Chapter 1 

Sophia

The mahogany conference table stretches before me like an execution block, its polished surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights that make everyone look like they're dying. I adjust my burgundy blazer and check my phone for the third time in two minutes. Dad should have been here twenty minutes ago.

"Where is he?" I mutter, drumming my manicured nails against my leather portfolio. The sound echoes in the nearly empty boardroom of Turner Textiles, our family's century-old legacy that I've spent the last six years of my life helping to modernize.

Uncle Richard slides into the chair beside me, his expensive cologne doing nothing to mask the nervous energy radiating from his perfectly pressed suit. "James will be here, Sophia. You know how he gets caught up talking to the floor workers."

I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow at him. Dad never misses board meetings, especially not ones this important. Something about Richard's tone sets my teeth on edge, but before I can question him further, the conference room doors swing open.

My father rushes in, slightly out of breath, his salt-and-pepper hair more disheveled than usual. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his kind eyes look strained. "Sorry, sorry. The new shipment from our Mumbai facility had some quality issues I needed to address personally."

He takes his seat at the head of the table, pulling out the worry beads his father gave him. The familiar sound of them clicking together usually calms me, but today it just adds to the tension crackling in the air.

"Dad, you look exhausted. Maybe we should reschedule this meeting."

"Nonsense, sweetheart. This is too important." He reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Turner Textiles has weathered storms before. We'll weather this one too."

I want to believe him, but the email that arrived this morning sits heavy in my mind. Blackwood Industries requesting an emergency board meeting to discuss "mutually beneficial opportunities." Everything about it screamed corporate predator circling wounded prey.

The doors open again, and three people in sharp black suits walk in like they own the place. I recognize the woman immediately from business magazines—Victoria Sterling, known as the Ice Queen of corporate acquisitions. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and she carries herself with the kind of confidence that comes from destroying companies before breakfast.

But it's the man behind her who makes my breath catch in my throat.

Marcus Blackwood.

Even in person, he's more imposing than his photos suggest. Six-foot-three of controlled power in a custom navy suit that probably costs more than most people's cars. His dark hair has premature silver threading through the temples, and when his blue-gray eyes sweep the room, I feel like prey being assessed by an apex predator.

He doesn't look at me directly, but somehow I know he's cataloged every detail—my protective hairstyle wrapped in silk, the way I'm gripping my pen, the fact that I've unconsciously touched the cherry blossom tattoo on my inner wrist.

"Thank you for accommodating our request on such short notice," Victoria says, her British accent crisp as winter air. She doesn't sit. None of them do. "Mr. Blackwood has a proposition that will benefit all parties involved."

Dad's worry beads click faster. "Ms. Sterling, while we appreciate Blackwood Industries' interest in Turner Textiles, I should mention that we're not currently seeking investment partners or—"

"You're not seeking them," Marcus speaks for the first time, and his voice is like aged whiskey—smooth, dangerous, and likely to leave you with regrets. "But you need them."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

He moves with predatory grace to the head of the table opposite my father. "Turner Textiles is hemorrhaging money. Your Mumbai facility is producing substandard goods because you can't afford quality control. Your Shanghai operation is behind on three major orders. Your accounts receivable is a mess, and your largest client is considering switching to cheaper alternatives."

Each word hits like a physical blow. I watch my father's face grow paler with every accurate detail that should be private information.

"How do you—" I start to speak, but Marcus's gaze finally lands on me, and the words die in my throat.

"How do I know?" He almost smiles, but it's the kind of expression that makes you want to check if your wallet is still in your pocket. "Because I make it my business to know everything about companies I'm about to acquire."

The temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees.

Uncle Richard clears his throat. "Now, Mr. Blackwood, I think there might be some misunderstanding here. We invited you to discuss partnership opportunities, not—"

"There's no misunderstanding." Marcus pulls out a tablet and slides it toward my father. "Blackwood Industries is prepared to make a generous offer for Turner Textiles. Sixty percent above current market value."

