The scent of victory in a boardroom was always the same: expensive cologne masking the ozone of over-stressed servers. But by 7:00 PM, Chloe Lane wanted something different. She wanted the scent of rain on hot Manhattan asphalt.
She stood in her new office—the one that used to belong to the Vane Group's Chairman—watching the city lights blink on like a million predatory eyes.
"The stock stabilized at 104, Chloe," Marcus Thorne said, leaning against the doorframe. He was the only board member who hadn't looked like he wanted to vomit when she took the veto power. "The Street loves a bloodbath, as long as the shark in charge looks good in a suit."
Chloe didn't turn around. "The Street is fickle, Marcus. They love me today because I saved their dividends. They'll crucify me tomorrow if I miss a quarterly projection by a cent."
"Which is why you shouldn't be here," Marcus walked into the room, tossing a thick, cream-colored envelope onto her desk. It was hand-engraved, the paper so heavy it sounded like a snap of a bone when it hit the mahogany. "The Centurion Club. Tonight. 11:00 PM."
Chloe picked up the envelope. There was no stamp, only a wax seal in the shape of a blindfolded lion.
The Centurion Club. It was a myth to people like the old Chloe—the girl who ground coffee beans for eight dollars an hour. It wasn't just for billionaires; it was for the people who made billionaires. The gatekeepers of the American treasury.
"I wasn't invited," Chloe said, her thumb tracing the embossed lion.
"You weren't. But Lane Strategic was," Marcus replied, his voice dropping an octave. "Damien's father, Silas Vane, was a founding member. Since you now hold his proxy, the seat is technically yours. But be warned, Chloe—the men in that room don't care about SEC filings. They care about lineage. They'll look at you and see a virus in their system."
"Good," Chloe said, a cold, sharp light dancing in her eyes. "I've always been good at rewriting code."