Page 33 of The Founder's Power

I lean back in my chair. Nexon handled a huge portion of our real-time engagement data. I’d considered acquiring them myself two years ago, but they weren’t selling.

Apparently, they are now, and they hadn’t even considered me.

Clara keeps going. “They’ve also approached Harmon Group. You know what that means.”

“That’s our shadow distribution chain,” I mutter. “Jesus. They’re moving upstream and cutting off access to the veins.”

“They’re not just playing with our margins. They’re laying the groundwork to replace us.”

I rub a hand over my face. My temples throb. “Why now?” I ask. “We’ve become stable even with Vincent’s noise.”

She hesitates. “Because for the first time in five years, our leadership rating dipped. The Vincent smear campaign hit harder than we thought. The markets see blood, Damian, and Veridian Holdings’ whole business model is built around picking off the wounded.”

I stare out the window at the skyline I used to think I owned.

Veridian Holdings doesn’t care about revenge. They care about consolidation… and erasure.

“I need every asset audit report by tomorrow morning,” I say. “Get legal to start reviewing our anti-takeover clauses. Loop in Braithwaite in Geneva. He’s been through something similar, and, Clara…”

She pauses at the door.

“Schedule a call with Isabelle for me tonight,” I say quieter. “No matter how late it is.”

Her brows lift slightly. “Are you sure? This seems like the kind of thing you’d normally shut everyone out for.”

I meet her gaze. “I don’t want to go back to being that man.”

She nods once and disappears.

I exhale like I’ve just stepped into a fight I can’t afford to lose. This time, I’m not only trying to save a company.

I’m trying to save myself.

CHAPTER18

DAMIAN

Ibring flowers to the gallery. Not roses. Nothing dramatic. Sunflowers. I know it’s the kind of bouquet that says “I see you” instead of “I’m sorry” or “forgive me.”

She answers the door in paint-streaked leggings and a sweatshirt with the collar stretched wide from wear. Her hair’s twisted into a knot on top of her head. She looks effortlessly beautiful.

“Hi,” I say.

She blinks then smiles. “Hey.”

I hold up the flowers. “Peace offering. Or… continuation offering.”

She laughs under her breath. “You didn’t mess anything up. Yet,” she teases, stepping aside to let me in.

The air smells like linseed oil and fresh citrus. Her canvas stands half-finished in the corner—brilliant and chaotic, like she poured something painful into it just to get it out of her.

Not an hour later, we’re eating on the couch, takeout from the Thai place she loves. She leans into me when she laughs, her leg pressed against mine, and for a little while I let myself breathe and allow myself to believe that we’re going to be okay.

But the messages don’t stop.

My phone buzzes again and again. I try to silence it when she isn’t paying attention and do my best to keep my face relaxed.

“You can check it,” she says gently. “It might be important.”

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