind of figures we're talking about here. You know what V-Metals is worth.

Hanna nodded, uncomfortable with the direction Travis seemed to be going but unable to deny that there was a certain logic to it.

"There's going to have to be some compromise, some give and take."

"We can't compromise with a man who wants to auction off parts of the company while secretly building his own personal drone army."

"We can't stop him unless we do compromise."

"That's not acceptable."

"There's a good chance it's already too late for that."

Hanna had nothing to say in response to his last statement, so she turned away to look out over the city. It wasn't much to look at during the day, before the glow of neon lights took over. Now, it was just a collection of tall buildings, many of them oddly shaped, all of them feverishly trying to draw people in.

Travis gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. "Sometimes I feel like the world's most sought-after referee for dysfunctional corporations and silver spoon CEOs."

"Excuse me?" Hanna exclaimed as she looked over her should at him. "Silver spoon?"

Travis came to his feet, extending his hands in apology. "Not you, of course, I know your history, you're not—" he stopped short, as if realizing a heartbeat too late he'd gone too far.

Hanna held his eyes for a long time, keeping her face even and free of emotion, the same expression she used in board meetings, while she decided how to react to the information he'd just revealed. She shouldn't have been surprised to know that he was familiar with her past, with where she'd come from. Even if Benjamin hadn't given him the information himself, she had no reason to doubt that he had the ability to access it on his own.

Still, the candid, if accidental, admission brought to the surface a truth she should have known all along. This man was not her friend, not even her casual acquaintance. He wasn't really even a business partner. He was just a freelance contractor brought in by her husband to do a specific job.

He was nothing more than outside hired help.

She didn't know what had gotten into her, thinking she could flirt with him. Even worse, she'd been disappointed when he stopped making casual advances of his own. Enough was enough. Her game, whatever it was, was over. Not that Travis was showing much interest in playing along anyway.

"I'm sorry, Hanna, I didn't—"

"It's not a problem," she said with a curt, professional smile. "I'm the one who should be apologizing for my terribly unprofessional behavior."

Travis's brow furrowed in confusion, but only for an instant. He'd gotten the message. "Not at all."

"If my husband trusts you, I trust you. It really should be just that simple."

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have quite a bit I need to work through."

Travis held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, just long enough to make her think he was picking up on the subtext of her words. If he was following, he gave no further indication of it. "Of course," he said, re-buttoning his top suit button. "Maybe once you're done, you'll join me for some less stressful activities? This is supposed to be your vacation, after all."

Hanna laughed dryly. "More like mock vacation."

Travis stopped in front of the door and flashed that disarming smile of his again. "All the more reason to join me."

He was out the door before Hanna could give an answer either way. She was left staring at the closed door, forcing herself to remember she had no romantic interest in Travis Burton whatsoever.

#  21

Hanna spent the next several hours going over notes from the meetings, trying to look for the flaw, the weak spot in Vincent's plan. She was sure there had to be one, something that would be the key to bringing him down, and she was determined to have it ready when she returned to Benjamin.

The only problem was, she wasn't finding it.

Vincent had every angle covered as far as she could see.

Exhausted, frustrated, and angry at herself, Hanna flopped back onto her bed. The moment her search for a solution was out of her mind, thoughts of Travis came rushing in to fill the empty space, despite her fervent efforts to keep him out.

He'd made it clear enough that he intended to keep things strictly professional between them. Which was fine with her. At least, it should have been fine with her.

With an exaggerated sigh of irritation, she picked herself up off the bed and made her way out of the room. Lying around trying not to think about a man she had no business being interested in was a waste of time. Which she'd reminded herself for the hundredth time.

The only other option readily available to her was to take him up on his offer. It was paradoxical, but maybe spending time with Travis would help take her mind off him. In hopes of finding some oddity about him that would cause her to cock an eyebrow, thus, turn off or at least calming her quelling professed fantasies, all together.

Hanna had her hand on the doorknob when she realized she was wearing the same attractive, but stuffy outfit she'd selected for the meeting.

She simply turned around and went to work putting together something better.

She decided to go business casual today. Although, on a semi-vacation, she didn't want to bump into a business constituent who recognize her and look like she's out on a date with Travis. She slipped into a knee-length pencil skirt following a black blouse (purposely leaving two buttons unfasten) and then squeezing into a fitted blazer. She promised herself she would shed from it when the weather got warmer. Lastly, she pulled her hair back into a single ponytail and slide her feet into comfortable pumps.

She looked herself over in the mirror, decided she'd chosen well, and then left her room. When she arrived downstairs, she was somewhat surprised to find Travis sitting at the bar alone. She'd expected him to have given up waiting on her to join him by now and gone to his own room or found someone else to spend the evening with.

Hanna approached the bar from behind Travis, with the intent of sneaking up on him. She was reaching out a hand to grab his shoulder when he spun around on his barstool.

"I didn't think you were coming."

Hanna pulled her hand back to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I decided I could use some downtime."

Travis drained his drink then dropped the empty cup on the bar. "I'm glad you did. Shall we begin at the craps tables?"

Hanna nodded and followed Travis as he made his way to one of the tables. She'd never been much for gambling but she was in one of the best casinos in Vegas. It would be a shame to not give it a shot.

"How do you play?" She asked Travis as they approached one of the craps tables.

"It's simple. Just watch, you'll pick it up in no time."

The game was simple enough, but Hanna was more focused on learning about the man with her than the game they were playing.

"Are you married, Travis?" She asked after he'd just lost his small bet on a bad roll.

"That's rather forward of you, Mrs. Hascott," he said, putting extra weight on her matrimonial title. "We've only just met."

"I'm not making a proposition, I'm only asking a question."

Travis gave her a look of mock suspicion. "Sure, you are. But if you must know, no I'm not married." He turned back to the table. "Not anymore."

Hanna's eyes widened. "So then you were married once?" She asked while Travis was rolling.

He lost again and looked back at her with a grimace look on his face. "Yeah, it uh, it didn't end well."

When he didn't elaborate, Hanna prodded further. "How so?"

Travis shot her a look that might have a plea to drop the subject but then sighed and turned away from the tables. "If we're going to talk about this, I need another drink."

Hanna followed him to the bar, catching up as he was accepting another amaretto sour from the bartender. He took a long sip then looked at her over the rim of his glass. "You sure you want to hear this story?"

"Let's just say I need something to take my mind off other things. This sounds like it has a good shot of doing just that."

After another sip of his drink, Travis nodded. "Fine. But remember, I warned you."

The chronicle that unfolded after that was more than enough to get Hanna's mind off the events of the day. To hear him tell it, Travis' ex-wife, Melinda, had given him nothing but misery and heartache from the moment she said, "I do." With the sole exception of their 7 year-old daughter, Adéla. The woman had lied to him, spent his money, cheated on him with his own friends, and then blamed him for the failure of their marriage.

Hanna couldn't help but wonder how different Melinda's version of the story might be. Not that she was doubting the truth of the horrid events Travis was telling her, but she'd learned that every story had two sides and Melinda probably saw Travis in as poor a light as he saw her. Or maybe she only wanted to believe that so she could shake off the mysterious attraction she felt for Travis.

Either way, his story was a heartbreaking one, made worse by the fact that it ended with a bitter, drawn out custody battle that Melinda won.

"The courts always side with the woman," Travis said, shaking his head and polishing off the third amaretto sour Hanna had seen him drink. "Always. Doesn't matter how much of a slut she is, or how irresponsible she is, or if she's certifiably insane. They always side with the woman."

Hanna only nodded, not sure what an appropriate response would be. Her own perspective on the matter of divorce and child custody was quite different from Travis'. Instead of being tangled in the midst of the struggle, she'd watched from a role that was a strange mix of outsider and insider as her husband negotiated his relations with ex-wives and her step-children juggled their lives between two parents.

"So now, I only get Adéla once a week, sometimes not even that."

"Why would you not get to see her?"

"Work. Take this week for example. I get Adéla on the weekends, usually Sundays. This week, I'm in Vegas all weekend, so do you think Melinda was understanding, considerate, and willing to work with me?"

Hanna recognized the rhetorical question and waited patiently for a response.

It came a second later. "No, she wasn't. She just said that was too bad and hoped I'd actually be home next weekend so Adéla wouldn't have to miss seeing her _estranged_ daddy two weeks in a row. Can you believe that? Trying to make me feel like I'm a bad dad because of the demands my job requires."

"I'm sure you're not a bad dad," Hanna offered, only because she felt like she should be saying something.

Travis exhaled then ran a hand over his smooth head. "Thanks. Thanks for that. Sorry to unload all that on you, but—"

"I asked for it," Hanna said with a smile.

Travis returned the smile with a weak one of his own and they lapsed into an awkward silence.

Hanna found herself wanting to comfort Travis, to lay her hand on his, rub his shoulders, or... Or what?

"Hey, you want to go outside, get some air?"

"Some air?" Hanna asked.

"Yeah, you know, just walk the strip, see what we can see."

Hanna looked around the bar then shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

She followed him outside, into the glaring neon glow of the strip. She paused to take it all in for a moment, then hurried to catch up with Travis.

"So where are we going?"

"Don't know," Travis answered. "Just walking."

"Come on," she pressed. "I know you've got some kind of plan."

"Maybe," he conceded.

"Well?"

"Just come on." He reached back and took her hand, dragging her at a faster pace.

Hanna was so surprised by the move that she didn't object or pull her hand free. She just let him pull her along. They wove through the thick press of tourists, stopping every now and then to look at the tourist traps. Overpriced coffee, temporary tattoos, gaudy Vegas t-shirts. But they didn't buy anything, Travis never let them stop long enough. If Hanna ever was tempted to buy something, Travis snatched her hand and led her away before she could reach for her credit card. Which, she had to admit, was probably for the best.

When he finally let them stop, they were standing in front of the Bellagio Hotel, looking at water shooting up into the air from the pool in front of the elegant structure.

"This is where you wanted to bring me?"

"Yeah, it's beautiful, right?"

Hanna shuddered at the sight of the turbulent water, unable to find the beauty Travis referred to while memories of Japan flooded her mind. Maybe Travis didn't know as much about her history as he thought he did.

If Travis was aware of her discomfort, he didn't show it. He just stood there next to her, watching as the water danced in arcs and streams above the pool, catching and reflecting the lights into a shower of crystal diamonds.

Hanna shut her eyes but that only seemed to magnify the sound of the water crashing back into the pool. A moment later, she turned and fled the fountain as fast as she could without creating a scene.

"Hanna? Hanna!"

She heard Travis calling her name, but kept moving. The water was still crashing in her ears, rushing around her in her mind. She knew she was on the brink of having her first waking episode in months, but she was powerless to stop it.

Until two strong arms wrapped around her from behind and held her in place.

She struggled for a moment, then a soft deep voice whispered into her ear, "It's okay, Hanna, you're safe," and she melted back into the embrace. Her shoulders were shaking with sobs, but they subsided quickly, more quickly than they ever had before, and within a handful of rapid heartbeats, the terror faded from her mind.

When she turned around, Travis was still standing there with his arms around her, looking down into her face with eyes overflowing with compassion. Her rescuer.

He hadn't saved her from any real danger, of course, only the danger conjured up by her own damaged mind and fraying emotions. But he'd still saved her.

On an impulse she would never be able to explain, she reached up and kissed him on the lips. Softly, tentatively at first, then with more passion when his surprise faded and he returned the kiss.

His arms tightened around her waist and she encircled her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and losing herself in the rush of the kiss. His hands began to glide over her back and hips and he pulled her even closer to him, until she felt there was no space between their bodies.

Hanna broke it off abruptly, pulling away with a gasp and raising a hand to her lips. "I, I—"

Travis was staring back at her, his expression unreadable, but his lips parted and quivering almost imperceptibly.

She took another step back, desperate to put some space between them, fearing what she might do if he remained within reach. "I shouldn't have done that."

Travis blinked and shook his head as though coming back to reality. "I'll, uh, I'll walk you back to the hotel."

They made the walk back in total silence, while Hanna's mind whirled through what she was going to say to Travis, how she was going to explain what had happened. It was obvious they couldn't be together. She was married. And she loved Ben, prickly as he could be at times. Once they were in the lobby, she opens her mouth to begin her explanation but Travis spoke first.

"No need to say anything. It was a mistake, I get it."

"No, Travis, it's just—"

He raised a hand, cutting her off. "Let's not make this more complicated than it has to be." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I'll keep my mouth shut and if you still need my help with..." he raised his thumb and index finger to his right ear; resemble a phone, "Call or text me. Whichever is best for you?"

Hanna wanted to say more, though she was no longer sure what it was she wanted to say. But Travis was already gone, hoping into an open elevator and vanishing.

The next morning, they flew out of Vegas on separate planes.

#  22

Hanna let out a sigh as the acceleration of the Gulfstream G650ER's powerful jet engines propelled it down the runway and pressed her back into the luxurious leather seat. She closed her eyes, not out of fear, but in an effort to find some relaxation and maybe get some real sleep.

After the episode with Travis last night, she hadn't been able to sleep more than a few hours at a time. And that was without even thinking about the rest of her day. As if dealing with the temptation of having a relationship with a man her own age wasn't enough, she also had to contend with the knowledge that her husband's old business partner was secretly funding a weapons manufacturer. She rubbed her temples as the jet climbed higher, but the thoughts still swirled around in her mind.

Ben's private jet was outfitted with as many luxurious upgrades as Air Force One itself and it was normally a place of refuge for her. She was seated in an isolated room she referred to as her sky office. It was complete with a small desk, bolted to the floor, high backed leather chairs, and a mini-bar. Of course, there was a more fully stocked bar in the main cabin if she needed anything else. That main cabin was every bit as lavish as the office, complete with chairs that sat on swiveling bases and could recline almost flat, ample foot room, and the constant service of two flight attendants. Hanna hadn't flown commercial in years and she honestly didn't know if she could manage the ordeal anymore. Fortunately, she didn't have to. At least, not today.

The comfort and convenience of the G6 were what attracted her, but she knew Benjamin had packed it full of an assortment of other upgrades that he considered far more important. Hanna had always thought them to be a bit silly but, knowing what Vincent was planning, she took more comfort from the aircraft's bombproof frame and other security measures than ever before.

The one thing she'd always found the most unnecessary was the Syzygy 808 supercomputer that ran the plane's systems. She'd often asked him why such an elaborate and expensive computer was required, and his vague answers had never satisfied her. But now, the supercomputer's ability to mask the G6 from even the most advanced radar made her feel very safe. After all, she'd just made an enemy of a man who wanted an army of drones at his disposal. A virtually invisible jet might be the only place in the world he couldn't get to her.

She opened her eyes to look out at the clouds streaming past and understood Benjamin's obsession with security for the first time. He'd told her countless stories of failed assassination attempts and threats on his life during the days when he was building his empire, but they had always been just that. Stories.

Now, after finding herself in a harrowing car chase one day and learning of an unthinkable plot the next, they felt painfully, frighteningly real.

"I need a drink," she muttered to herself, rising from her chair and crossing the few steps to the office's mini-bar. Not wanting to take the time or effort necessary to mix a proper drink, she poured a small glass of Ben's favorite scotch and returned to her seat.

A few sips later, she kicked off her Christian Loudoutin heels, unbuttoned the close-fitting Valentino blazer she'd put on that morning, and resumed massaging her temples. Maybe she should consider asking Ben about hiring a masseuse to travel with her.

Outside the window, the clouds were a sea of roiling white clouds far below. From the jet's cruising altitude of 40,000 feet, they looked like a bleak but beautiful arctic landscape, complete with jagged mountains and rolling, icy plains. She stared out at the simulated terrain, feeling like an explorer lost in that endless wilderness, facing impossible odds.

She was about to close her eyes again to block out the grim reflections when she caught a glimpse of something that didn't belong. The sky above the pseudo-arctic vista below her had been a perfectly clear, bright blue unblemished by even a trace of cloud. But now there was something else. A thin line of wispy vapor tracing a crisscross pattern through the empty air to the left of, and slightly behind, her jet.

Her first thought was that it was just another plane, but it seemed too close. The Syzygy computer usually kept them well aware and away from any other aircraft, as Ben had programmed it to do so. In fact, she couldn't recall ever seeing another plane this close in all of her flights on the G6.

That led her to believe it was just a stray cirrocumulus cloud, drifting high above its larger cumulous cousins. Just to be sure, she flipped open her laptop and connected to the Syzygy system. As she thought, the computer hadn't picked up on any other aircraft in the vicinity. And if the Syzygy hadn't detected it, it wasn't there. The sensor array attached to the supercomputer was sensitive enough to pick up anything airborne within thousands of miles, long before it got close enough for her to see.

Its radar display was lit up with aircraft in the wider area, but nothing as close as those clouds she was seeing. It was conclusive, they were not jet contrails, just wispy clouds.

Hanna sat back in her seat and returned her attention to the scotch, determined to enjoy the flight and return to Trophy Club relatively refreshed. But she found she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

After a few more minutes of trying and failing to ignore it, she peered out the window again, just to assure herself that the thin clouds had vanished into the sky behind her.

They hadn't.

In fact, they hardly seemed to gotten any farther behind at all.

"You're imaging things now," she muttered under her breath.

She looked again and tried to convince herself that the clouds had faded from sight, just a little. She found the task difficult. She knew objects could stay in sight for some time when looking at the world from the vantage point of a jet plane, but those clouds were definitely following her.

"Stop it," she ordered herself, reaching forward to pull the window shade sharply down. It was too late, though. The seed of an idea had already been planted and begun taking root in her mind.

It must be one of Vincent's drones, she thought.

What else could elude detection by the advanced sensors sweeping the skies all around Ben's G6? And who else would go to so much trouble to keep an eye on her?

It was the only explanation. The only one that made any sense.

Hanna finished off her drink but didn't get another. It wasn't helping her relax, anyway. Nothing could help her relax when she knew she was being watched by a potentially weaponized drone. Unable to resist, she raised the window shade just enough to allow herself to look back to where the drone contrails — they were no longer clouds in her mind — had been.

There was nothing there.

She jerked the shade all the way up and leaned forward, making sure she got a full few of the sky she'd been looking at earlier.

It was clear, pure blue. Not a cloud in sight except for the thick layer of rolling fluff below the plane. Hanna frowned, no longer certain what she should think. First, she was convinced she'd only been looking at clouds. Then, she'd been sure it was a drone. Now whatever it was, it was gone.

Clouds could vanish like that, right?

Could a drone?

She would spend the rest of the flight trying in vain to answer those questions.