I lean forward to look at the screen and nearly choke. The number is astronomical, but it's also a death sentence. "That's not a partnership. That's a buyout."

"It's a lifeline." His voice remains perfectly controlled. "Your company has six weeks before your creditors start circling. I'm offering you a chance to walk away with your dignity and your employees' jobs intact."

Dad's hands shake as he scrolls through the offer. "This is... this is four generations of work. My great-grandfather started this company with nothing but a sewing machine and a dream."

"Dreams don't pay debts, Mr. Chen."

The callousness in Marcus's tone makes my vision blur with rage. I stand up so fast my chair rolls backward. "Listen here, you corporate vulture. This company isn't just about money. It employs three hundred people who depend on us. It's about craftsmanship and tradition and—"

"And it's about to collapse under the weight of poor financial management and outdated business practices." He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't even blink. "I'm offering to preserve what can be saved."

"By destroying everything that matters."

"By making hard choices that your father apparently can't."

The words hit Dad like a slap. His face crumples, and suddenly he looks every one of his fifty-eight years. "Sophia, sweetheart, maybe we should consider—"

"No." I slam my palm on the table. "We are not selling our family's legacy to some soulless corporate raider who probably can't tell silk from polyester."

Marcus tilts his head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "You're very passionate, Ms. Turner. But passion doesn't balance books or meet payroll."

"And money doesn't create beauty or preserve culture."

"Beauty doesn't keep the lights on."

We stare at each other across the table, the air crackling with tension. I want to wipe that perfectly controlled expression off his face, to make him understand that some things are worth more than profit margins.

Dad's voice breaks through our standoff. "The employees... what happens to them?"

Victoria steps forward with another tablet. "Blackwood Industries would retain all current employees for a minimum of eighteen months, with full benefits and opportunities for advancement within our larger organization."

"And after eighteen months?" I demand.

Marcus answers without looking away from my father. "After eighteen months, employees who meet performance standards will have permanent positions. Those who don't will receive generous severance packages."

"Performance standards." I taste the bitterness of the words. "You mean whoever survives your corporate meat grinder gets to keep their jobs."

"I mean whoever adapts to modern business practices gets to build a career instead of watching their company slowly die."

The brutal honesty in his voice makes me flinch. Because deep down, in a place I don't want to acknowledge, I know he's right about the company's financial situation. I've seen the books. I've watched Dad stress over every payment, every delayed order, every client complaint.

But admitting that feels like betraying everything my family has built.

Dad's worry beads slip from his trembling fingers, scattering across the polished table like tears. "I need... I need to think about this. This is a lot to process."

"Of course." Marcus's voice gentles slightly. "You have forty-eight hours to review the offer. After that, the terms may become less favorable."

The threat is delivered with the same tone most people use to discuss the weather.

"Forty-eight hours to decide whether to murder our family legacy," I snap.

"Forty-eight hours to decide whether to save what you can or lose everything." He stands, and somehow the room feels smaller with him at his full height. "Ms. Sterling will leave the complete proposal with you. I suggest you have your accountant review the numbers carefully."

He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Ms. Turner?"

I look up, ready for another cutting remark.

"For what it's worth, your great-grandfather would be proud of the craftsmanship standards you've maintained. It's unfortunate that craft alone isn't enough in today's market."

The unexpected kindness in his words hits harder than any insult could have.

Then he's gone, taking Victoria and their silent companion with him, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the devastating weight of his offer.

Dad stares at the closed door, his face gray as ash. "Sophia, I—"

That's when it happens.

His hand flies to his chest, his eyes go wide with shock and pain, and he pitches forward onto the conference table with a sound I'll hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

"Dad!" I scream, rushing to his side as Uncle Richard shouts for someone to call 911.

But as I hold my father's head in my lap, watching the life drain from his kind eyes, I know with crystal clarity that Marcus Blackwood just destroyed everything I've ever loved.

And somehow, I'm going to make him pay.