The conversation had shifted again.
Not softer.
Not smarter.
Just aner.
What started as a casual strategy had twisted into sothing else—a slow burn of ego, greed, and hunger masked in silk and gold.
They weren’t talking about markets anymore.
Or logistics.
They were talking about control.
"How long do you think she’ll last?" the man in the white shirt asked, tossing a grape into his mouth like it was a coin flip. "After we start pushing?"
"She’s stubborn," said the bald man, "but not bulletproof. You pull out her foundation, she’ll wobble like the rest."
"Still," said the younger man, "she’s got backers. People who don’t show their faces."
"So do we," soone replied.
The room humd with that smug, confident kind of energy that only appeared when everyone thought they were the smartest one there.
"She built too fast," said the one with the vest. "That’s the weakness. There’s no depth yet. You hit the top layer hard enough, the rest caves in."
"You think she’ll fold?"
"No," he said, sipping slowly. "But that’s the point. If she fights back, it proves we’ve made her bleed, and that ans that she and her ’empire’ can be broken down."
They nodded like they understood.
But most of them didn’t.
They were playing with fire, and they didn’t even know it was hot.
"She has pride," said the cigar man. "She won’t walk away. That makes her predictable."
"We must break her pride, then attack where it hurts the most," soone else added. "That’s where the value is. Strip it clean, and everything else falls into place."
The room nodded again.
They talked like tacticians.
Like n planning an elegant siege.
But outside the circle, the servers were still moving—still pouring drinks, wiping surfaces, and folding napkins.
Their hands are calm.
Their faces were empty.
But they were listening to every word.
And in their stillness, there was sothing else brewing.
Not anger.
Not emotion.
Just a kind of quiet readiness.
The woman in red hadn’t said much since the earlier comnts.
She just sat with her drink, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded, listening.
But even she noticed the mood had gone too far.
"What happens after?" she asked, voice smooth.
"What do you an?" the white-shirted man asked.
"Let’s say it works. We break her down. The network collapses. What then?"
"Then we divide it," said the bald man. "Territory. Contacts. Infrastructure."
"And the girls?" the man with slicked hair asked, grinning. "We’re dividing them, too, right?"
That was what snapped the tension.
Another ripple of laughter.
Low, guttural.
Wrong.
The bald man smirked. "You wish."
"You’d take Lilith, huh?" said soone across the table.
"Not if I got to her first," another replied.
One of them chuckled, then raised a finger like he was making a toast.
"I’ll say it now. I’d give up a cut of the profits if I could have a single month with Seraphina."
The laughter spiked again.
Even the woman in red finally frowned.
"This is getting disgusting," she said.
But no one stopped. They just ignored her, thinking that she was saying that because she was also a woman.
Their minds were racing ahead, past sense, past reality, caught up in fantasies built on power they didn’t understand.
"I want Isabella," the young man muttered, staring into his drink. "She’s the challenge."
"No thanks," another man said. "She’d castrate you for blinking too slow."
"You say that like it’s a bad thing," the scar-faced one grinned.
The comnts tumbled over each other now, sloppy and fast.
It wasn’t business anymore.
It was rot.
Pride, lust, envy, and greed—all wrapped up in expensive suits and smirking mouths.
And in the corners of the room, where the servers stood—
The air was growing colder.
One of them, a young man with dark hair and gray eyes, was wiping the edge of a crystal decanter.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
But his knuckles whitened for just a second.
Not because he was angry.
But because he was waiting.
For the signal.
For the mont the mask could drop.
Nearby, a woman with her hair tied back in a clean twist was polishing a fork.
Her fingers were delicate.
Precise.
But in her eyes, sothing sharp flickered.
She caught the eye of another server across the room.
A nod passed between them.
And a shared thought.
Soon.
Very soon.
Because once the masks ca off?
There wouldn’t be ti for words.
Back at the table, the cigar man leaned back and sighed.
"I can’t believe no one’s made a real move on her yet."
"They’re all scared," said the vest man. "All bark. No bite."
"Then we be the first."
"That’s what this eting’s for, isn’t it?" said the one with the chain. "No more talking. Ti to act."
The woman in red stood up slowly.
Her chair didn’t scrape.
Her dress didn’t flutter.
She simply rose.
Graceful. Detached.
And when she looked around the room, it was with a cold, bored glance.
"You n are idiots, but I guess that’s why when Lady Isabella told us about the plan, she was sure that this would work," she said softly.
They didn’t hear her.
They were too busy making plans.
And that’s when the doors opened.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just a quiet push.
A hush fell instantly.
The chatter stopped.
The laughter vanished.
Every head turned.
Most with confusion.
A few with irritation.
One man, older and bulkier than the rest, stood up halfway and barked, "This is a private eting, so please do not enter, and where the hell are the guards?"
"Yeah," said another. "Who the hell let you in?"
A third, younger and cockier, narrowed his eyes. "Better get out before you make a mistake that could ruin your entire family."
But then a voice spoke.
Soft.
Amused.
Dangerously calm.
"Hello everyone," she said, stepping into view. "I heard this eting was about ."
A beat of silence.
She smiled.
"So I thought I’d pay a visit... and join the fun."
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