#  23

"We'll get it done by tomorrow."

"For Feb- where's the briefing from the February meeting?!"

"Which one? There's one on the fifth, then the 23rd-"

"Mrs. Hascott, Amy Assayas will stay with you to make sure you get home safely-"

"Have the office draw up the-"

Multiple voices coalesced in Hanna's ears, forming a single ringing tone that seemed to block her thoughts as they went on.

"Will you be alright, Hanna?"

Hanna nodded quietly to the worried face of Isley, who looked uncomfortable in wearing her concern for her stepmother so openly.

"Do what needs to be done, Isley," Hanna said as firmly as she could.

Isley pursed her lips and nodded before nodding tersely, shaking her loose, brown curls around her plain face. Hours ago, her hair had been in a firm bun and her eyes were lined with kohl. At the moment, the black was still neatly in place, but her hair resembled an elegantly-styled bird's nest.

Hanna herself still had her make-up set and ready, even though she would rather wash it all off and...

What would she like to do? She didn't know. Her thoughts were still scattered.

She didn't think this would happen at all. When she walked into V-Metals this morning, she walked in feeling in her very bones that her presentation would go well.

And truthfully it did. She was able to articulate every point of the overhauled Clean Millennium Project with minimal interruptions, most of which came from Isley and were clarifications on the legal underpinnings of the proposal.

"Beckett-Sanders and Farouche are on track to closing down. We're currently negotiating with establishments reliant on these plants to shift to the new solar- and remodeled, eco-friendly plants. We're also looking to modernize these power grids, but we've agreed to put off all negotiations after phase one is complete. The latest approval date for the proposals is on the 4th of August. Legalese will be in order a month henceforth," Isley said, summarizing her points with a supercilious eyebrow that reminded Hanna of Ben.

The revamped Clean Millennium Project was simple: Phase 1 involved shutting down Beckett-Sanders and Farouche while re-distributing resources to plants it previously took its budgets from. While the plants were shutting down, all business reliant on both mega plants would be systematically handed off to smaller plants, which would receive upgrades to their power system.

Phase 2 would see select power grids re-hauled through a private-public partnership with several world governments in third-world countries on a local level. Brunei and the Philippines agreed to test V-Metals' newest plans for a greener power source, to be first tested in California and Philadelphia for its efficiency and cost-cutting measures.

If Phase 1's venture into biodegradable power sources proved successful, Phase 2 would be implemented in six years' time instead of a decade.

Hanna shifted in her seat instead of giving in to the urge to puff her chest out.

"Thank you for the enlightening presentation," Wesley said as pleasantly as his monotone voice allowed.

He gave a careful smile to Hanna and continued, "Mr. Oppenheimer will begin his shortly."

Finnick, who looked unfazed and boisterous, bounced up from his seat and took Wesley's place in front of the table. He cleared his throat with an unnecessarily loud _hem hem_ and said, "V-Metals is falling."

Hanna frowned. Beside her, Isley and her legal team muttered. The intern, a paralegal named Amy, paused in her note-taking to tilt her head at Finnick's direction.

"As of 10:14 this morning, the value of V-Metals shares on the New York Stock Exchange registered a change of +$11.11 to -$0.05," Finnick began, though the wave of outrage it caused forced him to pause.

"Up to the second decimal place?? That's rarer than the drop on the Caustic Cannon in Starfly Junction," muttered Amy.

The choice of metaphor eluded her, but Hanna knew very well what Amy meant. V-Metals shares had a monthly volume of 40,930,461 and a daily volume of 40,584,150. The average price ranged from $24.78 to $23.05. It hadn't dipped to $13 in seven years, and it certainly never happened two hours after the stock exchanged opened.

"How could this happen?" Hanna asked cautiously.

Finnick looked at her and answered gravely, "I'm afraid it has to do with your brilliant presentation, ma'am."

The man only ever called her madam when he was feeling particularly boisterous. Hanna gritted her teeth and said, "Would you like to elaborate, Mr. Oppenheimer?"

Finnick waved a hand at one of his staffers. Behind him, a video clip of a local station's news report popped open and began to play.

Hanna recognized her face on the inset to the anchor's left but was too shocked by what the anchor was saying to pay much notice.

"Junk megacorporate V-Metals shares hit record lows this morning on the New York Stock Exchange, taking analysts and investors by storm as local and international leaders fly in complaints about the anomalous Clean Millennium Project. More on this in this report."

The anchor's face disappeared as a shot of Beckett-Sanders and Farouche exterior appeared. A V.O. began: "Beckett-Sanders in California; Farouche in Mexico. Two plantations established seven years ago to accommodate more than 10 tons of junk per year at half the CO2 emissions, it now faces closure from V-Metals co-acting CEO and Hascott fortune executor Hanna Hascott." He paused for a moment to let his last statement sink in and then continued.

"The sudden announcement, reportedly based on unverified reports regarding its power consumption, days ago shook the multi-billion company's in-country operations to the core and began a series of market fluctuations that lead to a whopping 22220 percent drop in shares figures in a two-day period."

Hanna jolted in her seat as the screen shifted to prototypes of the biodegradable-powered generators they were to install at Beckett-Sanders and Farouche once they were renovated.

"The main instigator of the sudden crash? The Clean Millennium Project, a new scheme by the Hascott executor conceived and revealed during a conference between V-Metals executives and corporate partners last week. Phase 1 of the ambitious, multi-billion-dollar project involves the complete shutdown of the Beckett-Sanders and Farouche plans in a year, which led many to fear a massive loss of jobs and profit, causing some stockholders to jump ship ahead of the curve."

The camera smash-cut into crowds of students and citizens rallying outside the V-Metals corporate headquarters in Brunei and Philippines pushed back by police in riot gear and firetrucks.

#  24

Phase 2 of The Clean Millennium Project caused alarm on a more political scale. Though initially seen as positive, politicians, businessmen, and common men in Brunei, the Philippines, California, and Philadelphia were alarmed that the innovative power producers V-Metals meant to pilot integrate into major power grids were untested. The generator models promise to rely solely on biodegradable waste and photovoltaic cells but have yet to receive approval for widespread use."

Elena had the video paused at this point and had an assistant distribute envelopes around the table as she spoke, "These are copies of letters and threats of sanctions from various officials, senators, and NGOs in the aforementioned states and countries condemning the untested propagation of these generators."

"The generators were tested safe and operable in a myriad of tests, including voltage surges and accelerated life testing of insulation systems," Isley said sharply, "These tests were conducted by in-house engineers, government agencies, and private companies. It's absolutely irresponsible to say that these are unsafe to the public."

"It's not us who sent the complaints," Elena pointed out, "and in most cases, the complaints are centered on the high cost of entries for countries and territories with comparatively low GDPs and high debt."

"Moreover," she continued, staring straight at Hanna as she did, "areas affected by natural disasters cannot risk supporting these systems as they already have unreliable power and supply lines in need of repair and re-establishment. They can't afford to test out these systems, much less sustain them in the event they turn out well without kinks."

Hanna's chest constricted painfully. Unbeknownst to everyone, all the arguments she formed in her mind rebutting claims made by Elena and Finnick dried up the moment the former mentioned natural disasters and high costs.

It wasn't as if the team considered these factors while drafting their plans and fabricating mock-ups of the generators. They've even presented these scenarios and had walked various bureaucrats and even common folk through demonstrations of the generators in closed conditions.

And yet they chose to believe the opposite of the evidence they presented. They hadn't even warned them that they would renege on their earlier deals. Up until yesterday, her legal team assured her that deals were still intact, and that production and installation were still ongoing.

Beside Hanna, Isley and the rest of the team were arguing with Elena and Finnick's team. Only Amy ever noticed her complete silence.

An awful hour passed. Whatever she truly felt, Hanna managed to answer when needed, rebut arguments that needed rebuttal, and make the appropriate gestures, though she couldn't remember doing any of it later.

The meeting finally adjourned with Finnick and Elena gone fifteen minutes beforehand. Apparently, they had left early to conduct a meeting with investors and competitors who had taken an interest in aiding V-Metals in its time of need. Judging by their choice of words, they were going to meet with the very same companies Hanna saw around the table at Las Vegas.

She felt her stomach curl at the thought of V-Metals shattering into countless mergers and takeovers.

An empire left to tatters because of her whims.

"Mrs. Hascott? Mrs. Hascott, we need you to-"

Hanna nodded at her legal team and led them to her office. Behind her, Isley was already shooting off instructions to her senior and junior staff members. Even Amy, inappropriately-dressed and gangly as she was, looked like the paralegal and law student that she was as she strode off to the elevators to get them coffee.

Hanna's mind became clouded as her lawyers and advisors danced through legalese, months-old plans, reports, and new updates from their brokers and government officials that could be called on despite the time differences. They had copies of the work presented at the meeting, but they were not making any headway into it.

An hour passed, then two more, and by the time Isley asked her question it was nine in the evening and well past the time the legal team had to be there.

"We've made some leeway. It's not much, but it will do until we regroup later tonight," Isley said and, before Hanna could interrupt, added, "No Auntie, you have to get home."

"But-" Hanna began to protest before she was cut off.

"Nothing happens this fast in this industry or any other industry," Isley said sharply, her face a mask of grim determination, "We can't prove anything concretely yet, but this level of degradation indicates collusion of some sort. Briberies, months-long conspiracies, whatever ill-advised schemes they can come up with to instigate something as heinous as this."

"All the more reason I should come," Hanna said.

Isley shook her head. She beckoned Amy to her and said, "No. I mean no offense auntie, but we need to do this by ourselves. We WILL contact you for updates, but for now, we'll need time to go through all of this again."

Hanna opened her mouth to protest but was cut off again. "Papa needs you to tell him what's going on right now. And you look harassed, Auntie. Please go home and rest."

#  25

She let herself be helplessly walked to the elevator by Isely, who instructed Amy to have her safely returned to the estate. It was as if she was in a dream in the minutes between the elevator and the parking lot. Even when they reached the lounge of the parking lot, Hanna had not woken up and saw everything through a thin film of haze.

Nothing but the sound of roiling water, smashing concrete and vehicles alike, penetrated her consciousness until-

"Hanna."

Hanna blinked. In front of her was Amy, holding up her phone to her ear. The paralegal looked apologetic but determined.

"Travis?" Hanna whispered.

Travis sighed on the other line. "Amy is resistant to my infallible charms. I'd rather you pick up your phone next time."

"I lost ev-," Hanna choked out before she covered her mouth. Her eyes misted, but she refused to shed a tear, even in the thick of her frustrations.

Amy looked at her, face twitching from the effort to refrain from showing emotions.

"Shh. Amy told me everything. Let's get you home. I'll talk while she drives you back to the estate."

Hanna tried to protest at Travis' suggestion. Now was not the time to go home and lick her wounds; now was the time to poison the snakes with their own venom.

"Mrs. Hascott, the legal team has sequestered themselves in your office with strict instructions not to let you in until you've had proper rest," Amy said, cutting through her thoughts.

"You couldn't do that!" Hanna exclaimed and stood up on wobbly legs to begin her march back to her office, though she knew Isley had already led the legal team off somewhere else.

Amy blocked her way physically while Travis said, "Hanna, these are not the emotions you need to fight with. This is rage, unmitigated fire. You need to get your flames under control or they'll smother you with your own smoke."

"The company," Hanna protested weakly. She hated the way her mind was picking up the logic in Travis and Amy's advice. She wanted to wallow in her anger, gorge herself in the emotions she had denied herself for months, _years_ , and yet...

Hanna found herself allowing Amy to put a Bluetooth headset over her ear as she gave Amy her keys. Travis babbled on her ear serenely, centering her, reacquainting her with her hands as she used them to open doors to the parking lot; her legs as she guided Amy to her car; and her lips as she rattled off the address to the estate.

If she were being honest to herself- and truly, what did she have to lose now?- Travis made her aware of her body as an extension of herself. Hanna used her body as a tool; she honed it in the gym to keep an imposing figure and used it to transfer her thoughts, her ideas, who she really was.

With Travis, however, her body was enflamed, aware, thriving. It was hers, not only her tool. Before the wall between her and Ben was erected, her husband made her feel the same way but now-

They would never have what the young man wanted- a pair of young birds in love-, but Hanna would always thank him for making her feel alive.

She told him as much in Las Vegas. She couldn't take back those words now.

Hanna considered this as Amy drove out of V-Metals. Although she didn't know much about her on a personal level, Hanna knew she could count on Amy to a certain degree to keep the conversation between the two. If I it hadn't been for the fact that Hanna was close with her family and attended the young girl's graduation ceremony, hence, which landed her this job, she probably would've been even more reluctant to trust her.

Travis kept silent as Amy pulled out of the compound and into the city. Hanna knew he was still on the line as she heard muffled noises of a crowd on his end. Was he in a bar, drinking quirky cocktails and thinking about his little girl? Was he working with his associates, using his unique circle of friends to suss out the incident on the jet?

"Should I wait for you and your friends to finish whatever it is you're doing or are you planning to comfort me with background noise?" Hanna teased as she managed a small smile.

Amy managed to exit the city proper and enter the road to the expressway when Travis finally replied, "Got a little carried away. I am, most unfortunately, by my lonesome."

"Then who's that woman in the background?" Hanna egged, hearing the tinny tones of a twenty-something as Travis spoke.

She should've known something was wrong the moment Travis hesitated with his reply.

"I don't know her," Travis said carefully, "In fact, apart from the flight attendant with the name badge that says Tiffany, I don't know anyone in this airport.

"Airport?" Hanna repeated, confused.

"Yes, the airport. I'm on my way out of the country."

"To where?"

Travis paused. "Outside the United States."

Hanna huffed and gripped the car door's handrest. "Travis Lamar Burton, I swear to the heavens, if you don't tell me where you're going and why you're abandoning me at my time of need..."

She heard Travis swear.

It took minutes and a few stretches of epoxy terrazzo flooring before Travis spoke again, "I have... a long assignment in Southeast Asia."

She knew he couldn't see her, but Hanna hoped he could imagine her judging stare all the same. "And this was a last-minute deal that couldn't wait until you told me about it?"

"Hanna," Travis said, slow and hesitant, "Isn't this what you wanted when we left Vegas?"

Hanna blinked. She and Travis left Las Vegas separately after they tacitly agreed to remain allies- friends, even. She initiated and stopped whatever it was that almost formed before they separated. And didn't she just tell herself that having him make her feel alive was enough?

"You told me you'll always be there if I need your help," she replied, voice cracking despite herself.

A long sigh hissed through the headset. "I did. And I'm sorry for breaking that promise."

Hanna lifted a hand to her mouth and pressed her lips against her fingers, unknowingly smudging her lipstick. What surprised her the most out of her entire reaction to Travis' revelation was her lack of tears. The rim of her eyes itched, but the tears that pooled at the corners were gone.

The effect was more frightening than her burbling into a pool of useless tears could ever have been.

"I want to see you one last time," Hanna said in equal, measured tones.

She heard the announcement of a plane's arrival and the shuffling of feet. For minutes, she listened to Travis- her equal, her friend, her- walk through noise-filled concourse, footsteps inaudible in the din of people, porcelain, and plaster.

It was only when a woman told Travis that he should dismiss his call that the man spoke again.

"I have to put down my phone, Hanna," Travis said. Hanna never heard his voice ring out this hollow before. "This is where we part ways."

"They have cell towers in Southeast Asia, don't be daft. We'll still Skype," Hanna said indignantly.

Travis chuckled mirthlessly. "Where I'm going, you can't get a cell signal unless you drive to the next town an hour over any direction."

"V-Comms probably has coverage over that country," Hanna said, already reaching for her bag, "Give me the name of the town and country and I'll see-"

"Hanna, you don't need to-" Travis tried to protest.

"-And if it doesn't exist in our database, I can ask the SEA regional manager to prioritize the town in their rural outreach program-"

"-There's no need to-"

"-If all goes well, I can probably visit-"

"Hanna!" Travis almost shouted, stopping Hanna mid-sentence. "Calm down."

"No, we need to plan this now," Hanna said firmly, already opening the lid of her laptop as she dropped her bag back to the car floor.

"You need to focus on what you have on your plate," Travis said. His voice was sullen, as if he were being forced to say what he was saying.

Hanna breathed deeply and pushed the lid of her laptop down. Trust Travis to think practically at inopportune moments.

"I want to thank you in person," she said quietly. "I need... I need to see you."

She heard Travis let out a long breath, followed by reassurances to someone else that he was fine, that he just needed to breath.

"I'm not fond of sappy goodbyes, Mrs. Hascott," Travis said, attempting to sound playful but failing as his breath hitched on her name.

"And I'm not fond of corny men, but here we are," Hanna half-whispered.

For a moment, she was sure Amy could hear her heartbeat grow stronger. Hanna herself couldn't bear to hear her own chest pound the way it is pounding. It was uncouth, it was unreasonable, it was being difficult.

It was the way Travis made her feel without feeling any remorse at all.

"Hanna," Travis whispered. "Thank you," and ended the call.

#  26

The rest of the trip was silent. When they reached the estate's gates, Hanna waved at the CCTV to let them in. Beside her, Amy made no attempts to talk. Apart from the occasional sniffle, the paralegal let her process whatever happened silently.

Erica was playing with her phone on the curve outside the front doors with an agitated Aldo when Amy pulled up in a white Maybach. Aldo immediately opened the door for Hanna and escorted her out.

"Amy will take my car back to her apartment," Hanna said quietly.

"What- no! It-it's too much! It's too posh. I don't want to be responsible for it if anything should happen to it!" Amy protested, red-faced and embarrassed.

Hanna waved her protest off. "Go on. I'll see you in the morning."

Amy hesitated, fingers drumming the steering wheel nervously, before saying, "You're not gonna lose this, Mrs. Hascott. You're really not. I'm willing to bid my career on it, and I think it's worth more than my matchbox apartment."

Hanna smiled at her wanly and waved her off. She spun around and strode back to the mansion as Amy drove away, with Aldo and Erica trailing behind her quietly.

They made it to the foyer before Aldo spoke. "Mr. DiMaggio drove by earlier, Mrs. Hascott."

Hanna avoided tripping on her own heels by falling back into Erica, who readily caught her as she continued to text on her phone.

"Ben?" Hanna asked.

"In the conference room beside the Victorian gardens."

Hanna thanked Erica, took her heels off, and strode quickly to the conference room with Aldo in tow. When they reached the hallway splitting off to the room and the stairwell, Hanna paused and put her hand on Aldo's shoulder.

"There's a box on top of my study table. Please run and get it for me, will you please?," Hanna said, knowing fully that Aldo would only run inside the estate if it was an emergency.

