Chapter 3

8:00 a.m., the next morning.

The roaring coming from Nova Entertainment’s top-floor conference room was so loud it drowned out even the exhaust fan at the end of the corridor.

“Thirty million dollars in liquidated damages! It has to hit the account within three days, or the company goes bankrupt—Elena, this is the price of your incompetence!”

I parked my cleaning cart outside the door, a rag pinched between my fingers. Through the gap in the blinds, my gaze locked precisely onto the suited old man sitting at the vice seat—Harold.

This “elder” who controlled the company’s overseas approvals was, in truth, the operator laundering money for a South American cartel. I’d just finished mapping his background last night, and today he couldn’t wait to bare his fangs.

The meeting had been screaming for three straight hours.

At dawn, the largest European international tour partner had abruptly torn up the contract without warning. No question—this was Harold’s strangulation play, engineered to cut off the company’s cashflow.

“They found a better offer.” Harold lounged in his leather chair, idly rolling a custom solid-gold pen between his fingers, eyes like a vulture watching dying prey. “So, Madam CEO—what are you going to use to fill a thirty-million-dollar hole?”

Elena braced both hands on the mahogany conference table, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion, her black business suit failing to hide the tremor in her body.

“This is my father’s life’s work. I won’t let it die. Mortgage every property I own—go to the bank.”

“Too late.” Harold cut her off with a cold smile. “Bank approval takes at least two weeks. The court seal goes on our front doors tomorrow.”

A dead, desperate silence seized the room by the throat. Elena looked drained, collapsing back into her chair.

“But…” Harold pivoted, leaning forward, forcing on a nauseating mask of kindly concern. “Out of respect for how Foster helped me back then, I can’t watch the company die in your hands.”

He pulled a thick file from his Hermès briefcase and pushed it across to Elena.

“I personally have funds overseas. I can front the cash and save the day. But as collateral against the risk, you’ll need to sign this.”

Elena stared at the bold title on the cover, her face turning paper-white. “Transfer 51% controlling shares? You’re taking over Nova Entertainment?!”

“This is saving it.” Harold offered her the pen, his tone cold and absolute. “Sign it, the company lives. Refuse, and by this afternoon we’ll be leaving with cardboard boxes. Choose, Elena.”

The pressure became tangible, crushing the last of Elena’s defenses.

She bit her colorless lips, her trembling hand inching toward the pen. The nib hovered over the signature line, tears swimming in her eyes.

Checkmate.

At the final instant—right before the tip touched paper—

Creeeak!

I shoved the heavy oak door open. The hinge protested with a teeth-grinding scrape.

“S-sorry… cleaning time…”

Dragging my “crippled leg,” I pushed in my cart filled with foul black water, stumbling into the arena where the company’s life and death were being decided.

“Get out! Who let you in?!” one of Harold’s bodyguards roared, drawing his pistol.

In that microsecond, my brain ran ballistics and gravity like a supercomputer.

My left foot caught a three-millimeter rise at the threshold—exactly.

“Ow!”

I let out a frightened yelp, “lost” my balance, and slammed both hands onto the cart’s edge—using the leverage to flip it hard.

Splash—

Ten full gallons of stinking black sludge became a guided mudslide, flying in a perfect arc over half the table and landing dead center on the share-transfer agreement.

The black water soaked through instantly, turning the lethal “51%” clause and the signature line into mushy pulp. Worse, it splattered all over Harold’s face and dripped down his expensive Zegna suit.

The countdown to hostile takeover—stopped by pure physics.

“Fuck! What are you doing, you crippled trash?!” Harold jumped up, wiping foul water from his face like a rabid dog, his fake benevolence shredded. “Shoot him! Kill him!”

Two heavily armored bodyguards lunged like wolves.

I didn’t dodge.

I simply straightened—slowly—my once-hunched spine lifting inch by inch. The nauseating cowardice peeled off me in an instant, replaced by an arctic, Siberian cold.

I casually tossed the broken mop to the floor, ignored the fist about to smash my face, and let my sharp gaze cut past Harold’s fury—drilling into Elena’s shocked eyes.

“This contract doesn’t need to be signed.”

In a voice steady, rasped, and utterly in control, I said each word clearly:

“Let me try breaking this thirty-million deadlock.”