The drive home was quiet—not tense, not angry—just the kind of silence that sits heavy in the air, like both of us were breathing through something we didn't know how to name yet.

The city blurred past the windows, late afternoon sun washing everything in a pale gold. Normally, Val would be talking—commenting on pedestrians' outfits, ranting about traffic, mocking my playlist choices—but today, she just stared out the window, fingers lightly pressed to her lips, lost somewhere deep.

I kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, close enough to hers to reach if she needed it. She didn't. Not yet.

It wasn't until we pulled into our driveway, engine idling into silence, that she finally spoke.

Soft. Barely there.

> "My brother might have just sold his shares of the company to a fraudster."

Her voice wasn't shaky. It wasn't dramatic. It was worse—steady. Controlled. Like she was holding herself together by a single thread.

I turned to her. "Val…"

She didn't look at me. Her eyes stayed fixed on her knees, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"It doesn't make sense," she whispered. "Lucien may be reckless. Irresponsible. Annoying. But he's not stupid. He wouldn't just sign something like that without understanding the consequences. And if he did… if he actually did…"

Her breath caught, just for a second.

> "What kind of person does that make him?"

I felt something twist in my chest. Because she wasn't just talking about business. She was talking about trust. Family. Legacy. The Moreau name—that massive, unshakeable titan the rest of the world bowed to—was suddenly in question because of one signature.

I reached over and took her hand gently. "Hey. Look at me."

She did—slowly, reluctantly—and her eyes were glassier than she wanted them to be.

"You don't know the whole story yet," I said. "None of us do. Trent doesn't. Your dad doesn't. And definitely not Lucien."

A weak breath left her in something between a sigh and a laugh. "Kai… we literally saw the paperwork."

"Yeah. And paperwork tells us what happened. Not why."

She blinked. The tiniest flicker of relief—or maybe just hope—moved across her face.

I squeezed her hand. "We're going to figure this out. You're not alone."

For a moment, she just stared at me. Then she nodded, barely.

> "Okay."

We stepped out of the car, walked inside, and the house felt different. Like the walls knew something had shifted today, even if we didn't fully understand what.

Val dropped her bag on the credenza, slipped out of her shoes, and headed straight for the living room. She sank onto the couch, hands tucked under her thighs, staring at nothing.

I sat beside her, close enough that our arms brushed, not saying anything. Sometimes people didn't need solutions—they just needed presence.

Val didn't speak right away. She just sat there, elbows on her knees, fingers knotted together—like she was trying to hold herself still.

"When we were kids…" she finally murmured, "everyone thought Lucien was going to be the next Charlie Moreau. The heir. The prodigy. The son who'd carry the dynasty."

Her voice was soft—not mocking, not bitter. Just honest.

> "But that wasn't who he was. Not really."

I turned slightly toward her, staying quiet.

"He loved music," she said. "Loved it. He used to sneak out of lessons just to go play piano in the gallery hall. He was happy there. Free. And Dad…" she gave a small, tired shake of her head, "Dad crushed that. He told him music was a hobby, not a future. That he needed to 'live up to his name.'"

Her jaw tightened—not in anger toward Lucien, but toward the memory.

"So Lucien did what he was told. He followed the path Dad forced him into. Business school. Corporate grooming. Executive expectations." She let out a slow breath. "And he hated every second of it."

There was no malice in her tone, only hurt. For him. For what he could've been.

"And meanwhile," she continued, "I was the perfect one. The golden child. The overachiever. Straight A's, scholarships, top of every class. I did everything right." Her brows pulled together gently. "Everyone admired me for it. Praised me for it. Expected greatness from me."

I blinked. "Val… you earned every bit of that."

She nodded, but her expression softened into something more vulnerable.

"I pushed that hard because I wanted him to be proud of me." The admission came out quieter. "Not my dad. Not the board. Lucien."

She stared at her hands for a moment.

"When we were little, he used to call me his 'little genius.' He'd brag about me to his friends. He'd tell everyone I was going to take over the world." Her voice dipped. "I wanted to live up to that. I wanted him to look at me and think I was worth believing in."