"As you wish," Aldo said before taking off on a hesitant pace up the staircase.

Hanna continued her way to the conference room, mind temporarily draining of useless thoughts and recollections of caramel eyes and brown skin with every step.

When she opened the door, she saw Ben driving his wheelchair back and forth in front of the windows facing the Victorian gardens.

"Vincent came here?" Hanna asked, dropping her heels and bag on a nearby table to walk to Ben's side.

Ben didn't stop moving his wheelchair as he answered, "He looks very well for a man who refuses to eat three solid meals a day, you know. When we were younger, he would eat five. Used to frustrate the hell out of me when he wouldn't gain a pound even after eating a whole suckling piglet."

"I don't know how he did it, but he had a hand in what happened today," Hanna accused, cutting through the pleasantries.

Instead of fighting her point, Ben sighed heavily and stopped fiddling with his wheelchair. "Between the two of us, he was always the mean-spirited one. I threw chairs, sure, but he threw chairmen in jail for debts they didn't even know they had accumulated."

"Aldo's getting the paperwork right now. Oskar and Thelma gave me your journals-" Ben rolled his eyes and mumbled incoherently "-and I took it upon myself to add a few more documents to the ones I've asked off Isley."

"And what did this snooping produce?"

"My investigation turned out evidence."

"Vincent and Wesley are too fastidious to leave out mistakes."

"But the people under them aren't as meticulous as they are," Hanna said firmly as someone began knocking on the door.

She walked across the room and opened the door, revealing a disheveled Aldo holding a large file box close to his chest.

"Paperwork. Vincent uses aliases, nothing that can be traced back to him," Hanna began as Aldo strode to Ben to settle the box beside him, "But it can be traced back to firms that had legal dealings with firms and individuals he was in contact with using his legal name."

"This proves nothing," Ben stated simply.

"The secondary companies are too detached from the recycling and manufacturing aims of the primary companies V-Metals are associated with. This requires some form of investigation, at the very least," Hanna pressed on.

"Even if that investigation pulls through, what good would it do? Would you achieve that goal fast enough to undo what happened today?"

"When that investigation pulls through, it would demand the attention of every V-Metals employee and board member in the meeting today. They can't afford to let an investigation that would possibly harm their interests in such a huge profit area go by without their input."

"Delaying tactics, as it were?"

"That, and it would answer mine, Oskar, and Thelma's question."

"And what is that question?"

Hanna stood up straight and stared at her husband. "If Vincent DiMaggio is trying to pull off another Italy 1978."

To his credit, Ben didn't flinch or show any visible reactions to her words.

"What made you assume such a thing?" he instead asked.

Hanna placed a hand on the box. "This. All of this. You can't keep this circuitous argument on, Ben."

Ben hummed and steered his wheelchair to face the window. "If it can be eventually proved that Vincent dealt with these companies, what's the worst that he could be accused of? Venturing into food manufacturing?"

"Weapons manufacturing," she answered.

Ben raised his brows. "Do you have evidence?"

Hanna opened the box and rummaged through the files. She pulled out a blue envelope and walked over to Ben while pulling out a ream of papers from the envelope.

"Here," she said, handing over both envelope and paper to her husband, "I thought Beckett-Sanders and Farouche were merely inefficient plants before, but after reading what transpired in Italy, I became suspicious."

"These files aren't in our archives, I take it," Ben murmured.

"No, they're not," Hanna admitted, "Eli got some of the records from the archives after a day, but most were meaningless fluff. The records that had any substance to them had to be sourced from our subsidiaries in Asia and Africa. It took us until Las Vegas to acquire them, and by then, the conference had already happened."

"And you thought the contents could wait until after this meeting?"

"It would be overkill if my presentation succeeded. At any case, this is an once-in-a-lifetime ace, and I won't waste it if it's not needed."

Ben gave her a considering look. Hanna felt herself tense up even as she tried to relax her muscles. It wouldn't do to look so weak now- for a few minutes, she forgot what it felt like to be afraid, had washed away this morning's events like yesterday's makeup.

"Very well, then," Ben said abruptly, cutting off Hanna's forming thoughts.

Hanna blinked and said, before she caught herself, "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"I'm not one for useless emotional ejaculations, dear, you should know that," Ben reprimanded, waving one free hand at his wife.

"Vincent has something to do with this. You know this," Hanna blurted out.

"I don't know anything at the moment, dear. Nothing at all."

Hanna bit her lip and straightened her back. She knew her husband needed time to process the evidence; Ben was not one for spur-of-the-moment decisions that would not entirely turn to his favor.

Yet a part of her yearned for alacrity in this matter. Her mind was almost back to the clarity she had before the meeting and she wanted for something useful to happen. There was nothing to indicate that she would get that now.

Sighing deeply, Hanna nodded at Ben briskly and turned around to walk out of the room.

#  27

Unbeknownst to her, Aldo had situated himself behind an ornamental cabinet instead of leaving after offloading the box and had heard the entire conversation.

"Your father was our chauffeur and butler, you know," Ben told him as he walked to his employer. "Vincent was your father's favorite. I heard he was disappointed when you decided to work for me instead of moving to Asia to work for my old friend."

"Dad wasn't the happiest man, but he learned to live with it," Aldo replied. He tentatively put a hand on Ben's wheelchair and continued, "Would you like me to do something about the box, Mr. Hascott?"

Ben considered the contents in his lap. "Do you remember the addresses of the legal team, my boy?"

"Yes, but after today, I'm inclined to guess that they're in the Dunkin' Donuts downtown."

Ben nodded in sympathy. Tucking the papers back into the blue envelope, he moved his wheelchair to the table where Aldo left the box and put the envelope beside it.

"Please deliver these to them," Ben said. "Fetch Eli on the way to the donut shop and have him review the paperwork with the legal team. Bring his latest conquest with him if you must, though do try to emphasize the need for clothing with proper hemlines and cloths.

Aldo nodded.

#  28

Some ways away from the conference room, Hanna stalked through hallways and stairs to reach the main kitchen. If the fight was over for now, she would prepare for the next day by eating everything her trainer would despair to even think of. It didn't make sense, not even to her, but she had an inkling this was the only thing she could do to take her mind off her woes at the moment.

The smell of peppercorn and meat met her nose as she turned down the corridor to the kitchen. Rather than spinning around to go to other kitchens, Hanna soldiered forth and walked into the open awning of the kitchen.

Unlike other kitchens, the main kitchen was all steel and non-slick tiles. It was beautiful in the way ateliers and smitheries were striking. All surfaces were burnished, ready for chefs to craft feasts suitable for armies and hordes of dignitaries alike. Though it was less homely than their other rooms, it was there for a purpose and that alone had Hanna visiting it more often than other kitchens.

Amidst all the cool steel was Erica, who was busily whisking something in a bowl while checking the egg timer set near the ovens.

"Glad you have time for food, Mrs. Hascott," the young nurse quipped as she sauntered back to a counter filled with ingredients.

"What are we making here?" Hanna asked as she inspected the ingredients before her.

"Shephard's Pie," Erica answered, earning an approving hum from Hanna. She waved towards a stool beside one of the counters and said, "Please sit down, I'm nearly finished. Only need to mix this gravy with the potatoes once they come out."

Hanna obliged and watched the young nurse mix a few more ingredients into the bowl. When Erica was done with the gravy, she put it down and sauntered to the walk-in wine storage.

"Would you like a specific vintage?" Erica called out once she got inside the storage.

"Oh no, I'm only here for the food. I'll be out of your hair once I get my slice," Hanna said, already making plans on raiding the pantry in the kitchen nearest to her office.

She heard Erica make a disapproving noise. "Matthew told me to give you your daily recommended intake of alcohol and gossip before you go back to your, and I quote, "boring adult stuff"."

Hanna huffed out a laugh. Matthew, despite his flat-facedness, had taken to the twins' childish humor despite Ben's best efforts to minimize his contact with Jamie and Dolores.

"Has he been seeing Jamie and Dolores lately?" Hanna asked.

"Late night video chats. One's in New Zealand and the other's in Papua New Guinea. They're running a campaign in one of those online games I got bored of after an hour," Erica said before letting out a triumphant noise. "The bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône Villages has been successfully located, Mrs. Hascott."

"I really shouldn't," Hanna weakly protested. Though she knew there was realistically nothing she could do, obstinate habits died hard. If she kept abreast of the legal team's workings, she thought, maybe the presentation tomorrow wouldn't be so bad.

Hanna saw Erica emerge from the walk-in storage with a wine bottle and a disapproving look on her face. "There's nothing you could do right now, Mrs. Hascott."

"Who says I'm going to do anything after taking some of your delicious food?" Hanna said innocently as Erica walked to a shelf to retrieve a corkscrew.

The young nurse raised an eyebrow pointedly at her. "That's the same line Matthew uses when he's trying to get out of resting when he wants to work again."

She unscrewed the cork of the Côtes-du-Rhône Villages and handily swiped two mason jars with handles from an open cupboard. When Hanna looked at her questioningly, Erica shrugged and said, "We're not exactly in a formal function are we, Mrs. Hascott?"

"In that case, call me Hanna," Hanna said, sighing as she did. If she was going to relax, it might as well be with someone that Ben's most isolationist son trusted.

Soon, Erica's shepherd's pie was released from its warm prison and plated messily in front of their mason jars filled with wine. Half a portion turned into three as they drained the bottle of wine at an alarming speed. Their idle chat turned murkier and meatier as a result and soon, Hanna was telling Erica her doubts.

"It's practically impossible for this to happen without anything under the table going on," Hanna said, managing an even tone despite the second bottle of wine opened before her.

Erica nodded sympathetically and topped up her mason jar. She was, unlike Hanna, perfectly sober and was tossing her wine in a bucket by her stool without her companion noticing. She didn't mean to deceive Hanna; she just needed to be sober for this.

It's what Matthew asked her to do.

"You can't- you can't just turn negotiations around that quickly. We've practically confirmed that the politicians and business leaders who sent the sanctions and petitions were different from those we negotiated with. Isley and the others have tried to include them in the process prior to this but they all wanted something that was excessive or tried including clauses that would negate what Millennium is trying to achieve," Hanna said, pausing at the end of each sentence to sip her wine.

She put down her mason jar and waved a hand irritably as if she was trying to get rid of a fly. "Take that congressman from the third district of that province in the Philippines, for example. She wants her family's coal-powered plants to remain in business, so she proposed a scheduled alternation between our generators and hers instead of adapting to our system. I get it, she wants to remain in business, but our engineers looked it over and they saw that the plants were inefficient in their power draw and required more state capital than it strictly needed."

Erica nodded and absent-mindedly pushed the mason jar towards Hanna, who took it and sipped a bit more. The nurse patted her hand and said, "You're a terrifying drunk, Hanna."

"I'm angry," Hanna declared, before draining her jar, "I'm angry and hurt, and no amount of alcohol can change that."

Erica laughed helplessly. "I can see that. But I think that's enough for now -"

Hanna took the bottle of wine before the young nurse could take it away. "Nope. This bottle will be contemplating my future with me at my study."

"It's midnight, Mrs. Hascott," Erica said, using Hanna's formal name deliberately to signal her solemnity.

Hanna shook her head petulantly and took her heels off. Why was she wearing heels in the first place? This was her home, she's just having an ill-advised dinner date with Erica, and-

"Right," Hanna sighed quietly as she dropped her shoes to the floor. She swung off her stool and nearly hit the floor, but Erica caught her in time.

"That's a fine way of spilling your brilliant brains on the tiles," Erica reprimanded as Hanna righted herself upwards.

"You need to spend time with people other than Matthew," Hanna said as she stumbled out of Erica's grasp.

"And you need to get sober, ma'am."

"Who needs to get sober?"

Hanna and Erica turned towards the awning of the kitchen and saw Ben looking in with an amused expression on his face.

#  29

"Ah, my darling wife," Ben said, trying to sound disapproving but sounding infinitely amused instead. He patted his lap amiably and said, "Would you care for a lift?"

Hanna laughed and ambled off to Ben, not noticing the look that her husband and Erica exchanged as the latter slipped the bottle of wine from her hands. Clumsily, Hanna sat across her husband's lap, her legs dangling to one side of his chair and arms wrapped around his neck.

In the back of her mind, she saw a flash of tanned skin and an easy smile.

"Off to my office, if you may," Hanna said, patting Ben's chest as she did.

Ben shook his head. "No dear, I'm afraid it's off to your bedroom. You can't show up at the board meeting tomorrow with a headache and dark circles under your eyes."

Hanna groaned. Belatedly, she realized that part of the reason she allowed herself to be dragged in Erica's sumptuous midnight feast was to forget precisely that. She also wanted to forget the jumble of emotions inside her: she shouldn't have drunk, but she couldn't do anything- but maybe she missed an update- but then, what could she have done-

"I'm afraid you haven't gotten her drunk enough, as loathe as I am to admit this," Ben told Erica over Hanna's arms, causing his nurse to guffaw.

Hanna's mind was still racing- or at least, slogging through the haze of alcohol, good food, and residual guilt- when Ben drove his wheelchair out of the kitchen and down the corridor to the elevators. She wasn't quite on the way to sober yet, but she was twisting her way back to logic and over a sea of guilt.

"Ben, what would you have done in my place?" Hanna asked, trying to fill the sudden silence between her and her husband.

Her husband stayed silent until they reached a corner. "I wouldn't do half as well as you did."

"Flatterer."

"No, no I am speaking the truth," Ben answered glibly as he turned to the right, "I would've exploded. No one in that boardroom would be employed by the end of the day if I had any say in it."

"Hush, you're exaggerating," Hanna said dotingly though nothing in Ben's speech indicated anything but the sobering truth.

"It's true," Ben reassured her as they reached the elevators. He tapped a button and waited for the doors to open before continuing, "You displayed poise where I would only show anger. It's not a secret that I've lost control over my gasket the same time that I've lost control of my legs."

Hanna sighed and let her head fall against Ben's shoulder. Ben rolled them inside the elevator and tapped the floor to Hanna's room. It occurred to Hanna that this was the first time in years that Ben let her ride on his wheelchair and accompanied her to her room without an intermediary.

"I feel melancholic," Hanna muttered into the crook of Ben's neck.

Ben told her plainly, "It's not your fault."

Hanna sighed once more. "I know. I.. It's... There are far too many things I should feel at the moment, and I can't quite settle on what to think or to feel. All I know is that I am not acting like the leader I should be right now."

They reached Hanna's floor with a light ping. Ben rolled out silently.

"No, you are acting human, and above all else, that is infinitely more valuable," Ben told her unexpectedly, though Hanna had no strength left to argue with him.

She let herself be carried to her room, the door to which Ben had difficulty opening on his own, and ultimately to her bed. Hanna tumbled out of Ben's lap and into her Egyptian cotton sheets, unaware of the tender look her husband was giving her.

What she did perceive was the warmth of her husband's hand as it held her shoulder until she fell asleep.

#  30

The warmth was no longer there in the morning, though Hanna didn't expect Ben to stay with her. She also didn't expect Erica to be in the room, sorting through her closet and tossing out random garments beside her on the bed.

"Good morning?" Hanna said weakly in the confused tones of a woman with a hangover.

"Aspirin and vegetable juice with Berocca is on the desk," Erica said in lieu of a greeting, "Do you prefer moss, sage or forest green? I just don't think black would be a good color on you today."

"Dear, I'm greener than any dress I own right now. I can thank you and your wine for that," Hanna accused in between sips of aspirin and juice.

Erica shrugged and gave her a mischievous grin in return as she finally selected Hanna's wardrobe of the day. "How about a warm grey pencil dress by Schiaparelli and a heather blazer by Chanel?

Hanna shrugged. "Sure, an archrival match made in heaven."

"Please feel free to take your juice in the shower, Mrs. Hascott. I'll get Aldo ready," she said and bowed out of the room. Hanna rolled her eyes at her early morning playfulness.

Before Erica closed the door, Hanna called out, "Have you seen Ben?"

"He's in the forest with Amy. Birdwatching, I think. I know I saw Elmer carrying binoculars with them along with several blankets for Ben's lap."

Hanna raised her eyebrow at the unfamiliar names and asked, "Your relievers?"

Erica nodded in affirmation. "They're not so bad. They've gotten over the shock of Ben waking them up instead of the other way around soon enough."

Hanna laughed and walked into the en suite with her clothes. She supposes that she should feel a bit more heavy-hearted than this. After all, today was the continuation of yesterday's tragedy.

She ignored the need to feel grim by allowing herself to focus on the good will buoying her spirits. Let them have yesterday, she thought as she stepped under her shower, I'll have today and tomorrow.

When Hanna emerged from the bathroom, she saw a folder weighed down with her phone and bag on her bed. Seeing Ben's neat looping lines on the folder, she gently slid it from underneath her belongings and opened it. Inside were handwritten notes, points of arguments Hanna could use in the argument. There was probably not much use for it, but they were indeed good rebuttals and excellent for verbal fights.

"To Hanna, my spirited wife," Hanna read aloud, chortling as she imagined the words in Ben's voice, "Remember that even the most poisonous snakes have their weaknesses."

Hanna laughed. Ben had always been keen on a good fight. She unlocked her phone to send a text message to her husband when she noticed an e-mail from her secretary.

"Mrs. Hascott, there are two gentlemen from Interpol waiting in the reception of your office," her secretary wrote, "They insist on talking to you before your board meeting this morning. They're not taking any forms of rejection well."

Hanna raised her brows. That was certainly an incentive to leave the house early.

#  31

Grace sat at her desk outside of Hanna's office, alight with nervous energy that she was failing to conceal. Hanna studied the younger woman as she approached, taking in the fidgeting and clumsiness of her fingers as she typed. The Interpol agents must've rattled her, she deduced.

"Grace," she greeted. The secretary's head shot up, having evidently not heard her employer's approach.

"Mrs. Hascott, they're waiting for you inside," she said as she began to get out of her seat to open the door for Hanna.

"It's fine, Grace, I'll get it." Grace paused halfway out of her seat, her face troubled. "Is something wrong?"

"The agents," she said. "They're very...official."

"'Official'?" Hanna repeated, raising her eyebrows questioningly. Grace nodded and her dark eyes darted to the door where they sat waiting for Hanna to arrive so they could discuss something that would surely be added to the long list of things for her to worry about. "I'll keep that in mind."

She pulled the door open to her office and slipped inside, eyeing the men sitting in front of her desk. They stood for introductions as she approached.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Hanna apologized dutifully.

