98 - Plans Written in Poison
The elevator doors closed.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just a quiet metallic glide—
—but to Andrian, it sounded like a verdict being sealed.
His arms were still lifted.
Still curved.
Still shaped around a body that was no longer there.
His fingers hovered in midair, stiff with memory, as though they refused to accept what his eyes had just witnessed. His muscles still believed she was standing in front of him. Still close. Still warm. Still his to reach for.
But she wasn't.
She had been lifted—effortlessly, possessively—into another man's arms.
Taken.
In front of everyone.
His jaw tightened slowly, tension climbing the line of his throat like something alive, something crawling toward the surface. His breath came shallow, measured, as if too much air might shatter whatever control he had left.
Across the polished marble floor, the elevator doors sealed completely.
That soft click—
—it echoed inside his chest.
A final sound.
A closing scene he hadn't agreed to.
Then—
Click.
Heels.
Measured.
Elegant.
Deliberate.
Each step struck the marble like punctuation in a sentence already written.
Catherine.
She approached without hurry, posture straight, movements precise, her composure so perfect it felt rehearsed. Her lips curved faintly—not enough to be warm, not enough to be kind. Just enough to resemble sympathy if someone didn't look closely.
But her eyes—
Her eyes gleamed with something sharp enough to cut.
She stopped beside him.
Close.
Not touching.
Just within reach of his senses.
Her perfume slipped into the air between them—smooth, expensive, layered.
Silk threaded with poison.
Her gaze remained on the elevator doors.
"Seems like they started close to each other."
Her voice floated lightly, conversational, as though she were commenting on the weather instead of a man carrying a woman away like a claim.
Andrian didn't look at her.
Didn't even acknowledge her presence.
His stare remained locked on the closed elevator as if he could pry it open with sheer will. As if he could rewind time by refusing to accept what had happened.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out low.
Tight.
"I have split them before I planned."
Catherine's lashes lowered briefly.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice—
—but long enough to hide the flicker of satisfaction that sparked in her eyes.
Sooner than expected, she thought.
Much sooner.
She tilted her chin slightly, tone softening just a shade.
"Before you planned?" she echoed, curiosity laced with something subtler. "So you were planning."
Silence stretched.
Andrian slid his hands into his pockets. His fingers curled inward until his nails pressed into his palms, grounding himself in the sting.
"You didn't look surprised."
"I wasn't."
"So you knew?"
"I suspected."
His gaze shifted then.
Slowly.
Sharply.
It landed on her face like a blade testing steel.
"About them?"
Catherine tilted her head, studying him the way a chess player studies a board.
"About him."
A pause.
The air thickened between them.
People walked past in the background—employees whispering, glancing, pretending not to stare—but the world around them blurred into irrelevance. The space between Andrian and Catherine became its own sealed chamber.
Then she stepped closer.
Not invading.
Not retreating.
Just enough.
Enough to charge the air. Enough that her voice didn't need volume.
"You really didn't know?" she asked softly.
Her tone was almost gentle.
Almost sympathetic.
Almost believable.
Andrian didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Her lips curved.
"That possessiveness," she murmured, her gaze drifting back toward the elevator, "doesn't appear overnight. Men like Ethan don't react like that unless something already belongs to them."
Belongs.
The word struck him like a spark hitting gasoline.
His voice dropped.
"She doesn't belong to anyone."
Catherine's eyes sharpened instantly. "No?"
He turned fully toward her now.
His stare met hers.
Held.
Unflinching.
"No."
The word didn't rise.
It settled.
Heavy. Metallic. Final.
Silence stretched again—longer this time, thicker, pulling tight like wire drawn between two poles.
Then—
Catherine smiled.
Not kindly.
Not warmly.
Knowingly.
"How interesting," she said softly. "He's used to owning things. Companies. Buildings. Entire markets." Her lips tilted faintly. "People who work for him." A pause. "Especially Scarlett."
Andrian's shoulders squared slowly. His spine straightened, vertebra by vertebra, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"I won't let him control Scarlett anymore."
Catherine watched him carefully.
Measured him.
Weighed him.
Her gaze lingered on the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders held too still, the faint pulse beating at his temple.
"And you think you can do it?" she asked.
His chin lifted a fraction. "Do you think I can't?"
There.
There it was.
The spark.
Inside, Catherine smiled.
Yes.
That's it.
Burn.
Because this—
This was what she wanted.
Not rivalry.
Not tension.
Wildfire.
She wanted his possessiveness to ignite so fiercely it would wrap around Scarlett like flames devouring oxygen. She wanted him reckless. Impulsive. Ready to challenge Ethan openly, loudly, dangerously.
