Chapter 8

Sera's POV

The words hung in the air between us. Dominic's expression went very still. Very cold. It was the same look he got in board meetings when someone had pushed him too far.

"I see," he said quietly.

"Dominic—"

"There's a defense industry gala tomorrow night at the Fairmont Copley Plaza." His voice was perfectly level now. Professional. Like he was dictating instructions to his assistant. "Callum Hargrave will be there. He's receiving an award for innovation in aerospace technology. I'll have your name added to the guest list."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me." He moved to his desk and picked up his phone. Started typing something. "You'll receive a confirmation email within the hour. The event starts at seven. Cocktails at seven-thirty. Awards ceremony at eight-thirty. You'll have approximately two hours of networking time to approach Callum before he gets too busy with official obligations."

I stood up. "I appreciate—"

"You should wear something appropriate." He still wasn't looking at me. "This is a black-tie event. Defense contractors, military brass, venture capitalists. If you show up looking like a graduate student, no one will take you seriously."

"I have a dress."

"I'm sure you do." He set down his phone. Finally met my eyes. "But if you want to compete with Marcus Reid and Titan Dynamics, you need to look like you belong in the same room as them. Not like someone who's asking for favors."

The implication was clear. I felt my face get hot. "I can handle my own wardrobe."

"Can you?" His gaze flicked down to my jeans and sweater. To the scuffed boots I'd been wearing since Oxford. "When's the last time you bought formal wear, Sera? When's the last time you attended an event where appearances actually mattered?"

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him I didn't need his money or his advice or his judgment about my clothes. But he was right. I'd been living like a student for five years. I owned exactly one cocktail dress and it was three seasons old and definitely not appropriate for the kind of event he was describing.

"There's a Saks on Boylston Street," Dominic said. His voice had softened slightly. "I'll call ahead and have them set aside some options in your size. Put it on my account."

"No."

"Sera—"

"I said no." I grabbed my bag from the chair. "Thank you for the invitation. I'll see myself out."

I was halfway to the door when he said my name. Not Sera. Not Miss Blackwell. Just the nickname he'd used when I was younger. When things were simpler. Before everything got complicated.

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"You're going to lose," he said quietly. "Not because you're not smart enough or determined enough. But because you're fighting with one hand tied behind your back. And you tied it there yourself."

I left without answering. Walked back down the corridor with its dead Blackwells watching me. Down the stairs. Through the entrance hall. Out the front door into the cooling evening air.

Henry was waiting by the fountain with my jacket. He must have retrieved it from wherever I'd left it. "Would you like me to call you a car, Miss Sera?"

"No thank you, Henry. I'll walk."

He nodded. Handed me my jacket. "For what it's worth," he said quietly. "He's missed you."

I didn't respond to that. Just put on my jacket and started down the driveway toward the gates. Behind me, Blackwell Manor sat perfect and imposing against the darkening sky. All those windows glowing warm. All that space and money and power that had never quite felt like mine.

My phone buzzed before I reached the gates. An email from Dominic's assistant with my confirmation for tomorrow night's gala. Attached was a digital invitation with my name on it: Sera Blackwell, Guest of Dominic Blackwell.

I forwarded the email to Claudia with a message: Need to borrow your black Armani. Emergency.

Her response came back in seconds: For what?

Me: Crashing a party.

Claudia: The dress is yours. But you owe me details.

I put my phone away and kept walking. The evening was cool and quiet. Somewhere ahead of me, the city lights were starting to come on. Somewhere behind me, Dominic was probably pouring himself another scotch and wondering why I couldn't just accept help the way normal people did.

But I wasn't normal people. I was someone who'd spent five years learning how to survive without him. Someone who'd just burned through her entire safety net for a dying woman's company. Someone who had twenty-four hours to figure out how to pitch a military contract to a man she'd never met.

Someone who was about to walk into a room full of defense industry titans and pretend she belonged there.

I pulled out my phone again. Looked up Callum Hargrave on LinkedIn while I waited for the next bus. His profile picture showed a man in his mid-twenties with sharp features and sharper eyes. Yale undergrad, Stanford MBA, CEO of Hargrave Defense Systems at twenty-two when his father died and left him a billion-dollar company. Three years later, he'd doubled the company's value and secured contracts with half the military branches in the US.

The articles called him a wunderkind. A visionary. The youngest CEO in the defense industry.

They also called him ruthless.

I scrolled through his recent activity. Posts about innovation and disruption and the future of aerospace technology. A speech he'd given at Stanford about the importance of backing breakthrough science. A photo from some charity gala where he was shaking hands with a senator.

He looked young in the photos. Younger than I'd expected. Maybe that would work in my favor. Maybe someone who'd inherited a company at twenty-two would understand what it felt like to be underestimated.

Or maybe he'd take one look at me and see exactly what Dominic saw: someone playing at a game she didn't understand with resources she didn't have.

The bus arrived. I climbed on and found a seat near the back. Watched the city slide past the windows while I tried to figure out what I was going to say to Callum Hargrave when I finally got him alone.

I had the technology. I had Vivienne's three years of research. I had evidence that Marcus had stolen everything from Cross Aerospace.

What I didn't have was credibility. Or capital. Or any reason for Callum to take me seriously.

What I had was twenty-four hours and a borrowed dress.

It would have to be enough.