"Not at all, thank you for meeting with us on such short notice," the taller of the two men replied, as though she had some choice in the meeting given they showed up at her office unannounced. The man held out his hand and shook hers briskly as a matter of formality. "I'm David Garrison, this is my partner, Marcel Eliezer."

Marcel nodded in acknowledgement, not extending his hand for her to shake. Hanna studied him for a moment, taking in his blank eyes and overall unimpressed but observant demeanor, before rounding her desk to take a seat. Smoothing down her grey tweed dress, Hanna leaned back in her chair, splitting her attention between David and Marcel.

"How can I help you, gentlemen?" she asked in a low voice, crossing her legs.

Opening his briefcase, Marcel pulled out a slim folder and slid it across the desk for Hanna's perusal. She spared the man a glance before opening it and, paused, not sure what she was seeing at first. It was a candid photograph of a tall man with a muscular build, his face partially obscured by a thick beard and a pair of wire glasses perched on his nose. Examining the man's face, Hanna's sucked in a breath, recognizing him at last.

"Mrs. Hascott, we believe you know this man as Travis Lamar Burton," David began, his voice gentle. "His name is actually Tylee Dupré."

"What?" Hanna asked, her voice thick as she finally lifted her eyes from the photo.

"He was born in Bequia, Saint Vincent," David continued. "Dupré is an international spy wanted for cybercrimes and corporate espionage.

"Among other things," Marcel said meaningfully, his gaze steady on Hanna. His eyes were an unnerving weight and even though Hanna knew it wasn't possible, that nothing had ever happened, that there was no evidence, it was as though Marcel knew about her and Travis—no, her and Tylee.

David explained, "For nearly seven years, Travis AKA Tylee, has been posing as a financial risk analyst specializing in underwriting, private equity, and offering other various commercial banking services with Golden Sector Securities, Inc.: a shell company his associates obtained several years ago."

Hanna blinked down at the photo of Travis, attempting to reconcile what she thought she knew of the man with what the agents were telling her. It didn't make any sense, she thought, how could he have gotten away with this for so long? How could she have not realized that he was lying to her?

"We believe Mr. Dupré is a key member, most likely the greenmailer and front man, of an organization known as Ghostkizz," David said. "They're a group of cyberterrorists and corporate raiders that have been on the run since former member Nina de Costa began cooperating with iStorm."

Marcel nodded. "iStorm is a global law enforcement organization that operates in secret. It's comprised of several world leaders to monitor and protect the financial world market."

Outwardly, Hanna gave no indication of her reaction to this explanation, but inwardly, she wondered why the agents were revealing so much to her, a civilian. It put her further on edge, knowing they wouldn't divulge of this information without an expectation of anything in return. Hanna pushed Travis out of her mind and focused on the agents, waiting for their intentions to reveal themselves. She made eye contact with David, adopting a wide-eyed expression that made her look confused and a bit helpless.

"Ghostkzz is known for buying out or purchasing majority shares of accounting firms, small banks, tech companies, and other corporations of interest to use as a Trojan Horse so that they can conceal their identities while continuing to take over more businesses. We have reason to believe, V-Metal is their next acquisition in line to conquer."

Picking up where David left off, Marcel continued, "Dupré was initially put in place to make sure V-Metal crumbled, but his recent behavior doesn't match the M.O." Marcel studied Hanna as she willed herself not to break her composure. "Can you think of any reason that would point to why he would abort his mission?'

"I," Hanna started, purposely faltering. "I'll try, but I'm afraid I don't know how much help I'll be."

"Did you notice any changes in his behavior? Performance? Anything you tell us could potentially aid our investigation, even if it doesn't seem significant," David responded, giving her an encouraging smile.

"Of course. I guess he seemed withdrawn lately?" Hanna said vaguely. We never had much personal contact so I can't speak to his motives, but, I'm sorry, he never seemed like anything other than what he presented himself to be. Why would he be doing this? Why would Ghostkizz go through the trouble to personally sabotage businesses?"

"There are a variety of reasons and benefits one can gain in taking over businesses. We are not sure of Dupré's reason, as of yet," Marcel said enigmatically.

"Why would he infiltrate and bring a company down from the inside? Isn't that so much more dangerous for the operatives?"

"It is," David said, nodding, "but there's the potential to learn more about the company and its personnel as well as operations in a way that can't necessarily be obtained from raw data."

"How have they not been caught?"

"Ghostkizz has been flying under the radar for years. They have connections with high profile corporations and expertise in security. We can't be certain, but we believe the individuals have been functioning before they became a collective: we're not dealing with a group of novices," Marcel added, looking agitated, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

"So you haven't been able to track them down until now despite the insider information?" It didn't ring true to her. Hanna wondered if maybe they had known where Travis was and what he was doing at V-Metal; it seemed too convenient that they would appear just as he left if it wasn't on purpose. "What do you know about Travis that prompted you to look for him now that he's gone? Were you expecting it to go differently?" she asked.

Apparently, her questioning was a little too keen as Marcel straightened up in his chair, having picked up her line of thinking. David caught his eyes and after a moment of silent communication, he said, "Mrs. Hascott, this is a highly sensitive investigation. We're not able to divulge specific details at this time outside of the information we've already shared with you."

Not satisfied with the rebuff, Hanna opened her mouth to ask another question, but decided against it when she saw both David and Marcel were now on guard. They wouldn't be telling her anything else about what Travis was entangled with.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of any more help to you, gentlemen, but unfortunately, that's all the time I have for today." Hanna stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Please contact my lawyer if you have any further questions. My assistant will give you their information on your way out."

Neither David nor Marcel made a move to get out of their seats. "Mrs. Hascott, we're not done here," Marcel said in an authoritative voice, clearly hoping to use his position to intimidate her into compliance.

Hanna arched a brow at him and crossed her office to the door, holding it open for the both of them, "Yes, we are."

David stood and stalked over to where Hanna was standing, stopping a mere foot away from her. "If you refuse to cooperate, we _will_ hold you for obstruction of justice."

Tipping her head back, Hanna held his gaze unflinchingly and nodded curtly. "You're free to get in touch with my lawyer," she advised coolly.

Sighing heavily, David walked out of her office, his sleeve brushing her arm in one last parting form of intimidation as he left. Marcel followed soon after, regarding her as he passed by. She heard them stop and speak with Grace about getting Hanna's legal representation's direct information. Hanna closed the door and took in a deep breath to steady herself.

If what she heard was true, Travis, her supposed ally in all of this, and Ghostkizz could've utterly destroyed V-Metal and her along with it. Hanna sat back down in her chair, slumping over the desk and pressing her fingers to her temples. Everything would be gone, the whole company hollowed out to be used as a front to move on and take someone else down. V-Metal would be just some of the debris in Ghostkizz's path of destruction. But they weren't.

Travis hadn't gone through with it after all the time he put in to destroy them. He had actually helped her save V-Metal from falling into her enemy's hands.

Why would he do that, she wondered, just stop like that? Hanna closed her eyes, imagining the wreckage he could've inflicted, but instead, he was like a cyclone dying out before it could reach its full momentum. If the Interpol agents were to be trusted and this was true, there had to be a reason for Travis's ceasefire. She puzzled over what could've happened to make him do that.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Hanna decided to put thoughts of Travis to rest. There was no way of knowing why he had done what he did after the fact, especially now that he had disappeared. Instead, she concentrated on what needed to be done now with this information.

Mr. Hascott's security team clearly wasn't up to par if they had allowed a breach of this magnitude. Travis, no, Tylee Dupré, she reminded herself, never should've so much as been permitted to step foot in the building, much less be recruited. Hanna pressed the buzzer of her intercom system and told Grace to hold all her calls and move the rest of the meetings she had scheduled to the following week.

"Yes, Mrs. Hascott, right away," Grace replied, obviously still flustered by the meeting from Interpol. Hanna couldn't worry about them right now, not with the signing tomorrow.

Despite all her efforts, she was officially out of options and there was no way to buy more time to save the company.

#  32

A few minutes had passed before Hanna realized that her elevator had stopped on the right floor. A fit young woman with a severe bob haircut with a sweeping bang prevented the doors from closing and proceeding downwards. Hanna smiled at her and strode out of the elevator quickly.

She had been so distracted that she did not notice the peculiar emptiness of the 30th floor until she pushed the doors to the conference room open.

"Mrs. Hascott," Vincent's tired voice loomed in the dark, "I truly am glad you are able to finally join us."

Hanna blinked and finally realized that, apart from Vincent, Ben, and a young man talking quietly with Wesley, the board room was completely empty. Her eyes were immediately drawn to her husband, who shrugged at her confusion.

"Dear, you best sit down for this," Ben advised.

Hanna stole a quick glance towards Vincent and held her breath. His fury was incandescent, his whole body shaking with the effort to move physically, violently. Every line in his body set off alarm bells in Hanna's breath; it telegraphed to her quickly in the way that a gazelle's would in the presence of a predator that Vincent was not to be trifled with in his current mood.

Wesley's face confirmed the change in Vincent's humor. A mix of emotions was apparent on the blank-canvas of the lawyer's face as he exchanged words with a young man she presumed was Ben's affiliate. It looked surreal, too honest; it was a mess of things that the lawyer clearly didn't intend to let anyone see.

"Mrs. Hascott," Vincent said curtly, cutting through Hanna's observations.

The little jump Wesley made in his seat at his employer's voice almost made Hanna sympathize with the lawyer.

"Vincent," Hanna greeted back. "What's going on?"

"V-Metals is under the sole control of the Hascott family once again, no questions asked," said the young man chatting with Wesley cheerfully. He paused and tilted his head. "After a fashion.... And by that, I mean after you sign some papers."

"Introduce yourself, or I'll have a chat with your boss," Ben instructed sternly, raising a paternalistic eyebrow at

"Right!" The young man beamed at Ben before leaping out of his seat to almost-skip his way to Hanna.

"Baron-Cohen Kaganovich," he introduced himself cheerfully. Hanna delayed in shaking his hand, too distracted by the reddish tint of his dark brown hair and the checkers on his brogues to aim properly. "I'm one of Mr. Eli's- or as we call him, Ben-the-Younger- lackeys."

Ben snorted. Baron-Cohen looked back at him and grinned before backing away from Hanna. "However impossible it seems ma'am, it's the cold hard truth."

Hanna turned towards Vincent, somewhat emboldened by Baron-Cohen's irreverence. She asked, "Am I supposed to believe that both of you are giving up- just like that?"

Vincent took a deep breath. Wesley flinched.

"Your disbelief is well earned," Vincent said carefully, his peaceful cadence shattered at points by jittering he couldn't control, "Neither of us have been particularly forthcoming."

"Pushing your differences aside ma'am, this is true. Mr. DiMaggio has given up his... charade," Baron-Cohen said brightly. The young man was either that confident in his abilities or was particularly ignorant of the cold stare Wesley had trained on him.

"It's all thanks to your research. That and information from a source who would rather remain anonymous until the court proceedings have passed," Ben said impassively.

Ben made sure neither his voice nor mannerism changed throughout his explanation. His source was a young man he hired to keep an eye on Finnick and Elena's accounts. The same man, one Travis Burton, begged him to remain anonymous in all their application of his findings in exchange for providing irrefutable proof that would dispel all doubts from his accounts.

He said Hanna should never know about this last act of goodwill before apologizing for briefly tempting his wife. The latter took time- and a surprisingly strong punch from Ben to Travis- to agree on, but cooler heads eventually prevailed. The next thing he knew, he had a lapful of data and a man missing from his boardroom.

Travis was already halfway to whatever destination he escaped to when Ben found out about his past. A part of him knew it was his duty to hand the young man over to authorities. He was, after all, a confidence man and knew too much to be write-off as an idle threat, when considering his felonious history.

Ben chose to keep his cards close. He needed all the sources he can get, and a mere yank on the boy's attraction towards his wife would make Travis run back to his side. It was not an option he was particularly looking forward to using, but if his solution didn't take hold, he would do everything to make sure that the next workaround would save his empire and Hanna.

Taking his cue, Baron-Cohen picked up a remote from the conference table and clicked towards the projector in the ceiling. It spat out a white light and showed a cleanly-organized row of data which bore all the signs of a document prepared by Isley.

"Ms. Hascott- that is, Miss Isley Hascott- kindly put Mr. Hascott's data in a readable form," Baron-Cohen said, "This data in particular shows V-Metals' shares as of this morning."

Hanna drew back from where she stood, shocked. She was so startled by the numbers floating on the screen that she let herself be guided by her husband to a seat without any argument.

"But that's..." Hanna began, her voice wavering off towards the end, unable to finish her sentence. She had been out for a day. Had the world changed that much on her in the span of 24 hours?

Baron-Cohen preened. "Yes ma'am. The drop V-Metals shares experienced since the last board meeting with Mr. Oppenheimer and Ms. Desrosiers was practically erased in a day. Mind you, I've been told that you haven't kept track of shares for a week now, so I can say that it's only been a day with minor hesitation."

"How?" Hanna asked simply, stunned as she sat on a leather chair pulled out by her husband for her.

It was a fair question. On the day of her fateful meeting with Finnick and Elena- the day Vincent showed his true colors- shares plummeted to -$0.05. The resulting nightmare was almost impossible to manage. Some even cruelly compared the near-collapse of the billion-dollar empire of V-Metals to J.P. Morgan, while the more fantasy-driven critics spoke of the downfall of the corrupted Holy Roman Empire.

The young man handling the presentation preened at Hanna's disbelief. "You see ma'am, we have rather good accountants on the payroll. That and Ms. Hascott and Mr. Hascott- Ms. Isley and Mr. E- kinda didn't stop hammering on the doors of our stock and market guys until they found out the real cause of the drop. I heard Mr. Matthew even chipped in, and he's practically a ghost until his new car launches."

"I do wonder about that," Vincent said quietly.

Baron-Cohen's smile lost an iota of its brightness. "As I've explained before, shareholders began lapping up our stocks again after we rolled out the new explainers on the Clean Millennium Project. We also held multiple meetings with our business partners and the heads of several governments, both local and national, to explain the impact of the gradual closure of the Farouche and Beckett-Sanders plants."

#  33

Vincent's face twisted into a hateful glare. "And I suppose they all took the decision well without any hesitation?"

"Oh no, they were absolute children about it," Baron-Cohen answered cheerfully, "Well, some of them, y'know. The more, shall we say, 'entrepreneurial' types were difficult to deal with. Happily, these guys were not the sharpest tools in the shed, nor were they clever enough to hide all the evidence of the kickbacks they received to protest against the closures of the plants affected by Clean Millennium."

Hanna furrowed her brows and asked, "Could you elaborate?"

Eli's young lackey, as he called himself, explained in detail how and why the miraculous turnaround occurred. Slide after slide, Baron-Cohen explained that Ben's legal team was able to prove that the stocks crash was premised on false claims of the Clean Millennium Project's expediency. The team, through the anonymous source's information, was also able to interview officials guilty of approving projects from Beckett-Sanders and Farouche for a handsome kickback.

The media predictably had a field day with the evidence of mass corruption and collusion. Citizens did the rest of the work, harassing the officials until their governments were either forced to convene special blue-ribbon committees to investigate the allegations or outright fire the officials. While there was still a healthy amount of skepticism on the efficiency of the V-Metals' new biodegradable waste fuel and photovoltaic generators, governments began approving testing and surveying to approve the new facilities the company had proposed.

An anonymous tip which Hanna privately thought was the work of their mysterious source lead the way to a public inspection of the Beckett-Sanders and Farouche plants. Both incidents, unsurprisingly, lead to the discovery of the illicit weapons manufacturing that Thelma and Oskar suspected.

This was the sticking point for most investors, even those on Vincent's side. Only a few of the representatives and executives in the board meeting that would have left V-Metals in pieces. Vincent apparently left out the convenient truth about each plant to everyone, including Finnick and Elena, and the subsequent fallout from that revelation shook off all but the guiltiest companies from plans to split up the V-Metals.

"Everyone who stayed on is embroiled in their own personal little dramas," Baron-Cohen said cheerfully as he turned off the projector, "Accusations of corporate espionage, willful deception, internal sabotage, war profiteering; you name it, there's probably at least fifteen media outlets dedicated to each issue."

His smile subsumed a little more as he glanced at Wesley, whose mask of indifference was ruined by his blanched complexion. "Of course, Mr. DiMaggio's participation took center stage. Kind of inevitable when the only kind of mass publicity you get is the occasional meme on his appearances in random impoverished areas around Southeast Asia."

Vincent narrowed his eyes at the young man and muttered, "Are you quite done?"

Baron-Cohen sighed and dropped his cheerful demeanor entirely, exasperated by Vincent's insistence. He crossed the room to the chair behind Ben and pulled out a sheaf of folders from his bag.

"I would like you to review these documents, Mrs. Hascott," he said.

Hanna took the folders from him, frowning. "What are these?"

"Papers to jail me," Vincent answered bluntly. He was gripping a Montblanc titanium pen in one hand and the plush of his swiveling armchair with the other. The plush was beginning to tear and Hanna thought she could see the titanium pen beginning to bend in his other hand.

Vincent looked away from Baron-Cohen and stared straight at Hanna. She held his gaze as she made Baron-Cohen spread the contents of the envelope on the table and explain the exact implications of the legalese.

"If you sign these, Mr. DiMaggio and all of his associates will be barred from accessing their shares and any assets they may have owned under the name of the company or within the company itself," Baron-Cohen began as he arranged the folders on the table. "In addition to rescinding their rights to current assets, these papers will also cut those named from any and all dealings with V-Metals and all of its associate companies in the future, effective the moment you sign them."

Baron-Cohen removed two folders from the pile and put them on top of the others. "These came from the FBI."

Ben spoke before Hanna could exclaim, "We have only surrendered evidence that is legally required of us. Everything else remains in our custody until we sign the rights off."

He covered one of her hands with his own. "Until you sign the rights off."

"Why me?" Hanna asked, mind racing. "Isn't Eli the company CEO?"

"These are your discoveries, and that of the anonymous source," Ben clarified.

A dawn of understanding broke over Hanna's face as she remembered the lights and sounds of Las Vegas, and the foreign touch of lips on her's. She squeezed Ben's hand and tried to speak, but Ben squeezed back and shook his head.

"The anonymous source conceded his rights," Ben declared. Hanna's shoulders sagged in relief even as she realized that this was probably the last time she would ever encounter a trace of Travis. Perhaps it was better off this way.

