Chapter 7 Shadows of ambition

Chapter 7:

CLARISSA'S POV

The mirrored elevator doors of the Tower reflected a woman who looked like she'd been dragged through hell and back.

Platinum hair limp and tangled from fingers that weren't Damien's, lips swollen and lipstick faded to a bruised pink. The cash in my clutch, ten grand after the house cut from three private rooms, wasn't enough to wash away the bitter taste of defeat.

I straightened my pencil skirt, smoothed the silk blouse that clung to my sweat-damp skin, and stepped out onto the top floor like a woman on a mission.

Junior VP of acquisitions. That's what the brass nameplate on the office door said.

But titles doesn't really matter to me now, not when i have a more pressing issue at hand.

That masked bitch had slithered into Velvet reservoir and turned the club into her personal kingdom.

Men who used to book me exclusively now waited in line for her. Triple bids. Quadruple. And Damien, my Damien watched that bitch perform, something he has not done for me.

The one he'd bent over his desk, thrusting hard while I moaned his name until my voice cracked.

The one who'd earned her place in his bed, his boardroom, his life.

I bypassed the front desk and headed straight for the conference room at the end of the hall. The lights were low, only the city skyline glowing through the glass walls.

He was already there, as promised. The strange man. No name. No title.

Just a referral from a client who owed me a favor.

He sat at the far end of the mahogany table, silhouetted against the glittering Manhattan night. Mid-forties, suit cheap but tailored, face scarred from old knife fights. His eyes were cold, assessing, like he was pricing my organs.

"Clarissa Voss," he said, voice gravelly, almost amused. "You said you had a problem."

I slid into the chair across from him, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately.

The leather creaked under me. "I do. I replied to him, voice low, threading with caution.

A woman, a new recruit, masked. She's stealing my clients. Stealing... everything."

He leaned back, fingers stepping. "And why do I care?"

"Because I hate her." The words spilled out hot, burning, like acid in my throat. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a hiss. "She waltzed in with that lace mask and that body, and suddenly every man in the room wants her.

First night at the club and she already has all the men wrapped in her fist. They leave the bigger tips for her. Like I was nothing."

The strange man's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

I kept going, voice rising despite myself, hands trembling slightly on the table.

"She threatens me. My position, everything i represent.

And Mr. Backwoods, i have a gut feeling he's already obsessed with her. I can't share. I won't share."

He chuckled, low and humorless. "Jealousy's expensive."

"I'll pay. Whatever it takes. Take her out." I met his eyes, unflinching. "I hate threats. I can't share my clients, and most importantly, I can't share Damien."

The words hung in the air, heavy as lead. The man studied me for a long beat, then nodded once. "Fifty upfront. Fifty when it's done. Clean. No trace back to you."

I slid an envelope across the table, half the cash from tonight's tips. My fingers brushed his as he took it, and I felt nothing but cold satisfaction. "Make it hurt. Make her disappear."

He got up from his position, pocketed it without counting. "Pleasure doing business."

He left without another word.

I sat there alone, heart pounding, a smile creeping across my lips. Raven Noir or whatever the bitches name is wouldn't see it coming. And my Damien would come back to me. He always did.

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DAMIEN'S POV

The conference room was my battlefield.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like conquered territory, but the men across the table didn't appreciate the view. They were cowering, and I liked it that way.

"Five million," I said, voice flat, leaning back in the leather chair.

My fingers drummed once on the table, slow, deliberate.

"Take it or walk. I don't negotiate with amateurs."

Harrington, the lead partner from the sinking tech startup, swallowed hard.

His tie was knotted too tight, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air-conditioning. "Mr. Blackwood, that's half our valuation.

We have investors. Projections for next quarter"

"Projections are fantasies," I cut him off, eyes cold. "Your code is buggy. Your market share is shrinking.

Your CEO is one scandal away from prison.

I'm offering five million to buy the scraps. Take it, or I leak the audit to the press. Watch your stock tank to zero by morning."

The room went silent. The other two partners exchanged glances, faces pale. One fidgeted with his pen, clicking it like a nervous tic. The air smelled of desperation, expensive aftershave mixed with fear sweat.

Harrington broke first. "Four and a half. Please."

I smiled, slow, predatory. "Five. And I keep the IP. Sign here."

He signed. Hands shaking. The pen scratched like a surrender.

"Good choice," I said, sliding the papers to my lawyer. "Get out."

They scrambled, chairs scraping, doors closing with a click.

I exhaled, rolling my neck. Another deal crushed, another company absorbed into the empire.

The ruthlessness was second nature now. It kept the board quiet, the competitors scared, the money flowing.

Elena, my secretary, efficient as a blade knocked and entered, stack of files in hand. "The weekly reports, sir."

I took them, flipping through. Real estate: up 12%. Tech startups: 8% growth. Clubs: Eclipse steady, but Velvet reservoir... I paused. Massive revenue spike. One night alone, triple the usual take, private rooms booked solid, tips record high.

Raven.

I made a mental note, to do anything to retain her, double her rate if needed, triple even.

She was gold. The way she commanded the room, the way men scrambled, it wasn't just sex. It was power. And I wanted more of it.

"Elena," I said, closing the file. "Dig into Raven Noir.

Anything you can find. Background. Address. Connections.

Bring it to me tomorrow."

She nodded, no questions. "Yes, sir."

She left.

I stood, grabbed my coat, headed for the private elevator. The city sprawled below, mine for the taking.

The convoy waited in the underground garage, three black SUVs, drivers armed, lead car with my bodyguard. I slid into the middle one. "Estate."

The driver nodded. We pulled out, merging into Manhattan traffic. Late night, streets empty. I leaned back, closing my eyes, mind on Raven.

Her lips under the mask. The way she'd outdone Clarissa in Room 3. The way she glanced up at me from the floor, knowing I watched.

And then suddenly, a screech of tires.

The lead SUV swerved. Gunshots cracked.

Glass shattered.

"Ambush!" my driver yelled.

The car lurched, more shots rang out.

I reached for my gun under the seat, stepping out from the car, i aimed back at my attackers firing multiple shot at them.

This wasn't the first time i have been attacked, from angry business partners, to an angry obsessed fan, to ex's i have lost counts of over the years.

The gun battle dragged on for close to 30 minutes leaving me exhausted.

And then, my shoulder exploded in pain, warm liquid seeped out dripping down my cloth. Blood soaked my shirt.

I ducked back into my car seeking cover.

Then a high-pitched voice rang out, sharp, very familiar?

"Take him dead or alive!"

Darkness crashed in.

I lost consciousness.