Carter Vance
The hum of the old refrigerator in the corner of my study is the only sound in the room. Leo stands across from me, his expression as neutral as ever. Between us, on the polished surface of my desk, sits an envelope. It is thick with cash.
“She returned the buy in,” Leo says. His voice is a low monotone, but I know him. There is a current of something else underneath. Surprise. Respect.
“And an extra ten thousand,” I state, looking at the neatly stacked bills. I do not touch it.
“Petrov did not take it well. She read him like a child’s book.”
I lean back in my chair, the old leather sighing under my weight. I already have the report. I have the information she extracted. ‘Liquidate the shipping division. Sell the routes.’ It is a precise, surgical piece of intelligence. It is exactly what my father needed to hear.
“Tell me again,” I say. “From the beginning.”
Leo does not hesitate. He has a mind for details, one of the many reasons he is my second. “She walked in, bought her seat. Played quiet for the first hour. She was watching. Not the cards. Him.”
“She found his tell.” It is not a question.
“More than that,” Leo corrects. “She found the one he thought was his tell. The finger tapping. It was a bluff. She saw past it. She saw the real tell. An eye twitch. An involuntary reaction to a keyword.”
I steeple my fingers, my eyes fixed on the envelope. A decoy tell. It is a sophisticated move. The kind of thing old men who have spent their lives at the card table learn. Not a seventeen year old girl in a secondhand blazer.
“The keyword was her idea?”
“She asked me for it before she left. Said the information would be useless without it.”
I remember her standing in this room. The quiet fire in her eyes. I had expected fear. I had expected pleading. I did not expect a demand. I did not expect a business proposal.
‘Everyone has a tell, Carter.’
She spoke my language. A dialect few people, even in my world, ever learn to speak fluently. My father taught it to me through pain and repetition. Where did a girl from nowhere learn it?
“She used the keyword to rattle him,” I say, piecing it together. “Provoked him into revealing the information out of anger.”
“She gutted him,” Leo says simply. “Took his money and his secrets without him even realizing what was happening until it was over. Then she walked out.”
I nod slowly. Anyone else I would have sent in would have tried to bribe a waiter, hack a phone, or plant a bug. Clumsy, loud methods with a high risk of exposure. She used none of that. She used the target’s own arrogance as a weapon against him. It was silent. It was clean.
It was brilliant.
“What do you think of her?” I ask.
Leo considers the question for a moment. He does not offer opinions easily. “She’s dangerous. Not like us. She is quiet. People will not see her coming.”
“No,” I agree. “They will not.”
He glances at the door. “Isabella has been asking questions. About why Ross was in here. She is furious.”
I almost laugh. Isabella Rossi. She thinks power is about noise, about public displays of dominance. She struts around this school like a peacock, demanding respect she has not earned. She sees Ariana Ross as an insect to be crushed. She has no idea she is looking at a viper.
“Let her be furious,” I say. “Isabella is an annoyance. Nothing more.”
Leo gives a single, sharp nod. “The information has been relayed.”
“Good. You can go.”
He leaves, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a soft click. I am alone with the money on the desk. The money is a message. It says, ‘This was not for profit. This was for you. This was the completion of a contract.’
I find myself thinking about her more than I should. Her arrival at Blackwood was a minor ripple. A scholarship student from a broken home. A classic sob story. An easy target for the sharks in these manicured grounds.
But she refuses to play the victim. That is what I cannot shake. I have seen her walk through the courtyard while whispers follow her like a cloud of flies. Her head is always up. Her eyes are always forward. She shows nothing.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, a memory from a lesson learned long ago. ‘Strength is not the ability to hit back, Carter. It is the ability to take a hit and not even blink.’
Ariana Ross does not blink.
This is a problem. My life is a fortress built on control. Control over my crew, over the politics of this school, over myself. Every person is a piece on a board, their moves predictable, their motivations simple. Greed. Fear. Ambition. I know how to use all of it.
Ariana is a variable I did not account for. Her motivation is not simple greed. She returned the money. It is not ambition in the way Isabella understands it. She does not crave the spotlight. It is something deeper. A raw, unyielding need for survival. A need to never be powerless again.
I understand that need.
I stand and walk to the window, looking down at the path leading from the library. Students mill about, laughing, complaining about exams. They live in a world of blissful ignorance. They have no concept of the real stakes that play out within these ivy covered walls.
Then I see her.
She is walking alone, a stack of books in her arms. From this distance, she looks small, unremarkable. Just another girl in a navy blazer. But I know what is behind those calm eyes. A mind that dissects, analyzes, and executes with chilling precision. A mind that took down a seasoned operator like Petrov without breaking a sweat.
As I watch, Isabella and her friends appear, blocking Ariana’s path. I cannot hear their words, but I can read the body language. Isabella is posturing, her movements sharp and aggressive. Her friends are a wall of smug superiority.
I watch Ariana. She does not shrink. She does not cower. She simply stands there, listening, her posture relaxed but ready. She says a few words. I see Isabella’s face twist in anger. Ariana then sidesteps them with an economy of motion that is almost elegant and continues on her way without a backward glance.
She did not engage. She did not react. She simply bypassed the obstacle and continued on her mission. She treated Isabella like a minor inconvenience, not a threat. It is the most insulting thing she could have done.
And it is a display of absolute power.
Letting someone like that get close is a risk. Attachment is a liability my father has warned me against since I was old enough to understand the concept. Love, friendship, affection, they are all just handles for your enemies to grab onto.
My fascination with her is a vulnerability. It is a crack in the fortress walls. I should cut her loose. The task is complete. She proved her point. I could give her my protection from a distance, pay her for her skills when needed. A simple, clean transaction.
But the thought of doing so leaves me with a sense of dissatisfaction. It feels like folding a winning hand. It feels like a waste.
She is not just a tool to be used. She is a player. And I have never met a player like her before.
I turn from the window and walk back to my desk. I pick up the envelope of money. Her money. The proof of her victory. I open a drawer and place it inside, alongside things of value, things I need to keep safe.
I let her in to test her. To see if the fire I saw in her eyes was real.
It is. And now I find that I am the one getting burned. A vulnerability I cannot afford. A risk I am increasingly, dangerously, willing to take.