"Everyone involved in the intelligence gathering agreed to surrender their findings to the Feds," Baron-Cohen continued. "To be fair, even if we don't act on this, it's unlikely that Mr. DiMaggio will have access to his resources anytime soon. Arms' dealing is not a light offense. Feds and Foreign Relations Committee are all too fussed about his extra-curricular activities."

"But," he added, "It is way better for you to sign these. Makes the PR machine run faster and smoother too and that would take a lot of pressure off. And if you sign these, everything that remains of his profits from these dealings will return to V-Metals."

Wesley looked like he was about to protest but a quick look at Vincent's silent fuming made him swallow his thoughts. Ben raised a brow at the display and turned instead to Baron-Cohen to give Hanna a measure of privacy as she read through the folders.

Hanna pursed her lips. It was true that they needed to block off all possibilities of Vincent returning for a third time. Twice was too much for a scheme of this magnitude and if he were allowed a third, the consequences boded unwell for the company.

Frankly speaking, the choice was clear. Even without her intercession, Vincent's fate in the next few years would be clouded with lawsuits and prison sentences. Not even the clout he built as a silent philanthropist could trump the charges he accumulated with his latest attempt at taking over the Hascott Empire.

Hanna's decision to his disfavor was merely the final nail to his coffin, a way to cut the years he had left as a free man as eliminating the man from V-Metals' coffers would considerably shorten his legal battles. Though Westley would definitely work for free, fees still needed to be paid, bails needed to be posted, and properties need work.

Yet, even with the trigger firmly hooked behind her finger, Hanna couldn't find it in herself to shoot the bullseye. She chose, instead, to hit a little on the wayside.

"Give me the documents that would remove Mr. DiMaggio's rights to all for-profit V-Metals ventures and restrict his access to completely non-profit organizations AND only allow him in voluntary or donor positions," Hanna said.

Ben scoffed and said, "Hanna, don't let your idealism cloud your judgement."

"Letting my optimism cloud my judgement means absolving Vincent, Elena, and Finnick of their crimes," Hanna countered, "What I'm doing is rendering a proven threat impotent."

Her husband shook his head and attempted to rebut her point, "If you give even a millimeter to this man-"

"Vincent's learned his lesson," Hanna cut through his words confidently. "He's none too pleased, but I think allowing him to continue the little good he was able to enact is a decision that would absolve V-Metals a lot of grief in the future."

Baron-Cohen's smile was in full force as he handed Hanna his own Ballpoint pen to sign the appropriate papers with. Hanna spoke as she signed the contract, "Think about it, Benjamin: Vincent would spend money out of his own pocket to do his little charitable acts. You would never be party to the soft-heartedness you oh so despised as a young man."

"He let his natural sense of mistrust take-over," Vincent said, looking less murderous and more curious at the strange turn of events, "I am trying to understand if this is a product of temporary madness or a genuinely foolish action myself."

Hanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes at both men. She forgot that Ben and Vincent had once been inseparable. She was bound to see similarities in their personalities.

"Let me make this clear, Mr. DiMaggio. I'm not doing this for you- I'm doing this for the orphans and the disenfranchised you support worldwide." Hanna raised her head a little more and glanced at Wesley quickly. The action achieved its intended effect of startling the lawyer.

She continued, "If it wasn't for this unfortunate... clash of personalities, I daresay we share a common goal. And if you've proven anything with your power play, it is that I still lack the resources and experience to carry out the products of _my_ temporary madness."

Vincent narrowed his eyes at her. Hanna waited for him to say more but was disappointed when the man merely rose from his seat and left a second later. Wesley gaped at his mentor like a fish before he caught himself and excused them both from the conference room.

Baron-Cohen, perhaps not realizing the depth of Vincent's actions, cheerfully collected his papers and exited.

"The final drafts of the contracts will be available for signing in an hour!" he said as he removed himself from the boardroom.

When it was finally just the Hascotts left, Hanna sagged into her seat as she glared daggers at her surprisingly quiet husband.

"As for you, husband dear," Hanna said as she raised herself up in a dignified sitting position, "You saved your company once again by using the resources you so thoroughly cultivated."

Sensing her sarcasm, Ben tried to stem the rant but clearly failed when Hanna ended her reprimand with, "But I could've carried this out, on my terms, if you trusted me."

"Dear, I do trust you," Ben said, exasperated.

"But not in this incident?" Hanna retaliated.

"You know that's not the case."

"I do, but the point stands: Why did you do this on your own?"

"Because this is my last gift to you!" Ben's voice boomed throughout the empty boardroom, causing Hanna to rise from her chair.

"What do you mean-" Hanna began but abruptly stopped as her husband held out an open palm.

"Dear," Ben said, keeping his voice tempered. The hand above the controls of his wheelchair was trembling as his face turned white.

Hanna ducked down and began sifting through the medical compartment on the back of her husband's wheelchair. "Which medicine do you need?" she asked, putting aside her fury to help her husband live another day.

Instead of receiving a proper answer, Hanna was stopped by a firm hand on the top of her head. She looked up from where she was bent over looking for the medicine and saw her husband twisted from the torso in his seat to face her.

"We can talk about it later," he said, adding before she could object, "We have Vincent, but I doubt his little business partners will bail him out anytime soon."

"If your health fails now-"

"Then I would have died fighting for my legacy," Ben countered. He pat Hanna's hand and said, "You are part of that legacy, Hanna. Let's not squander my remaining time for this, shall we?"

Hanna would remember the next few weeks with a twinge of regret for the rest of her life even as the following events raised her spirits like no other.

Because, even though she and Ben gave his cavalcade of lawyers signed forms and instructions for cases against the shareholders, associate companies, and prospective partners of Finnick and Elena for conspiring to manipulate stock prices and market values of various V-Metals ventures-

Even though she and Ben witnessed the ousting of Finnick, Elena, and Vincent from their respective divisions for their temporary replacements Oskar, Thelma, and Eli-

And even though the long drudgery of courts and boardrooms meant sharing a bed with her husband, though platonically, for the first time in years-

Hanna would remember thinking: _I should have said goodbye._

#  34

Allowing Erica to wheel his chair along a paved footpath, one among the many on his sprawling estate, Ben Hascott stayed quiet until he spotted a small flock of red-brown birds pecking among the oat-grass and blue-stem flourishing under a solitary loblolly pine.

He said, "Stop!"

Erica followed the order rather suddenly, and Ben lurched forward in the chair uncomfortably. He didn't snap a rebuke at his young nurse, knowing his exclamation had taken her by surprise.

"I'm sorry, Ben... Are you okay?"

"Mourning doves," he said, pointing with his chin and not answering the pointless question. Seconds later, as quiet as breath, he added, "A pitying."

"What? I mean pardon me, Ben. I didn't hear what you said."

Ben hadn't realized he'd spoken the phrase aloud, but since he had, he repeated it for Erica to hear. "A pitying, I said. Did you know that's one word for a flock of doves? In this case, mourning doves, there under the tree. A pitying of mourning doves." It seemed likely Erica had no clue what to say to such an unexpected lecture from her employer, and admirably she therefore kept quiet. He smiled slightly to himself. "Continue, Erica. To Twin Ponds, I think."

He enjoyed these late afternoon strolls on his estate, a luxury he'd allowed himself once he started spending most of his time at home. Aside from early morning, the hours before sunset were often the gentlest in a late spring day in north Texas. This particular afternoon, following a morning soaked with rain, offered a startling freshness that Ben planned to thoroughly enjoy, knowing as he did that he might not have many more such opportunities. Birdwatching would make the best of it. And Erica was one of the few people he could share the pastime with who didn't seem to think a man of industry such as himself should have other things to do. He'd learned to love birds long ago—as a child, on stately walks with his grandmother. Success at business hadn't swayed him to other loves, and he'd never forgotten that watching wild things had taught him some of his most important lessons about life.

He'd had several blinds installed soon after he'd purchased the estate, and the one overlooking Twin Ponds had quickly become his favorite. Rather than a dugout hut, he'd had the gardeners plant native shrubs and trees and shape them to provide shelter from the elements as well as a place to watch from without disturbing the busy creatures he observed. Today, the ponds, the sparse trees nearby, the grassy banks all practically teemed with life. Among buzzing dragonflies and bees and small mammals, birds came to drink and bathe—many colors, sizes, shapes, and habits, but today the mourning doves claim his thoughts. He kept his eyes, and—from time to time—his field glasses trained on their sharp movements. They made good company, as long as they didn't know he was there, and all he had to do make sure they weren't disturbed was be still.

_Surprising how easy that is for me, now that I'm a sick old man in a wheelchair._ It was a strange way to think of himself after a lifetime of never letting anything stop him. It was true—unarguably so—yet he almost laughed at the maudlin ring of his thoughts. He cleared his throat softly to dismiss self-pity and turned toward his nurse, who'd seated herself within arms' reach on a sun-splashed, cushioned bench.

She'd brought a book, Ben noted, as well as sketch paper and her iPad, but she hadn't opened any of them. Rather, she sat staring toward the nearest pond, but with a faraway look in her eyes, clearly not seeing the birds he'd come to watch. He wondered where she'd rather be. _Probably with Matthew, if I don't miss my guess. She's in love._ Remembering his own youth, he smiled inwardly, bittersweet emotion transforming into sadness before the expression reached his face. He'd been in love before, too. But with his dreams, not with a woman.

"I'm like them, you know." He indicated the mourning doves on the opposite bank of the nearest pond.

"Sir?" Erica lapsed into more distant formal address than they usually maintained, probably because he'd disturbed her reverie. Possibly he'd confused her, comparing himself to the birds.

"The doves. Watch how they fly. Fast, darting here and there almost as quick as they think to move, I'd guess. Up, up, and then down sharply to the ground, where they act surprised, like they got knocked out of the air and never had a chance to do a thing about it." He chuckled, and turned to Erica with a raised eyebrow. "I know that feeling."

Erica smiled back, now, once again at ease with him. Ben enjoyed her company. She was a sweet young woman, almost like a daughter in some ways. He thought of his own children, and not for the first time wondered what the child would have been like if and his beautiful Hanna had made one together. But that subject put him in mind of another thing he had in common with the doves.

"They build terribly flimsy nests, you know. Haphazard nesting habits. Some might accuse me of that same thing." He didn't look at his young nurse, thinking about the type of father he'd been. Not that he hadn't kept his children safe and fed, but he doubted most of them ever thought of the family they grew up in as a secure, warm, nurturing environment. "Just twigs, mostly," he said aloud. "Nothing to make it soft and warm for the young. They work hard to raise their young, but more often than not lose them anyway."

"Mr. Hascott," Erica said, the hesitated. "I... I wouldn't call the homes you put your family in flimsy!"

Ben didn't argue. No point. He wished, as he had done for many years, which he had given his children more of himself, and less of the material things he'd substituted. Too late now, though. "Too late," he said aloud.

"Ben?"

"Too late for me to do anything different than what I've done, Erica. For the children, of course since they're all grown, but even with Hanna, or anyone else. I'm dying, you see."

"But you've known about—"

"It has changed, Erica." He said her name only because he felt the need to be sure he was speaking the truth to another person. His illness would kill him sooner rather than later, but as long as he admitted it only in the depths of silence, it wasn't quite real. He knew the time had come to bring it out into the light, let it _manifest._ He'd made his world real that same way all his life. Planned and maneuvered and created his family, his company, sharpened his arrows behind the scenes, then brought them out to use against enemies who didn't yet know that's what they were, making things real.

A trio of doves in flight caught his eye, distracting him. Just moments before, he'd watched the largest bird, a male, perch on his chosen branch, cooing and slapping his wings noisily to get the female's attention. The smaller male had probably been trying the same thing, and now he was desperate to show he could compete with the big boys. He'd made up his mind he wanted the girl, and he was doing everything he could to get her. _Unlikely, young man,_ Ben mentally addressed the small male. _You're going to lose a few times before you get to be big enough to push your elders out of the way._ Again, he felt like he was watching a living metaphor for his own life. He too had fought for his spot at the top. He'd raced and pushed and pressed his suit until his company developed enough market muscle to force its way into the forefront of America's economy. Finally, he'd snared the global market as his prize.

Erica softly cleared her throat. "What has changed, Ben?"

She'd asked out of respect, Ben thought. Not because she wanted the news, which surely she sensed would be hard to hear and even harder to respond to, but because he'd started to tell her and let his mind wander off, and she wanted to show him he was interested, wanted him to have a chance to say what was on his mind.

"The cancer," he said, as if he'd not paused at all. "The tumor—a glioblastoma, they call it—has decided to wrest the upper hand from me in our battle. It's a stealthy thing, and it's crept quietly onto my brainstem like a man planning a corporate coup. When the brainstem is under too much strain, everything the body does automatically to keep itself alive just stops. So, I will die—surely and soon. That's the news the doctors shared last time I saw them."

As soon as Ben finished talking, he felt surprised at how easy it had been to tell Erica. Far easier than he supposed it would be to tell Hanna and the rest of the family. Erica cared for him, but her life wasn't wrapped around his in the same way. For the moment, having made the declaration and let someone else carry a bit of the burden, he felt light, almost giddy.

"Ben," Erica said, snagging his attention with the subtle quaver in her voice. Unshed tears shone in her eyes as she took his hand. "You never know—you might... it could be... every day people live longer than doctors predict."

"Oh, yes," Ben said. He didn't laugh but only because he'd never enjoyed being cruel, especially to tender young ladies—tough inside though they might be. "Look at Abe Lincoln. He lived nine whole hours, they say, after he'd been shot point blank in the back of the head. It was pressure on the brainstem that killed him, the experts say. Just like this tumor—the pressure squeezed until the brainstem couldn't get the message out to his heart to beat, to his lungs to pull air in or push it out. He just stopped..."

As he rarely had at any time in his resolute life, Ben let his words dry up and drift away on a sigh. Erica's hand had found his where it lay on the arm of his wheelchair. Her grip was hard, perhaps desperate. _She doesn't want to cry._ Somewhere deep inside Ben's perception of the world shifted, and he found himself amazed. All his life he'd pushed people into the places he needed them to take, maneuvered around them or ran over them if they stood in his way. Not because he didn't care about them, but because he needed to make sure his mark on the world would be indelible. Yet somehow, despite his headlong rush through their hearts, a few people had managed to love him. Erica was one of them! _My nurse loves me like a daughter, for God's sake._ And there was Isley, who loved him despite the huge gaps he'd left where a father should have been. And Hanna. Sweet, beautiful, capable Hanna. What a life they might have made if he had been young when they met.

_But no use wasting my last hours on regret_ , he thought, and as if just coming fully awake, he noticed the sun setting in the west. The doves across the pond ruffled and flapped feathers, the females flying in pointless circles in the interest of warming up—building up body heat sufficient to last through the cooling night. They began to settle down as he sat motionless, still watching though now most of the dove couples had retreated out of sight in dense brush. He could hear their gentle cooing as tired males moved aside to let the females take their places on egg-filled nests.

_That's me, again. Tired male, moving aside._ He'd lived his life, struggled every step to do it on his terms, and he was ready to let it go, let all the things he'd watched over pass to someone else's care. In that moment he felt something close to gratitude for the tumor pressing its version of destiny on him—or at least he accepted it.

Squeezing Erica's hand as a comfort to her, he said, "Look, child. Those colors. What a sunset."

#  35

Through the wide window of Ben's room, Hanna watched the sun's slow fall, the stream at the heart of the valley shining red like flames or blood, the fields and trees tinted pink and sparked with gold. In moments, the single star that lit the day would be hidden, and the colors would bleed away into lifeless shades of gray. If she were to turn around, she knew, the pink of sunset would splash its beautiful symphony of colors over Ben, bring the room to life, and all too willing, she might be fooled by the lie. She listened to his breathing but kept her eyes on the world outside. Better not to see false promise, not have to argue with herself and convince herself of what she already knew: Ben would be dead in a matter of days at most.

A tentative knock sounded on the door, and Hanna closed the blinds, leaving the room in twilight. Sighing she turned and walked across the spacious room to the double doors, switching on a small corner lamp on the way. She opened the door to see Isley, as she'd expected.

"How is he," Isley asked.

Each of the past three days, Isley had come at this time. She came to see how Hanna was holding up and occasionally prodding her to go down to dinner with the family. All of them gathered at the estate to wait out Ben's inevitable passing. But every day she started the conversation with this question. Yesterday, Hanna had answered, _"He's been mumbling in his sleep."_ It had been a comforting half-truth. Ben didn't mumble—he didn't have a mind that could control syllables. That facility had disappeared even before he'd slipped into semi-coma two nights ago. At best, Ben could be said to have moaned.

Tonight, Hanna simply shook her head.

"Dinner is—"

"I believe I'll stay with Ben tonight. Maybe someone could bring me coffee. And something sweet, perhaps."

After experiencing hurricane Gordon in 1994, at the age of eleven, which killed over 1000 Haitians, Hannah remembered the smell of death had been everywhere. Not decay, just that dusty, slightly dank smell that accompanied bodies devoid of all energy. Well-meaning elders had fed her sweet things to take her mind off her pain. Again, in Ishinomaki, the same secondary smell of death had permeated the more protected places in the city, inside homes and hotel rooms, for instance, and she'd fed the empty hunger it carved out of her psyche on confections and pastries until she'd made herself truly sick.

Ben's room harbored that smell now, and Hanna's mouth watered with the thought of chocolate cakes, or crème filled bonbons, or iced _petits fours._ She'd given up trying to make sense of the craving—it just was, a part of her like her need to ritually uncover the windows every morning. For her, despite all its woefulness and fear, death came with a sweet tooth.

Isley nodded, seeming to understand, though that didn't necessarily mean she agreed. Oddly, Ben's eldest daughter had been mothering Hanna ever since Ben had announced that his illness had reached this rapidly terminal stage. She'd shown a side of her personality Hanna never would have guessed at. Five weeks ago, beginning the night Ben had shared what he knew of his advancing tumor with the family, Isley had begun to act the family's matriarch.

***

_"Hanna,_ _I've moved into the suite two doors down from Papa's. I'll be staying to help with things. I've called Eli and asked him to get in touch with Matthew and the twins. I've had Gerda get some rooms ready."_

Hanna had to fight to keep her bottom jaw from dropping. Whether it had been surprise, the out-of-character compassion in her voice, or the audacity Isley had shown to not even discuss these plans with her father's wife, Isley's arrangements amounted to a takeover. While Hanna had been in solitude digesting the news Ben had shared of his impending death—a difficult thing to fathom even though she'd known, even though his fragile state had been obvious—Isley swooped in and handled things, right down to directing the actions of the German-born housekeeper Hanna had hired in her first week as Mrs. Hascott. She'd ever-so-efficiently usurped Hanna's place in the family schema,

Or, that's how it felt.

