Dashiell grimaced as the polished marble floor reflected the dazzling array of luxury brands surrounding them. Selene, oblivious to his discomfort, flitted from one boutique to another, her eyes sparkling with delight.
Dashiell checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, his hand instinctively reaching for his thigh.
Selene noticed his discomfort. ‘Dash, are you tired?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ he said, a little too quickly.
Selene didn’t look convinced. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this? The accident... I know you haven’t fully recovered.’
Dashiell’s eyes darkened. He hated it when people brought up his injury. ‘I said I’m fine,’ he snapped.
Selene lowered her gaze. ‘I just... I wish I was there for you when it happened.’
Dashiell bristled. He couldn’t bear to relive the trauma, the eight months wasted as an invalid, confined to a wheelchair. ‘It’s in the past,’ he spat out the words

The oak door of the CEO’s office slammed shut, echoing through the opulent space. Elodie surveyed the room, her gaze sweeping over Reggie’s gaudy decor with distaste. The clash of gold-plated pedestals, marble statues leering down with predatory eyes, and the monstrosity hanging from the ceiling was an assault on her aesthetic sensibilities.
‘Mental note,’ she muttered, ‘hire an interior designer ASAP.’
But the gaudy decor was a mere distraction compared to the inferno she had inherited. Northstar, once a titan of the industry, was now a sinking ship. Cyrus’ vanity project, the hospitality division, was haemorrhaging money faster than a Hilton heiress could spend it. The other divisions weren’t much better, riddled with inefficiencies and drowning in the wake of Cyrus and Reggie’s short-sighted decisions.
Despite her crash course in finance and management, Elodie felt like a lone warrior