A tiny, trembling breath slipped out.

> "And even now… even after everything… I still love him. I still want him to be okay. Even if he keeps making reckless decisions. Even if he's angry at the world for a path he never chose."

Her eyes lifted—glassier this time, but steady.

> "So if he really sold his shares to someone like Otavio… then something's wrong. Really wrong. Because Lucien isn't stupid. He's just… wounded. Cornered. Maybe still trying to rebel against a life he never wanted."

She swallowed hard.

> "And I don't want to lose him because of that."

The room fell still.

Not because she'd broken down…

But because she'd finally said the one truth she'd been carrying for years:

Lucien wasn't the disappointment.

He was the collateral damage.

For a long moment, she just stared at her hands.

"What if he's in trouble?" she whispered.

There it was—the real fear. Not the company. Not the shares. Her brother.

I shifted slightly closer. "Then we'll help him."

She closed her eyes, nodding once. "Even if he doesn't deserve it?"

I didn't hesitate. "Family doesn't work on deserves."

Her head tipped toward me, subtly leaning, like gravity nudged her closer just to keep her upright.

We stayed like that for a while—quiet, still, breathing the same air.

Eventually, her fingers brushed mine.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"For what?"

> "For not freaking out."

I raised a brow. "I'm internally panicking at a very professional level."

A small laugh escaped her, real this time. Soft, but alive.

"There he is," she said, nudging my arm lightly.

"And there she is," I replied.

Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. The heaviness didn't disappear—but it loosened, just enough for her to breathe.

She leaned back, head against the couch.

"So what now?" she asked.

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "we could call your dad—"

> "No."

Quick. Sharp.

I nodded. "Okay. Not him."

"At least… not yet," she clarified. "I don't want to tell him anything until we're absolutely sure. If this really is what it looks like, the fallout could get… complicated."

"Complicated" was an understatement. A potential transfer of shares—especially significant ones—could impact voting power, board dynamics, strategic control—hell, even leadership succession.

But I didn't say any of that.

Instead, I said, "We'll figure out the order. Step by step. Together."

She drew in a long breath, exhaled slowly, and finally… finally looked a little steadier.

> "Okay."

Silence again. But this time, it wasn't crushing. Just still.

After a few minutes, she sat up straighter.

"You know," she said softly, "if Marina were here, she'd probably tell me to stop catastrophizing and drink a matcha or something."

"Marina would shove a matcha into your hand," I corrected. "Then lecture you on magnesium and gut health for thirty minutes."

Val snorted. "God, I miss her."

"Trent sees her every day. Let's not give him that power."

She smiled. A real one. Small, but real.

The room felt lighter.

She reached for my hand again, intertwining our fingers.

"You're good at this," she murmured.

"At what?"

> "Keeping me sane."

I shrugged. "Well. Someone has to keep the global economy standing."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. If I crash, the global economy will survive."

"Will it?" I asked dramatically. "Will investors not sense a disturbance in the force?"

She laughed—properly this time—and leaned her head against my shoulder.

And for a moment, it felt normal again.

Warm. Familiar. Safe.

We sat like that, the world quiet around us.

But even in the calm, a thought began forming—slow, quiet, precise. Not emotional. Analytical.

If Benjamin Otavio wanted Lucien's shares…

If he acquired them through a legal transfer mechanism…

If the Prometheus Acquisition Index was legitimate…

Then—

Shares weren't collected randomly. They were collected strategically.

Piece by piece.

Stake by stake.

Control wasn't taken all at once.

It was accumulated.

Because in corporate power, you didn't need everything.

Just enough.

Enough to influence. Enough to disrupt. Enough to cause damage.

My heart knocked once—hard.

Because if this wasn't an isolated deal…

If Lucien wasn't the first…

If Otavio was targeting Moreau Dynamics—not just for profit—but for leverage.

Then this wasn't a mistake. It was a move.

And we were already late to the board.

I didn't say it out loud.

Not yet.

Val deserved a few more minutes of quiet.

But in the back of my mind, the realization crystallized, sharp and cold:

If Benjamin Otavio had Lucien's shares…

Who else's did he have?

---

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