"It isn't necessary for all of you to be here all the time," Hanna responded, choosing her words carefully and doing her level best to keep her sharp resentment from turning her words into a barb. "I can—"

"Bottom line, Han, you're going to need us. You're not the island you like to think you are. And even if you were, I wouldn't let you keep us from Papa now. I think he'll appreciate having us close. Don't you?"

Hanna started the task of framing an answer that wouldn't drive a stake through Ben's daughter's heart, or at the very least drive a wedge between herself and Isley, but before she was ready to speak, Isley broke in again. This time, some of the decades old pain she'd endured as the child of a magnificent but rarely present father made its way into her voice, giving it a hard, rough edge.

_"Regardless! We need this time with him. Lord knows most of us have had too little of him over the years. For once, he won't be putting V-Metals, or Vincent, or you—any wife—ahead of his children. So we_ will _be here, Hanna. Rest assured of_

that. From now until the end."

***

Hanna sat at a small table just out of the circle of light from the lamp, watching from a distance as Isley seated herself on the edge of Ben's bed, stroking his hand silently. Isley didn't let emotion show if she could help it, but Hanna knew the woman well enough to know the appearance of calm acceptance had little to do with what was going on inside. As if to prove her suspicion's right, the last of the sinking sunlight reflected off the metal equipment housing Ben's minimal medical support and, for the barest second, caught a glint of moisture on Isley's cheek.

_It's close._ Hanna's thought came suddenly, without warning or preamble, and instantly a flush of panic swept through her. She stood, breathed deeply into her belly, and walked

over to stand on the opposite side of her husband's bed from Isley. She put to use what she'd learned in years of therapy, distancing herself from her emotions by a trick of the mind in order to take an objective look at her husband's state. How close was he to death, really?

His breathing remained regular, shallow, but with occasional deeper sighs. He was pale. But there remained a hint of color lying just under the skin—not ashen gray, but also not a healthy pink. He would die soon, Hanna decided not to think about it right now.

"Issy," Hanna said, surprised to realize she'd made a decision. Now was the time she'd reclaim the right to hold the reins in her own home. "I've changed my mind. Let's both go down to dinner—I'd like us all to eat together. I'll ask Erica to come and sit with Ben for an hour."

Isley didn't argue—it was as if she had sensed the change in Hanna and the resultant shift in the locus of control. It surprised Hanna when Isley simply stroked Ben's hair once and rose, giving Hanna a nod on the way to the door. It surprised her even more when the moment she made her wishes known the rest of the family meekly followed her dictates.

Isley had been right, a few weeks ago, she realized. Hanna had needed for her to orchestrate the family's affairs for a short time. But as the days had passed, Hanna had not been idle. She'd allowed Isley to direct the family, but she'd used the time to make all her arrangements. Relying heavily on the scarily efficient and knowledgeable Baron-Cohen Kaganovich, she'd made sure that when Ben died her wishes would stand and everything from the estate's finances to the firm's directorship would fall into place like dominoes placed in a row.

On her way into the dining room, Matthew took her aside. "Han," he said, an apology and a plea in his voice. "I think Erica... I'd like to—"

"Go," Hanna interjected, not needing to have him spell out his request. He and Erica were young, so young that death still seemed impossible to look upon and come out unscathed on the other side. Better if they were together, especially if it turned out Hanna's assessment was wrong, and Ben passed while the family was at dinner.

The gathering at the table was more subdued than had ever been the case before, but not morbidly sad. No tears, no outcries. Polite requests to pass the salt, a joke about Emory's left-handed eating causing Eli to spill the wine. When the main course was cleared and dessert—a plate of crème-filled puffs and grapes frosted with sugar—took its place, Eli looked at Hanna, cleared his throat, and asked in a level tone, "Isley and I talked about Papa's arrangements. We know, of course, that the family has the plot in North Dallas. We'll be happy to take care of any last-minute arrangements for you."

"Thank you, Eli. I know you'd help with whatever I might need, but truthfully I've already taken care of it. A phone call will set everything in motion, when that moment arrives."

Eli failed to hide surprise. With some chagrin, Hanna realized that even though she had proven herself clever, wise and supremely capable time and time again, Ben's children still expected _less_ of her. They must have thought that all the time she'd spent on her own over the last few weeks, she'd been wringing her hands in despair, effectively crippled by her husband's prolonged fatal illness. She shook her head slightly at the thought, then afforded Eli a small, a compassionate smile.

After a moment, he smiled back and nodded. "Well," he said, still sounding as if he wasn't quite convinced. "If anything, unexpected comes up, or... whatever you need help with. For Papa, or the estate... V-Metals..." He trailed off without completing his sentence.

"I'll let you know," Hanna said, keeping peace and moving on to the real subject at hand. "Right now, why don't you go up and spend a few minutes with your father. I think each of us should bid him... goodnight, this evening."

An hour later, after each of Ben's children had spent a private moment with him, the entire family stood around his bed. Some, perhaps unconsciously, touched him. Some kept a distance. Ivory even averted her gaze. But Hanna had an oddly confident sense that Ben was present in spirit, that he felt gratified to have his family's love and presence in the end, despite everything.

Gradually, his breathing grew shallow and quick, then irregular, and then intermittent. The room grew so quiet that the tiny breath sounds Ben made seemed loud, and everyone listened as closely as if they had been words.

Then, he breathed an easy, full breath and let it go. Death had come.

#  36

The funeral limousine's diamond-tuck suede ensconced Hanna in cushioned comfort—far too much comfort for an expression of mourning, she thought. She carefully maintained the illusion of being alone, having requested the seats be configured to allow her some distance from other family members. In silence, she gazed vaguely through the window, though there was little to of interest to see on the slow trek from Trophy Club to the cemetery in North Dallas. Some of Ben's five offspring engaged in quiet conversation, but it was nothing more than a low hum in Hanna's ears, easy to ignore. Truthfully she couldn't have made out their words if they'd been louder and she'd tried; her mind was fully occupied dissecting and examining one word.

W _idow._

A quick word, to the point, no frills. A word intended for elderly matrons with blue-gray hair and blue-black pill-box hats that secured nominal veils, which did nothing to hide tear-filled, bleary eyes.

But not a word came from the twenty-eight-year-old Haitian beauty in peak physical condition.

Not a word.

Nevertheless, the _widow_ Hanna G. Hascott nee Costello had become a news day phenomenon reported and watched by a staggering number of people the world over. So yes, widow she was, this day and for the foreseeable future. Because she'd had plenty of experience dealing with reporters and watchers, she'd carefully practiced her expression—or lack thereof—in the mirror before leaving home, and she felt confident her face wouldn't let her down, wouldn't spill secrets.

_"They want to know you,"_ Ben had explained once shortly after they married. _"They want to be treated to the inner Hanna Hascott, to feel they've touched the richness. Just like they tour the homes of the rich and famous and can't stop themselves from running a finger over the marble and gilt."_

Hanna wasn't so far from her youth as to have lost empathy for those who didn't have riches; she remembered feeling much the same. It was part of what had driven her to excel in the corporate world, even before Ben. But as usual, today she would let the world wonder what she felt inside, having created for them an icon they could cling to, an artifice people would nevertheless believe they understood: Trophy wife, fashion-smart, suitably somber, well-behaved.

Her hair, flawless. Makeup subtle yet bold enough to showcase her large dark eyes and full lips. Her beauty must be seen, even behind the nearly sheer widow's veil, finely worked black lace picked with threads of silver, cascading from the soft woven brim of her hat. She'd encased her widely envied figure in a classic LBD, up-styled only a little with more lace and a keyhole neckline, its skirt pencil-straight but for a few inches of flare at the above-the-knee hem. Deliberately subdued, black teardrop pearl earrings and a single pin of plain silver were her only jewelry. Silky fringe on a light challis shawl and thin ankle straps embroidered in black, green, and silver on her square-heeled velvet sandals gave the only hint at her well-known love of boho style.

She would have preferred to be wearing leather slippers and brushed cotton lounging pajamas, to sit in her office at home with a tumbler of scotch, her collection of photo albums, and a good book for distraction. Or she might have wanted to go into the office and sort through piles of folders prioritizing those matters she would have to deal with immediately to keep the sharks at bay. Or she could have enjoyed lunch with Erica outside in one of the estates cabanas, talking about Ben in real terms instead of obsequious formalities.

Or... _Travis_.

She wondered where he was right at this moment. He must know about Ben's death, the funeral. The mess Ben's enemies would be boiling up to serve his _widow_ —with a side of arsenic, no doubt—at the first opportunity. _Maybe... maybe he'll come. Maybe he'll be there, at the funeral._ She would have liked to talk to him, to accept from him solid comfort. Her composure slipped for a fraction of a second as she remembered the security of Travis's embrace after she'd run from the noise of the fountain in Las Vegas.

Quickly, before emotion could steal her poise, she breathed in and out several deep, quiet breaths letting her thoughts go as blank as her well-schooled face.

The limousine stopped, the show was set to begin.

The attendant from the funeral home opened her door and proffered his arm for her to take, eyes appropriately focused only vaguely on her. "Mrs. Hascott," he said in almost a whisper.

She took his arm, though she had no need of help, and allowed him to pass her off to Matthew, who patted her hand on his arm, said "Han" with a flicker of sympathetic smile. He led her to her velvet-draped, grave-side seat under the shade of a dark green canopy, and then quietly left her to herself, merging through the gathering crowd to stand a little apart from Isley and the rest of his siblings. Hanna knew he kept his eye on her, and she appreciated it, but Matthew wasn't the man she most wanted on her side. That would have been Ben, but of course...

She scanned the crowd without any outward evidence she was doing it, a skill she had perfected in Ben's company when the elite social scene had still been new to her. In Seattle once at an oddly casual gathering of tech-made billionaires, she'd been stunned by the sheer number of famous faces and the surprising things they wore, not to mention behavior.

"I understand the temptation to gawk, Han." Ben had said. "I'll let you in on a little secret; as long as I've been a part of these circles, I still like to check out who has the nerve to wear what, who's had too much to drink, who's been shunned, and who's conferring quietly in corners. It's fine, just don't let them see you do it." He'd explained the tricks: arrange for your eyes to be shaded, don't turn your head from side to side, and pay attention what you see in your peripheral vision and what passes by in front of you."

Even counting those she could see from her seat, far too many of the wrong people had come. Longtime enemies mingled with old, loyal friends as if they had every right to mourn Ben's passing. Business acquaintances and household staff dodged paparazzi. News cameras equipped with zoom lenses dotted the outskirts of the gathering, each attended by an operator and a perpetually talking reporter.

_Reporters_. As the family and closer guests made their way toward the limited seating, preparing for the obligatory reading and prayer to begin, Hanna overheard one rather excited-looking woman from a Dallas network news show speaking into her mike. "Many, many people have come to pay last respects to Mr. Hascott and offer their sympathy..."

Someone reached over and squeezed Hanna's shoulder, and her heart fluttered, a few beats of a hummingbird's wings, before she turned to find the hand touching her belonged to Vincent DiMaggio. Hanna half-smiled acknowledgement without letting it reach her eyes and turned back toward the coffin, decorated now with at least its weight in flowers, but still suspended over the grave, draped in more velvet not unlike, Hanna thought, a magician's box. Hanna shook her head ever so slightly, banishing the morbid thought.

The reporter was still blathering... "This man was well-loved in many circles..."

_Right,_ Hanna mentally interposed, _even though at least half the people here are enemies or rivals of one sort or another._ But reporters with no finesse were not the reason she'd been looking around. She returned to her slow perusal of the crowd, and though she went about it in an almost disinterested way, she admitted to herself that she was looking for a particular, unlikely face. Against hope, she looked for Travis Burton.

***

Perched on a hard, sharp-cornered barstool in a hotel lounge in Surabaya, Travis downed the last tepid liquid from the bottom of his glass. He didn't even taste the sour, not because he'd had too much to drink, but because his thoughts were 15,000 or so miles away, at a funeral in North Dallas, Texas. He'd tried to ignore the fact of Ben Hascott's funeral, but the business contact he'd had drinks with earlier—a mogul of sorts in Surabaya's shipyards—had seen to it that the televised coverage of the big event was tuned in on two of the lounges three large television screens, one of which hung directly in front of him across the bar.

Travis signaled the bartender and, this time, ordered his vodka neat and double. The television pulled at his attention like a magnet—or a dominatrix—and he gave in, hoping to catch more than a glimpse of Hanna. Wanting to see she was okay. Not wanting to wish he was with her, not wanting to see her needing... someone.

In a stroke of perfect luck, just as he fixed his attention on the screen, a camera panned to the widow Hascott and zoomed in.

_Not crying,_ Travis was glad to notice, but he realized a second later that her expression was falsely placid. _She's become an actor._ She seemed distant from those around her, self-contained, just short of disinterested, but he could tell—because he knew all the tricks she was using to hide it—she purposely scanned the faces present. For a second, her eyes focused on the camera. Travis quickly averted his gaze, having the uncomfortable and completely ridiculous notion that she would know he was watching her.

But something snagged his alcohol-dimmed awareness just before he looked away, and he turned back in time to get another look as the camera slowly zoomed out. What he'd seen, after he thought about it, made him want to laugh.

Her pin—a simple silver spoon.

He let the smile creep up from his lips to his eyes and then did laugh out loud, prompting a disturbed look from the bartender. After leaving a hefty tip, Travis grabbed his jacket off the back of the colorfully-clad stool and swept out of the bar, resisting the urge to whistle.

#  37

The sound of shuffling papers filled the room, accompanied by quiet clinks of glass and ice cubes sliding against each other. Hanna was familiar with this tactic of Agostino's. He would allow the patient to adjust and get themselves ready until they could speak. He wouldn't mind if the patient chose silence until the end of their session; he wouldn't even charge them if they did.

It was a tactic he used on her at the beginning of her treatment. The tiniest attempts to breach her thoughts always lead to her walking out on the psychiatrist. A month of the same treatment allowed Hanna to adjust, to speak a word or two at first before she allowed Agostino to help her heal.

Reverting to the same tactic now spoke volumes on how fragile he perceives her to be.

"No reason to give me the cold shoulder, Doctor," Hanna said as she poured herself more water. "I've gone to Moritaya, you know."

"Excellent reviews online and among my peers," Agostino replied. He ceased his filing and turned his full attention to Hanna.

Hanna drained her glass.

"I've stopped crying a week ago," she said as put her glass back on the drinks tray.

Agostino nodded. "Have you been eating well?"

"My trainer has reliably informed me that I've gained a few pounds in Fukushima."

"Mmm. Could you describe the taste of the food?"

"Raw." Hanna smiled. "Tastes of the ocean. The ground. The wind. Fresh. You can barely taste the artifice, or what little of it is in the ingredients."

"Beautiful description, Hanna. Though I do wonder if what you've described to me is without experience."

Hanna held his gaze. "If this was us when we just met, then yes. It would have been lies and generic platitudes. But this time, it's true. I've understood before why Japanese cuisine is considered exquisite but now, I know it is above anything one can imagine."

The smile on Agostino's face eased Hanna enough to allow her to refill her glass. When she had finished drinking, her psychiatrist's face was a blank slate once more.

"Do you want to tell me of your adventures in Fukushima? It wouldn't hurt to give an old man like me space to live vicariously through your anecdotes."

"Tut tut, Leó. So, unbecoming of a distinguished man to say such things."

Both of them laughed. The feeling of elation that came with laughter sat better in Hanna's chest now. She's been laughing all month with the TWC, playing the enthusiastic tourist and letting herself feel her all-too-young age.

Yet the girls knew she could not fully shake the specter of her husband's death. They let her grieve, let her shed tears at unguarded moments, gave her space when coddling only served to trap her emotions.

Smelling the fresh mountain air in the mornings and the sap of trees, mingling with steam, while soaking in the onsen rejuvenated her as much as human contact did. Cloistered in the luxurious in did the opposite of making her feel trapped: inside the halls and rooms of Moritaya, Hanna felt free.

Hanna's recollection of her time in Japan distracted her so much that she didn't notice the look of genuine relief on Agostino's face. Though he opined that his relationship with the Hascott widow was primarily business-like, he grew to care about her as much as any of his patients. Seeing the young woman heal as authentically as she did removed some of the burden on his shoulders.

Yet he knew she had to hurt just a bit more before she could truly heal.

"It's been nearly three months, hasn't it?" Agostino asked when Hanna's anecdote reached a lull.

He was pleased when Hanna didn't stiffen up.

"Two months, three days," Hanna began. "I've lost track of the hours and the minutes."

She surveyed her nails before continuing. "The wound stopped bleeding. There's no telling when the skin will fully heal, but at least the wound stopped bleeding. I remember what you told me at the estate, when I refused to eat and Isley summoned you to help. Which of us needed your aid more, I couldn't tell.

Agostino examined the memory quite closely himself in the days leading to their appointment. All he had done was recite what his own psychiatrist told him when his first wife passed away.

"When a child scrapes their knees, it often isn't the pain that they first feel. It's the shock of having something so violent happen to them when their safety is often so promised. The pain follows closely and takes hold immediately that this break from normality is relegated to obtuse conversations like this one," Agostino told her as they sat opposite each other in the sitting room just outside Ben's room, now the sole property of Hanna.

"Ben has never concealed his condition from you. What he did was to make you feel safe even when you believed yourself to be vulnerable. His presence alone was a shield, your protection. All the times you've made your disdain of Ben's oft-overbearing nature were genuine yet... I do think that you understood the purpose behind his obtuseness."

Hanna laughed then, bitter and at the split-second between shock and pain. The Mrs. Hascott Agostino faced now was far beyond these feelings.

"Ben's obtuseness was not a foolish act at all," Hanna said as she met his eyes again. "He believed I should never feel that shock. The pain sufficed. Everyone feels pain and feeling it after his passing is natural. He didn't want me to feel betrayed. When I understood that, the guilt of moving on began to pass. Little white blood cells, surging through, to stop wound from leaking life."

"If this is the case, then what's stopping it from healing."

At this, Hanna's confidence seemed to falter.

"When I was... contesting the V-Metals board, there was a... consultant."

If Agostino knew anything about Travis, he didn't show it.

"The consultant was the key to getting certain information from Desrosiers and Oppenheimer and helped formulate my presentation to the board before I was overruled. They... disappeared, of their own volition, after a certain period."

"And their leaving opened the wound that Ben's death deepened."

