The torrential downpour was not supposed to happen. It was a violent, unscripted anomaly that threatened to wash away the meticulously curated perfection of the annual Metropole Gala. Sheets of freezing rain lashed against the asphalt of the city’s most exclusive avenue, turning the iconic crimson expanse of the red carpet into a dark, blood-red river.

The penthouse boardroom was a glass cage suspended eighty stories above the stormy city. Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating Eleanor as she poured herself a glass of bourbon from Arthur’s private decanter.

The heavy mahogany doors banged open. Arthur entered, flanked not by security, but by Silas Vance. Silas was Arthur’s 'fixer'—a dangerously quiet man in a dark suit who handled the problems money couldn't legally solve.

"You always were dramatic, Eleanor, just like your mother," Arthur said, locking the door. "But you walked into a trap. There is a signal jammer on this floor. Your little flash drive is useless. You can't broadcast anything."

Eleanor took a sip of the bourbon, completely unfazed. "I know about the jammer, Arthur. I helped install it when I hacked your mainframe three weeks ago."

Arthur frowned. "What do you want?"

"I want you to sign this," Eleanor threw a thick legal dossier onto the glass table. "It is a full confession of your orchestration of my mother’s murder, alongside a complete transfer of all Hawthorne Global voting shares back to me, the rightful heir."

Arthur laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You're insane. Silas, throw her off the balcony. Make it look like a tragic suicide. The disgraced, deranged daughter couldn't handle the pressure."

Silas Vance stepped forward. He reached into his tailored jacket, drawing a suppressed Heckler & Koch pistol.

But he didn't aim it at Eleanor.

Silas leveled the weapon directly at Arthur Hawthorne’s chest.