Chaos was always easiest to control from the outside.
"If you want to do it," Catherine said slowly, lowering her voice so only he could hear, "then you have to move Ethan away from her first."
Andrian's eyes flickered.
"Then only," she continued, "can you make Scarlett your own."
The words settled between them.
Not spoken.
Sealed.
His jaw flexed. "Do you have any plans?"
Catherine didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, she let her gaze drift around the lobby—faces, cameras, reflections in glass panels, the slow circulation of employees pretending not to watch. Her mind moved faster than her eyes, calculating angles, risks, outcomes.
Then she leaned toward him.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Follow me."
She turned.
Didn't wait.
Didn't check.
She didn't need to.
Behind her, after only a fraction of hesitation—
He did.
Her cabin door clicked shut behind them.
The sound felt different inside.
Heavier.
Private.
Controlled.
Catherine crossed the room, heels silent now on the carpet, and rested one hand lightly against her desk. Sunlight streamed through the glass wall behind her, framing her figure in pale gold, her silhouette elegant and composed—like strategy given human shape.
Andrian remained standing near the door.
Watching.
Waiting.
"First," she said, folding her arms slowly, "you need to understand something about Ethan."
"I understand enough."
"No," she replied quietly. "You understand what he shows. Not what he hides."
His eyes narrowed. "Then enlighten me."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"He doesn't compete for things he doesn't value."
Silence.
Her words didn't drop.
They landed.
Stayed.
"If he reacted like that today," she continued, voice smooth as glass, "it means Scarlett is no longer... optional to him."
Andrian's fingers curled at his sides.
Catherine noticed.
"And that," she added, "is dangerous for you."
"For me?" His tone sharpened.
"For your chances."
She stepped closer again, gaze locking onto his.
"Because once Ethan decides something is his... he doesn't let go."
The air tightened.
"And you think I will?" Andrian countered.
Her smile deepened just slightly. "I think you might. Unless you act before he realizes how much she matters."
A beat.
"And what do you suggest?"
Her eyes glinted.
Finally.
The question.
She leaned closer—
Close enough that her voice brushed his ear like a secret slipping under a locked door.
"I suggest," she whispered, "we make him choose."
Andrian frowned. "Choose what?"
Her smile sharpened.
"Power... or Scarlett."
Silence crashed into the room.
And for the first time—
Andrian felt it.
The outline of her plan.
The danger of it.
The brilliance of it.
His voice lowered. "What exactly are you planning, Catherine?"
Her gaze held his.
Unblinking.
Satisfied.
"Oh," she murmured, "I'm planning something that will make Ethan Blackwood lose control."
A pause.
Then—
"And when he does," she added softly, "Scarlett won't be the only one who sees it."
The room felt colder.
And suddenly—
Andrian wasn't sure whether he had just gained an ally...
or stepped directly into a trap.
Catherine didn't speak again until he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence unfolded slowly, spreading through the room like ink through water.
Then—
Her lips curved.
Not polite.
Not pleasant.
Cruel.
An evil smirk slipped across her face as she turned toward the glass wall, watching her reflection sharpen in the fading light.
"Such a passionate fool," she murmured softly. "So easy to ignite. So eager to fight a war he doesn't even understand."
Her fingers traced the edge of her desk.
Tap.
Once.
Twice.
A countdown only she could hear.
"You think you're pursuing her," she whispered, voice silked with amusement. "You think you're protecting her. But you're not chasing Scarlett, Andrian..."
Her smile deepened.
"You're chasing the trap I laid for you."
She tilted her head, already imagining it—the tension, the confrontation, the fracture, the moment everything would crack.
"Ethan doesn't lose control for business. He doesn't lose control for power. But for her?" A breath of laughter slipped from her lips. "Oh... he will burn the world down."
Her eyes darkened with satisfaction.
"And you'll be the spark."
She folded her arms slowly, savoring the image like a connoisseur savoring wine.
"When he turns ruthless... when he chooses ambition over her... when she finally sees what he truly is—"
Her voice dropped to a whisper sharp as shattered glass.
"She'll break."
A pause.
"And broken women disappear."
Her reflection stared back at her—
Cold.
Beautiful.
Merciless.
"And when she's gone," Catherine finished quietly, "Ethan Blackwood will have nothing left tying him to the past."
Her smile sharpened one last time.
"And I," she said, almost tenderly,
"will take back what was always mine."
Outside, the last strip of sunlight slipped lower across the glass.
And for one fleeting second—
Her reflection didn't look like a woman at all.
It looked like the architect of a war no one else realized...
had already begun.