Hanna's lips quirked at that. "Let's just say that this consultant had a way of worming themselves inside people's lives without their notice."

It was the truth. Before Hanna knew it, she thought of Travis at any point of her day. Everything had the potential of reminding her of the man who apparently lied to her every day until happenstance forced him to reveal the truth.

Whereas Ben cultivated a hard personality towards her to prepare her for his passing, Travis ensnared her with his easy reassurances and charm and left her open for an attack. Yet she accepted both harshness- from Ben out of their mutual love and Travis out of her temporary avarice for respite.

Hanna was afraid to think of her need for Travis as anything more than a rectifiable mistake.

"Have you thought of being intimate with this consultant?"

Agostino held his hands in front of him and calmly said, "I meant no offense."

Hanna hadn't even realized that she had risen to her feet until Agostino invited her to sit down or re-schedule. Anger surged through Hanna though none was directed at her psychiatrist.

The heat was directed at her. Hanna knew, Hanna still _felt_ and _remembers_ the taste of Travis' mouth, the firm planes of his body pressed against hers, and the way his cologne lingered on her clothes until she was forced to shed them. She had thoughts about betraying Ben's trust and felt no guilt about it until she was forced to confront the truth upon Travis' betrayal.

Her anger was reserved for herself and Travis alone.

"I'm... sorry," Hanna said as she sat down.

Agostino shook his head. "I should be the one apologizing. I was being inappropriate."

"No, no... This matter should've long been buried."

"Your outburst suggests you've been struggling with this burden for a long time."

Hanna sighed. "Far too long. My feelings over this person is... complicated. I want to see them again but I'm afraid of what may happen if we meet again."

"Can you easily contact this person?"

"No. I haven't had a direct line of communication with them since they left."

"Perhaps your emotions are muddied by their departure? Or they became more muddied when they left."

"Perhaps. I can't blame all of this solely on that. That would be dishonest."

"Rarely is there a problem that results from a single action."

Hanna considered her next words carefully. "I feel- no, I believe meeting him again may uncomplicated our relationship again."

They looked at each other and silently agreed that this was, for the moment, the best recourse for this particular problem.

"One last topic for the road, Madame CEO?"

A chuckle made its way to Hanna's lips before she could stop it. "To be honest, I've done so much work for V-Metals on a leading capacity that it almost feels dishonest to say that I feel nervous."

"Almost?"

"Let's not kid ourselves, Leó. Ben's left me what our ancestors would call... rightly call an empire. The British, the Aztecs, the Chinese- none of them were able to almost seize the world as V-Metals ever had. Foolish is the kindest word you could use to describe someone who wouldn't be intimidated by that."

"Yet you're already handling the situation better than you once would have."

Her psychiatrist was right on the money. The Hanna from nearly a year ago wouldn't have comprehended the thought of becoming CEO, let alone all Ben's death or Travis' departure.

Admittedly, her personal emotions were still a little shaken up. But if she were put through the same grinding pressure of the DiMaggio scandal again, she knew her resolve would resemble that of Ben's in his prime.

Hanna had, without her noticing, metamorphosed into the independent woman she needed to become.

Agostino offered a hand to Hanna as they stood from their seats. At the door of his practice, the psychiatrist gave Hanna an expectant look.

Hanna smirked at Agostino as she opened the door. "Mr. Agostino, trust me when I say that whoever expects to meet the same Hanna Hascott in the boardroom this time around will never be the same. Ever. Again."

#  38

The single, hooded lamp cast a brilliant circle of light over Hanna's desk, making the dim room's overlapping shadows seem soft and surreal. She liked the effect. It reminded her of her life over the past weeks since Ben's death.

She'd known she loved Ben, appreciated him, and depended on him. She'd known he was dying for a long time, and as his health continue to gradually decline, she'd known he could pass at any moment. Deceiving herself into thinking she'd dealt with the lion's share of her grief before he was even gone had been easy.

And monumentally foolish.

From the moment of his death until after the funeral, she'd walked and talked like an automaton equipped with a setting for _recent widow of powerful billionaire._ She spoke thanks for expressions of sympathy, made sure the rest of the family was not overly neglected, saw to last minute details, and pretended the rest of her life didn't exist. It may as well not have. V-Metals, her charity foundation, her friends, enemies, even every minute of her life from birth until Ben fell into an outside orbit that didn't seem like a part of her. During that time, everything she did was done in the dark. She'd avoided her morning ritual of letting in the daylight, and though lamps were lit throughout the house and the sun shone bright in the Texas sky, not a single light could penetrate the blinding gloom she lived—or pretended to live—within.

But once Ben was buried and those final chores done, she'd found a way to put some distance between herself and her grief. She'd awoken one day and without thinking began to push the curtains back, arranging them carefully, perfectly neat as always. She'd given Aldo a huge raise, bid him to enjoy his semi-retirement, and reassigned him to chauffeur family and guests only as needed, on call. She, the-Haitian-child-made-rich, didn't need a chauffeur. She liked driving. She liked the car Matthew had given her. And she especially liked her independence.

She'd sped almost joyfully to V-Metals, parked the metallic Benz in space G1, refused as usual a security escort, and rode the lift to her floor. As she exited the elevator and strode calmly through the halls to her office, she'd had to stifle a laugh at the looks on the faces of those she passed. She admitted laughing might be grossly inappropriate—especially as a response to those who looked—ridiculously—sympathetic. _Or not sympathy. Pity_. She should know having seen it often enough before. Others seemed not to know _how_ to look at her, so they made sure not to glance her way at all, in a couple of cases even bumping the wall in favor of not being trapped into an exchange with her. Hanna didn't mind, but they could have saved themselves the trouble. She cared not a jot for their pity _or_ their fears.

But then there were those few who met her neutral gaze with a sneer or a snarl. Those she took careful note of. Ridding herself and V-Metals would be among the first business on her agenda. They probably didn't suspect little Hanna, the trophy wife, could be ruthless for the good of the family, the enterprise, and her own peace of mind, when ruthlessness was called for.

She needed to make V-Metals hers in truth as it was on paper. She held controlling stock in the company by a decent margin, and Ben had made his wishes known to the family. Eli and Isley were invaluable to the company, but Isley was still needed in her current role, and Eli was no Ben, nor did he have the drive and acumen to pilot a ship the size of V-Metals through the troubled waters of international business affairs. Neither did Hanna, but she had other qualities that would suffice—drive without undue personal ambition, the heart to rise again even after failure, and _vision_. That last one was the quality she shared with Ben, the quality Ben had seen in her and trusted, loved, from the very beginning of their time together. And if anything, Ben's death—his memory—made her more determined than ever to see her vision manifest.

She spent two weeks cleaning out the cobwebs that had accumulated in V-Metals: misdirected business ventures, contracts gone stale, employees and directors gone too bitter or brave or cautious. She'd done what she could to protect V-Metals and herself from enemies, reinforced old alliances and put new ones in the forge. She'd made a careful study of how corporate resources had been allocated and dedicated a safe but effective share to her true purpose—to help relieve the suffering state of the world.

Austerity for those on the top, as she saw it, could mean decent lives for those without the same advantages, and to that end she escalated her programs to give employees not only the foundation of decent benefits, but a corporate leg-up for those with visions of their own. Finally, she'd put The Global Relief Foundation—her personal core mission—into the crucible and brought it back out tempered and transformed, a tool she could use to leverage a real difference for people in the dire circumstances of disaster.

And through all that, work had functioned as her circle of light. She'd kept at it every day until exhaustion forced her to leave the rest for tomorrow, driven home, and in no time fallen into her bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow. The next day, she rose and did it again, and as long as she didn't slow down or falter, grief and fear remained walled away from her as if she moved through her tasks on a stage, blinded to the world outside her spotlight.

Just like the light from her small lamp, on this night, kept the dark from her idle hands as they lay on her desk.

_There's still work to do,_ she told herself. It was true—she'd only done the beginnings so far, set things up the way a roofer places shingles in caches around the roof to be applied later one by one. But true though the thought might be, it was also an attempt at comfort. An attempt to deny the truth that she'd have to stop sometime and let the realities of life—grief, pain, regret, joy, play, love—she'd have to let them touch her sometime.

Soon.

Now.

No.

Her cell phone buzzed, jolting her from her reverie and sending her heart racing. When she recovered enough, she took the phone from the pocket of her blazer and found she had a text from "caller unknown."

"Han, I know I've waited too long to send this. I am truly sorry about Ben's passing. And I'm sorry I can't be there to help, maybe hold you, a shoulder to cry on. I never wish anything for you but the very best. Keep your head up Silver Spoon."

It was signed, "Someone who cares."

Hanna smiled, but it was rueful. "I wish you the very best too, Travis Burton," she said. She wondered how she was supposed to feel about the message, but honestly, she didn't feel anything much. The man was like a memory she could only see if she turned the mirror to a certain angle. Not even real.

Yet getting the text had scattered whatever had been holding her motionless in her chair, given her a push from inertia to momentum, and she began to gather her things in preparation for going home. Tonight, she wouldn't go straight off to sleep if she could help it. Maybe she'd get in touch with Matthew, arrange lunch tomorrow. Maybe she'd sort through a few of Ben's mementos and photographs, decide what to keep. Maybe she'd even cry. Or laugh. Both.

The ring of her desk phone didn't startle her, but she was surprised at the voice she heard when she picked up the receiver.

"Hey, Hanna! Felicia, here. The TWC has been missing you."

Hanna didn't know what to say to that. She'd sent announcements. They knew Ben had died. If she recalled, some of them had been at the funeral. "Well—"

"Oh, no worries, girl. We know you've been going through the tough stuff. That's part of the reason I called. We all want you to know we're really sorry about Ben. Trophy wife or not, we know you loved the man."

"Thank you," Hanna said automatically. She tried to think of something suitable to follow, but there was no need.

"How are you?" Felicia asked.

Hanna could tell it was a serious question, not small talk, but she'd never had much practice at being girlfriends, and she didn't know how to respond. "Okay," she offered. "Mostly busy with work."

"Already?" Felicia didn't wait for an answer this time. "So, all the more reason you need to come with us for a little vacation. A real one, not like that craziness of yours in Las Vegas."

"I don't know," Hanna protested, but again, that's as far as she got.

"I figured you didn't, but I do. Pack and get yourself a flight. We've got resort suites enough for all of us to share already booked. We'll be there tomorrow, and you should too."

Feeling like an amateur skier being towed by a hydro, Hanna said, "Fukushima."

"Right," Felicia said. "Atami, to be more precise. We've got six rooms at the Moritaya—and they only have ten! Staying for a week. Some of us want to do a little hiking—gorgeous country like a painting. Like that artist, Koukei Kojima. Ever heard of him?"

She didn't even seem to pause for breath, so Hanna didn't try to answer.

"But some of us are more into the baths and the pampering and drinks on the decks, and all that, you know what I mean? Oh-oh, phone's ringing and it's... yep. The hubs. Gotta go. So, look up the Moritaya and call me back to say yes right away. Ta!"

Hanna waited until she stopped feeling dizzy from the whirlwind that was Felicia, but then, even though she was pretty sure she should say no, she fired up the computer and looked up the resort hotel. Impressively peaceful, though she wasn't sure how that would work out with the TWC. Maybe, if she went, she could get both—peace _and_ crazy fun. Still thinking, she also made a few stabs at searching on various possible spellings of the name of the artist Felicia had mentioned. Finally, she got it right, tripped through the images of his paintings, and thought she understood why Felicia had used them to describe the river landscape around the resort.

The Moritaya looked... inviting. And the TWC would be fun. They'd keep her laughing much of the time but she was pretty sure they'd also give her a little space to give into grief if she needed it. Which she suspected she would.

Yet hadn't she just been thinking about how much work remained to be done—work that would never stop but nevertheless needed to be started soon. She wasn't convinced now was the right time for her to leave V-Metals to others' care. Still undecided, she picked up her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found Felicia's number. Her finger poised to hit "dial," she hesitated.

_Come on, Hanna!_ she scolded herself. _When did you get so indecisive?_

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts and was immediately followed by the door opening. Matthew walked in, with Isley close on his heels.

"Hey, Han! I missed you, so I talked Isley into coming with me to convince you to go out for some dinner with us." Matthew walked around the desk to give her a hug. "Oh, Fukushima?" he asked, getting an eyeful of Japanese countryside and surrounds on her monitor. "Are you going on vacation?"

"I'm thinking about it," Hanna started, but this must have been the night for people not to let her speak.

Isley, who'd also come around the desk, exclaimed, "The Moritaya! I've been there. It's completely lovely. Not to be missed. Who are you going with?"

"Some women I met a while back—kind of a club—want me to meet them there. I'm not sure I'm going, though."

"Of course, you are," Isley said. "It will be good for you. And nothing like a group of girlfriends to help you get the break you need. Papa's illness, his dying, all those arrangements and necessary things, and then you've been like a human scrubbing brush around here, cleaning this business from the inside out."

"She's right, Han," Matthew interjected. "And you know if you don't go now, you're not going to go at all. You'll get all set in your work routine and the only trips you'll take for a long time will be business. This is the perfect chance."

"You're right," Hanna acknowledged. "I'm ready for a break, truth be told. I'm just not sure V-Metals is ready for me to take a whole week away, what with all the recent happenings."

Isley actually snorted. "Don't be silly, Han. We've managed the business before, Eli and I, and we've still got Thelma and Oskar on board. Don't tell me you don't think you can trust us to keep the ship afloat for a single week?!"

Hanna looked back at Isley, for a moment, mildly shocked. Then she nodded her head in a tiny, mock bow. "Nicely done, Issy," she said. "If I don't go it means I have no faith in the top people in the company, who also happen to be my close family. I sort of have to go now, don't I?"

"Yes," Isley said, looking smug. "You certainly do."

"Okay, then," Hanna said, "I will!" She giggled—actually giggled—already feeling lighter and younger than she had in longer than she cared to remember.

# Epilogue

July 15, 2020 Wednesday

Aurora, Philippines

With one last heave, Hanna lifted the cardboard box onto the table and sighed.

" _Salamat, hija_ ," one of the coordinators minding the table said. "Why don't you sit down _muna_? Simon, he is fixing the food at the clubhouse. We will eat soon."

Hanna smiled at the kind offer. "I'll just get the kids some water. You all need to get rest and food before I do."

The coordinator waved her off and said, "No, no, no, you are our special guest. You have to eat first."

She was stopped from pushing Hanna to the awning of the clubhouse by Patti, Hanna's translator. Patti whispered to the old woman which made her cackle and reply with something that made the volunteers around the area laugh.

Patti's ears burned red as Hanna asked, "What's wrong?"

Her translator shook her head and urged her out of the volunteer's area. Such behavior would worry Hanna a few days ago, but working and living with her fellow volunteers desensitized her to their unique humor.

Hanna picked her way through the mud that persisted on the way to the supplies tent. They had barely cleared the debris when the Global Relief Fund began operations in Baler. Her volunteers said they had to operate out of relief trucks before enough space was cleared for their tents.

Not for the first time, Hanna thanked GRFs' sponsors. Within days, they were able to help the government re-establish communications and use of the main roads to source more goods into the municipality. The grievously injured were flown out and temporary mass shelters were erected for the homeless.

What made her the happiest was the children's center they were able to make after someone volunteered their home to house orphans.

Patti was one of the orphans who could speak all four languages of the area fluently enough to properly translate Hanna's thoughts.

"Gibo and Sherly are fighting over the dolls again," Patti told her, exasperated, as she pulled out the phone Hanna gave her. "And your assistants in Milan are asking if we need more noodles. Please say no, I think the kids will riot if they see more noodles."

Hanna grinned. "Copy that."

"And an... Aldo? Like, the shoe brand? Wants to talk to you."

Surprised, Hanna pulled out her own phone and looked up Aldo's contact details. Within a few rings, her former driver picked up.

"I was starting to think Patti managed to elope with you," Aldo said cheerfully.

"Ha –ha, Aldo, what do you have for me?" Hanna replied as she playfully rolled her eyes. Despite being GRF-Italy's country manager, Aldo still acted as if he served the Hascotts.

Hanna appreciated the camaraderie immensely. Years hadn't made it easier to stomach Matthew and Erica's betrayal. Their disappearance brought Ben's children together, yet the hurt lingered.

"We received an application for a new sponsor today," Aldo said, piquing Hanna's interest.

Giants and SMEs alike clamored to sponsor GRF due to its financial transparency and tax incentive programs. A new application wasn't newsworthy- Aldo bringing it to her attention was.

"What's new about it?" Hanna asked while walking to her small bedroom-office. Patti walked beside her to ward off children trying to get their _Nanay_ Hanna's attention.

"Are you sitting down?"

Hanna gave Patti's shoulder a firm squeeze and entered her room. Locking the door behind her, Hanna strode to her small cot and sat down and replied, "I have a feeling this will be memorable."

"Oh, it is. The new applicant donated as they submitted their application."

"Don't keep me in suspense. How much did they donate?"

Aldo told her. In the tune of nine figures.

"In one go?" Hanna was befuddled. GRF routinely receives generous donations, but they were granted through installments or other forms of reparation. The amount Aldo told her was unheard of. "Are we sure that it's legal?"

"Isley would be cross if she heard you doubt her abilities. She oversaw the transfer and said it all checked out."

Hanna stretched across the cot and grabbed the laptop on her desk. "I need to setup a thanksgiving dinner with this company. I'm thinking of a charity dinner here in the Philippines. $500 a plate, accommodations and plane tickets packaged, proceeds go to storm victims. Aldo, do you think-"

"Slow down, Mrs. Hascott," Aldo chuckled. "The donor wants to be kept anonymous. They only left their company's name as proof that their donation is legal."

"Then who donated it?"

Aldo called for his assistant, who replied to his query in Italian. "Thank you. The company defaulted in 2018, but they managed to work a stipulation with the bank that entitles GRF to the donation."

Hanna booted her laptop and clicked on her web browser with impatient taps. "The name of the company, Aldo."

"Silver Spoon Enterprise."

She stopped, mid-type.

"Are you familiar with the company?"

"No," Hanna replied. Her lips were widening into a smile she couldn't manage even if she wanted to control it.

She mouthed a thanks to Travis, wherever he was. She thinks she'll say the same thing when they finally meet again. With any luck, Eli and the twins will find him soon.

Her time in Aurora had three purposes: one was to help with rehabilitation efforts after a storm devastated the coastal province; the second was to stop major energy exporters from negotiating the sale of Benham Rise; the third was to verify claims that Travis was spotted in the area.

GRF's volunteers handled the first capably while their lawyers were trying to handle the second. The third was proving more difficult than either of the two objectives.