The harsh glare of fluorescents cast the Northstar boardroom in an unsettling light, reflecting the anxiety etched on the faces of its members.
Cyrus Fontaine sat at the head of the table, drumming his fingers on polished wood, his face a mask of annoyance.
‘Michael,’ he barked, his voice raspy from years of heavy drinking and shouting. ‘Who called this meeting and why?’
‘That would be me, Uncle Cyrus.’ The door swung open, and Elodie strode in.
A collective gasp rippled through the boardroom. Cyrus and Sebastian gaped at Elodie, too shocked for words.
She sized them up.
Unlike her father, Raymond, who had warm brown eyes and a head of unruly curly hair, Cyrus and Sebastian bore little resemblance to the Fontaine bloodline.
Cyrus, at 59, looked a decade older, his face haggard and his once sharp features now softened by age and indulgence. His eyes, bloodshot and red, told a story of late nights and questionable decisions. His body resembled an overstuffed sausage struggling to escape its expensive casing.
Sebastian, at 52, had aged differently. His shoulders were perpetually slouched, as if the weight of his family name and his brother’s dominance had permanently bent him out of shape. Deep, dark circles shadowed his eyes. Still, with careful maintenance and a generous application of men’s products, he could still pass for a respectable, if slightly weary, retired professor.
‘Sh-shouldn’t you be—’ Cyrus stammered, struggling to find his voice.
‘Dead?’ Elodie shrugged. ‘Sorry to disappoint, dear uncle. But as you can see, I’m very much alive. And ready to reclaim what’s rightfully mine.’
Elodie stood in stark contrast to her uncles, a beacon of refined power amidst a sea of flabby excess. Tall and slender, she moved with the unhurried grace of a lioness, her dark hair styled in a single, imposing braid that seemed to echo the steely glint in her hazel eyes.
Gone was the usual t-shirt and jeans of her youth, replaced by a tailored suit that spoke volumes. She had borrowed a page from Dashiell’s book. That man, for all his arrogance, knew how to project power. Having lived with him for a year, Elodie was no stranger to his closet full of impeccably crafted suits, shirts, and ties, and had subtly absorbed the art of sartorial dominance.
Today, she wielded that knowledge like a weapon, her attire a silent declaration of her intent.
Cyrus and Sebastian exchanged nervous glances. Elodie’s arrival, a resurrected ghost from their past, almost sent them tumbling from their plush chairs like felled trees.
Cyrus’s eyes bulged like a goldfish out of water, while Sebastian’s jaw dropped so low it could have housed a bowling ball.
Elodie watched them, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. While she wouldn’t have wished them dead, she had secretly hoped for a heart attack or two just to savour the moment.
Alas, their hearts, hardened by years of greed and avarice, were far too resilient.
‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ she said, her voice ringing clear and strong. ‘This is a hostile takeover.’
A murmur rippled through the room.
No one was surprised, really. The news of Elodie Fontaine’s return and subsequent shareholding spree had swept through Northstar like wildfire. She had moved with the swiftness and stealth of a jaguar, acquiring shares from willing sellers, many of whom were weary of the company’s decline under Cyrus’s leadership.
Even Cyrus and Sebastian’s cronies had quietly cashed in their chips. The writing was on the wall. Northstar was sinking fast, and Cyrus, with his erratic decisions and insatiable greed, was the captain steering it towards the rocks.
Cyrus and Sebastian, too, had thrown in the towel. Days ago, they had been forced to sell a significant portion of their own shares to salvage another failing investment.
‘I know some of you may not be thrilled with my methods,’ Elodie acknowledged, ‘but desperate times call for desperate measures.’
With a decisive snap of her fingers, she presented a motion to the board. ‘I, Elodie Mireille Fontaine, majority shareholder of Northstar Corporation, propose the immediate dismissal of Cyrus Fontaine as chairman of the board and the removal of Sebastian Fontaine as non-executive director.’
The motion, backed by the sheer weight of Elodie’s 84% ownership, was met with a deafening silence. No one dared to oppose her.
‘This is outrageous!’ Cyrus roared. ‘I won’t be treated like this! This company is mine!’
He launched into a tirade, spewing accusations and insults, his words falling on deaf ears. Elodie watched him with a mixture of pity and contempt.
With a curt nod to Michael, Elodie summoned her bodyguards. Twelve burly figures, clad in black suits and armed with batons, materialised at the door.
Elodie admitted to herself that it was a bit of an overkill, hiring twelve bodyguards. But then, she did inherit a love for a dramatic flair from her mother. Besides, today, it served a purpose.
‘Gentlemen.’ She gestured towards Cyrus and Sebastian. ‘I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required. Please leave the building.’
Cyrus, his face a beetroot red, puffed up like a defiant blowfish. ‘No!’ he bellowed. ‘I demand a re-vote!’
He attempted to rise from his chair, arms flailing. But his bluster was quickly extinguished by the arrival of the bodyguards. They moved with the swiftness of trained assassins, flanking Cyrus and gently, but firmly, leading him towards the door.
His protests were a pathetic sight. Elodie Imagined a beached whale struggling against the receding tide, futilely gasping for air against the inevitable. His shouts of ‘This is a coup!’ and ‘I'll have your job!’ were lost in the echoing silence of the boardroom.
Sebastian, realising the futility of resistance, scurried out of the room like a cockroach caught in the light, eager to disappear into the shadows.
Elodie watched them go, a quiet smile playing on her lips. Today, justice had been served, and it tasted oh-so-sweet.
She glanced around the room, her gaze meeting Michael’s. He nodded, and with a brisk wave of her hand, Elodie announced, ‘Bring in Reginald Tierney.’
Reggie the Wrecker was the first on a long list of names to be purged from Northstar.
Today, Elodie Fontaine was taking back her company, one inept executive at a time.

Dashiell grimaced as the polished marble floor reflected the dazzling array of luxury brands surrounding them. Selene, oblivious to his discomfort, flitted from one boutique to another, her eyes sparkling with delight.
Dashiell checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, his hand instinctively reaching for his thigh.
Selene noticed his discomfort. ‘Dash, are you tired?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ he said, a little too quickly.
Selene didn’t look convinced. ‘Are you sure you’re up for this? The accident... I know you haven’t fully recovered.’
Dashiell’s eyes darkened. He hated it when people brought up his injury. ‘I said I’m fine,’ he snapped.
Selene lowered her gaze. ‘I just... I wish I was there for you when it happened.’
Dashiell bristled. He couldn’t bear to relive the trauma, the eight months wasted as an invalid, confined to a wheelchair. ‘It’s in the past,’ he spat out the words, his voice sharp with irritation.
The mere mention of the accident triggered a flood of memories. H

Chapter 12