However, Hanna didn't despair. She knew she would find some clue to Travis' current location soon enough. The last clue he left was hidden in a fissure near GRF's base camp in the Grand Canyon. The proximity to her tent suggested that Travis wasn't as far as he liked to claim.

It was a matter of time before they would meet again.

"At any case," Aldo said, startling Hanna out of her thoughts. "A part of the donation's specified for Hanamaru."

Hanna stifled a laugh. Of course, Travis would donate to Hanamaru. The orphanage and academy will open in Ishinomaki next year, exactly ten years after the tsunami that engraved the city into Hanna's memory hit Tohoku. The main school building was named Kazuki.

"Thank you for the good news, Aldo," Hanna opened a new message on her email client. "Are there location details for the donation?"

"If you're thinking about tracking down our mystery donor, you're in luck. The address listed for Silver Spoon is New York."

Hanna and Aldo exchanged a few more words before the call ended.

It took Hanna three long breaths to realize that she finally believed that she could build her own legacy.
THE TROPHY CLUB

CRYSTALS & COCKTAILS

# BOOK TWO
#  1

STEAMER

Felicia settled back on a teal velvet sofa and sighed. She let her fingers run on its velvety texture and then laid her head on the cushion and closed her eyes, reveling in the otherworldly softness. It brought out the feline in her and she almost purred from the effect of the exotic texture.

It had been three weeks since her marriage to Hugh, and as yet he hadn't glanced at her. She realized that the conditions in which they were married weren't ideal, but that didn't mean that he should treat her like the very throw pillow that now lay on the sofa beside her, a thing ignored.

She let out a sad sigh, picked up the pillow, and hugged it to herself.

Hugh had been forced into this marriage by his late father. Not quite forced, like an arranged marriage, but pressed to tie the knot really quickly with someone, anyone, if he planned to collect his father's sixty-five million dollars and reserve his chair in the company.

Not that Felicia wasn't marriage material. She was a deliciously desirable woman. But the situation and its demands had robbed them of the romance they should have enjoyed. It was true that they barely knew each other, having only dated for a couple of months now. He knew that women as alluring as Felicia were rare. But it had all seemed like a business deal, which, in fact, it was.

However, he was cornered and on the verge of forfeiting his interest in Ruthenbach Industries if he didn't marry her, or someone, soon. Until then, he couldn't stake his claim on the Fortune 500 Company he had been successfully running for the past eight years.

She remembered his rancor when he first saw the will, because she was right there to witness it all. Somehow, he had made it seem, at least to her, like this was her doing, which was far from the truth. His mild temper tantrum and testy glance at her as he stormed out of the house with some parting words echoed in her mind. "I'll find a way to break this damn blackmailing will. There's no way I'm going to give up what I have earned with my blood and sweat."

Apparently, he _had_ gone on his word, because here she was, now Mrs. Felicia Ruthenbach, sitting in Hugh M. Ruthenbach's living room, wearing his wedding ring.

"He could have at least been nicer, more understanding of my feelings than he was," she told herself sadly, hugging her knees. "It's not like I pushed him to this or I planned it."

She was now talking to furniture and pillows, thanks to her cold bastard of a husband. She realized and hoped that the romance and desire would come, but at this point she was doubting it all. He had been all business, with very little room for Felicia and her delicate feelings.

She stood up and walked to the huge silver sunburst mirror on the wall and gazed at her reflection.

"Am I that bad to look at that he doesn't so much as glance at me?" she said to the mirror.

She caressed her cheek and stared into her own eyes. Her warm brown eyes were complemented by her definitively arched eyebrows. Her skin was fair, her nose well-defined, and her high exotic cheekbones were the highlight of her alluring features. She loosened her raven-soft hair from the rough braid she'd made earlier and let it cascade onto her shoulders. She then ruffled her hair around with her fingers and angled her face to showcase its best side. Ego aside, she wasn't bad. He couldn't do much better. But maybe Hugh's perspective wasn't the same.

Whatever the case, she was just tired of feeling like she wasn't good enough. She wanted Hugh to notice her, hold her, to treat her, well, like his lover, like his wife. And there was only one way to make herself noticeable to him, to tell him what he was missing.

Hell, if she wasn't going to give it a try, she might as well show off what he was missing while away at work. Give him something to think about while he's eating his lunch alone. Get him to think it is possible to make the long drive home for a quickie and make it back in time to work. She smiled at the thought.

She was now convinced she was going to win her husband's attention. Make him want her, fill him with the hot desire she craved.

She shrugged out of her pajamas and went to their walk-in closet to scout for her most seductive lingerie.

Minutes later, Felicia exited the closet, grinning to herself as she tried to pull the untied slivers of her kimono together. After all, she did not want Hugh to view the climax before the teasers even began. However, her hands kept trembling from excitement. The Pre-Valentino silk mini-kimono was as slippery as an eel. She had picked out only the best for her husband, and this item was no exception. A color that brought to mind lilacs in bloom, the kimono should have looked as innocent, too. Felicia had made sure that the piece she chose was not sheer. However, as the light hit the right spots, the article provided tantalizing glimpses of the ebbs and flows her body was made of.

Deciding that the best place to complement her body was the chaise lounge in their bedroom, Felicia made her way to it. Setting the timer on her phone, she draped herself on the furniture with the kimono modestly covering her body. As the phone kept taking pictures, she had ample time to pose in various ways. There was a snap with the kimono just untied, then a shoulder was bared, the next picture exposing both shoulders and the top of the Carine Gilson babydoll that she had bought a few months ago and hadn't until now worn or popped the tags off. This one was a luscious peach in color and look.

As the phone kept snapping pictures of her, Felicia continued to show off the very expensive and risqué lingerie that she had splurged on. Satisfied with her art, she started assessing each photograph before sending them to Hugh. _How bored you must be at work, hubby,_ she thought. _Well, here is some excitement to get things going!_

* * *

"Ruthenbach Industries will never entertain anything less than its full potential. We've always accomplished what we have targeted."

Hugh was in the middle of the board meeting when his phone chirped in his jacket pocket.

He ignored it.

It chirped again and then kept repeating its melodious chime. He could see people stealing glances at him. He cursed to himself and then took out his phone to put it on silent. He glanced at the screen. There were five messages – all of them from Felicia.

_What the hell?,_ he wondered.

He opened them and his jaw dropped at the provocative pictures of Felicia in racy lingerie and lip pouting poses. He was mesmerized as they kept coming. One after another.

"What the . . ." he muttered to himself. He couldn't help where his imagination was going.

The silence in the boardroom snapped him out of it and he realized that everyone was looking at him. He buttoned up his blazer quickly but nonchalantly, covering his arousal. "I have to make a call," he announced. "Excuse me."

He walked out of the room. Once in the corridor, he punched her number in his phone. She picked up on the second ring.

"What the hell do you think you are doing? I'm in the middle of a meeting," he said through clenched teeth, his anger inflated by the helplessness of his thoughts and his body's reactions.

"Winning my man back from the evil glass tower he's trapped inside?" she said in an animated fluttering voice.

"This is certainly not the way to do it, by embarrassing me in front of execs," he said grimly. "So, you can stop this little game that you are playing. I'm definitely not in the mood for it right now."

He was about to disconnect when he heard her sassy tone asking, "Do you like the pictures?"

_What?_ he asked himself. _Didn't she listen to what I just said?_

Hugh more than liked the pictures and it sent his imagination into erotic impulses. But he couldn't tell her that.

"I'm telling you, Felicia. Just stop. I'll talk to you once I'm home."

He ended the call, put his phone in his pocket and walked back into the room which no longer held his interest. All he could see was Felicia in that red lingerie, kneeling and smiling.

His fantasies started building about how she would look in their bed with her hair draping his pillow, his shoulder.

He had been trying hard to resist her at home, but he was more than sure that he wouldn't be able to anymore, or to not think about those pictures.

He was aching for her. More than ever. Despite the conditions in which they were forced together, he always had a thing for her. But he thought of her as unattainable before because she deserved someone better than him. His was too busy climbing the corporate ladder for the last few years and had grown out of touch and rusty with romance and relationships. He was always caught up in the next big project. This was not the life he wanted for a wife he wanted to love and treasure. And today, she was stuck with him in that stupid will of his father.
THE TROPHY CLUB

COURTSHIP & CLIMAX

# BOOK THREE
#  1

WAIT! I GOT THIS

At seven o'clock, Courtney Courtland could smell the caramel apple red tea her Cuppa-Maker® brewer hissed and spat into her stainless-steel tumbler. The dessert-like aroma tea waited for her not fifteen steps away in her tiny, sand-colored kitchen, where the bright Los Angeles sun would already be hot on the vinyl flooring. And where Peppermint, the Russell Terrier who knew he was the real boss in the apartment, noisily crunched his morning kibble. It seemed obvious to Courtney Pep didn't care even a little that his noisy munching created one more distraction for her as she desperately clung to the belief that she was going to complete her morning's yoga session. Presently, she meditated as her yogi had instructed, seated comfortably... well, seated in thunderbolt pose.

This is mutilating my knees.

_Not now_ , she told herself for at least the tenth time. She wrangled her attention back to her breathing, which flowed in and out as usual, but also provided focus. Supposedly.

_I love yoga,_ she told herself, and then realized that this was another pesky thought, which she wasn't supposed to entertain. _Not now!_

Her white tank top and striped cotton boy briefs clung to her skin, her earlier efforts to hold the butterfly asana while performing breath of fire having teamed up with the August heat to kick her sweat glands into high gear.

Ladies don't sweat, they glow.

Not Now! I'm doing yoga.

No problem. I got this.

She breathed in through six slow counts, held for two, breathed out six, held two. Again. A third time. She needed to do this at least sixteen times, her yogi had told her.

How many have I done? God that caramel apple tea smells good.

Not now! Breathe. Count. Okay. I got this!

No, I don't. This hurts my knees. And Pep needs his walk. And I need to mail that package before work.

Breathe. Count.

Peppermint dropped his leash and a fair amount of drool on her right foot.

Crap. Count faster.

Right. I got this!

Peppermint rammed his wet nose into her side, in case she was purposely ignoring him or truly didn't know he was there. Courtney blinked out of her yoga session., "Ouch! Like, that really hurts!" She slowly rose from the floor, stabling her balance before snatching his leash and hooking it to his red dog collar.

***

Courtney smiled as she stepped through the iron gate of her apartment house's courtyard. The tea in her tumbler had been worth the wait—perfect. She'd done her yoga—one more day of making good on her goals. Her makeup had gone on amazingly well, and the Pantone ® pink lipstick was a dead match for her shoulder pack. She'd saved for a month to buy the Gatorgirl Couture skirt she wore, which felt good wrapping the slim curve of her hips in waves of cream silk. Another sexy fitness tank—this one sans sweat—topped the skirt, leaving just a sliver of pale, toned abdomen to peek at the world above a chain belt. She'd donned a hooded shrug—layered in gauzy grays with a thin pink border—to protect her easily-fried skin from Southern California's harshness. Along with the fitful breeze, the shrug would keep her cool, too.

Peppermint tugged at his leash, wanting to get moving.

"Hold on, Pep." Courtney laughed at the little dog who, drool and noisy munching notwithstanding, was a very good companion. _If he could smile,_ _it would definitely be a sarcastic one,_ she thought, _and he would probably do it all the time._ She added, _like me,_ remembering what her friend Felicia had said more than once.

"Don't you ever stop smiling, Dorky Corky, even if it's only to patronize?"

That was Felicia's pet name for her, "Dorky Corky."

And it sort of fit. Life wasn't perfect, but it seemed pretty damn good, and Courtney figured one could never tell when something good had popped up nearby and was already coming to meet you, something that could make a good life into an amazing one. The job she had? Not perfect, but not bad—the optometrist she worked for made her laugh—though usually not on purpose—and her hours were flexible enough for her to continue her night courses. She'd started college a little late, but still, she was only twenty-four. Plenty of time to finish her studies and start her paralegal career, and her life would be even better. She could get an apartment where the kitchen was more than fifteen steps from the bedroom. And surely by then she'd meet someone and take a chance on love. This could even be the day!

_A good morning_ , she decided, after taking a look around and leaning forward to breathe in the sweetness of the honeysuckle planted along the sidewalk, and she added an affirmative nod to her smile. Peppermint tugged his leash once more, and this time she followed him out of the buildings shade and into the sun. He wanted to head to the park but cooperated when she steered him toward The Mail Store. She trotted up the steps, digging the package out of her pack as she went.

A sign on the door read, "Closed for remodeling."

Hmm. A problem. She'd hastily ordered super-cute harem style yoga pants from the Home Shopping Network, and got the wrong size. She loved to watch Shoppers TV and bought more than she should, probably, and usually she ended up happy with her purchases. That was good, because she disliked returning stuff as much as she liked getting it. That explained her procrastinating, which, in turn, explained why she really needed to get this package in the mail today.

She checked her watch. 8:15, and she had to be at her desk by ten. No room for fudging that—the doctor had one pet peeve, tardiness, and she couldn't afford to lose her job. But NoHo Mailboxes was just a half mile or so from work—ten minutes whether she walked or took the bus. She could manage it. She might even have enough time to meet Brook at the Coffee Ring Café for tea before work.

_No problem. I got this,_ she thought, and coaxed Peppermint from his current interest in the ivy at the foot of a palm, heading him back home.

Just around nine o'clock, she stepped from the Red Line Train at the North Hollywood station, and managed to clack up a long flight of stairs—since the escalator was down—to the main street in her sharp-heeled sandals. She serendipitously caught her bus, saving some wear on her ankles, and stepped into NoHo Mailboxes just short of 9:15. A few people stood in line, but if all went well, she'd still have plenty of time.

So far, so good.

A woman nearer the front of the line looked up and Courtney met her gaze, smiling. Clearly shocked at such brazen joyfulness, the woman snapped her head around. _Too bad a smile can scare people,_ Courtney thought, and almost laughed out loud. Just then raised voices entered the door of the tiny storefront.

A man, about forty and broadcasting privilege and confidence, held a tall, earthy but elegant woman by the arm. "For the tenth time, Doris," he said, biting his words off one at a time. "You don't have to do this. I don't want a divorce. What I did was wrong . . . I shouldn't have. But it happened. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make things right."

The woman, Doris, spoke quietly. "It's not the first time, Bob! And it's way too late to get all apologetic on me now when I'd already hired a lawyer."

"Fine! File! I don't care. But don't think you're keeping the house or getting a penny more than the court requires for Jimmy's support, and he'll be turning eighteen in two years. So, you know what that means?"

Every person waiting in line openly watched the couple now. Privacy only went so far when you chose to fight it out in public. When Bob's arm tightened visibly on Doris's arm, Courtney's gasp wasn't the only one.

But Doris apparently wasn't a humble doormat, because she yanked her arm away and hissed. "Don't you ever grab me like that again, you hear me? How dare you come in here in front of all these people and think you can just drag me out of here like I'm your property or something. This is one of the main _fucking_ reasons why I'm express mailing these papers over to _my_ lawyer today, who's also, by the way, a defense attorney that won't mind putting your ass behind bars." Doris stared into his angry icy blue eyes—the same eyes she once fell head over heels in love with—and cocked an even colder smile. "So, my advice? Leave here _now_... while you can . . . of your own free will . . . and go get _yourself_ a lawyer, a damn good one, and hope to hell she can save your ass from the best in the business, because that's who is on my side."

The line hadn't moved at all. Courtney glanced at her watch again—how had fifteen minutes snuck by? Forget meeting Brook, she was cutting the time close just to get to the office on time. Besides, hearing the bitter couple spit venom at each other had been _embarrassing_ enough to make her want to jump out of her own skin _—_ Courtney deeply loathed embarrassment. It showed up bright red on her Swedish-Irish skin. Like sunburn. And between the two, she figured embarrassment was worse.

She breathed deeply, counting.

_It's all right,_ she thought. _I got this._

She set her sights on the door and didn't look to either side as she passed Bob and Doris on her way out—not even when Bob opened the door and held it for her, winking as she came near. _Winking! The creep!_

She stood at the bus stop, her own eyes blinking like caution lights—a fair indicator of her level of discomfort. By the time she'd boarded the bus, sat down, and texted Brook, she'd calmed a bit, but she still jumped when her cell phone buzzed just when she was about to stash it in her bag.

"Don't come to vurk today," Dr. Schiller said, his thicker-than-usual German-French accent making it clear he was displeased.

"But . . ." She paused to glance at her watch again, blinking again, this time in near-panic. "I'm not late."

"You haf no job, here. I haf no more office. I sold. Ze laser doctors haf business, I don't. Your shek vill be ze mail."

"Wait," Courtney started, but he'd already hung up. She raised her eyes—blinking rapidly again—and met the gaze of every eye around her. The phone had been on speaker—they'd all heard every word. Strange faces surrounded her with looks of shocked sympathy. Or was it pity?

Pity!

As if she'd asked, advice started pouring in from every direction, strangers practically shouting over one another, each eagerly imparting their particular brand of unemployment wisdom.

"See if you can get a job with the new owner," a man in a gas station logo shirt said, his accent speaking native Boston.

"Nah, just take it easy for a while. Draw your unemployment benefits!" This came from a young man holding a skateboard.

After a moment the clamor quieted, and the fussily-dressed, lavender-perfumed older woman in the seat next to her held out a tissue, and quietly said, "Oh dear, don't cry."

Courtney _wasn't_ about to cry. On the other hand, she couldn't stop blinking and her eyes did burn. She thought _yoga_ and took a deep breath, then another, and she did start to feel calmer.

But then a ragtag-looking man with a sticky looking beard and dirt under his fingernails jiggled coins in a coffee can at her. The change inside scraped against the metal, as pleasing as fingernails on a chalkboard. "Here, honey," he said, "It's not much but you can have it. Might help a little."

_What? No. This isn't how it's going to be._ Courtney said to herself.

She stood up, getting ready to disembark at NoHo station to catch the Red Line back home. But before stepping to the door, she looked at each of the faces around her. A bus full of well-meaning strangers. _Could be worse._

"Don't worry," she said, stubborn certainty in her voice. "I got this."

# ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Mr. Magevonna is a writer and a graphic artist. He has been a fashion designer over a decade. He is the founder of Fast Lane Fashion. He currently lives in Los Angeles, California.

Léa-Rose is a French investigative journalist, writer, foreign affairs reporter, and pianist. She earned a graduate degree from CUEJ School of Journalism at the University of Freiburg. She lives in France with her husband and two sons. 
