This story takes place in a fictional country with fictional characters. All events are entirely invented. Any similarity to real people or situations is coincidental.
Three rules were seared into my psyche long before I ever set foot in this sprawling, volatile nation:
- Never walk into a meeting without Eddie Griffin.
- Avoid politics like poison.
- Never—under any circumstance—trust the Night Witch.
Tonight, I'm breaking all three.
There might be time for regrets later, but as the panoramic elevator races downward from the 50th floor, I have no time to dwell on them.
These rules matter only as much as my chances of becoming the heir.
My siblings don't need to break their rules. Their challenges unfold in familiar political arenas. I chose greater risk, for greater rewards.
My grandfather, the iron-fisted patriarch of the Hightower Group, has only one son—my father. After my mother died, he unraveled. Not from grief, but from weakness. He disgraced his family name as a naive gambler. It wasn't the gambling itself that was the problem; it was the losing that Grandpa couldn't stomach.
My father was cast out with a golden leash: enough money to indulge in a life of luxury, but not enough to claw his way back. The mantle of the Hightower empire falls to one of us—the three grandchildren. Grandpa, ever the sage, presented us with three challenges. The one who performs best will inherit the throne.
Sera, the eldest, chose to remain in the States.
Orion, my older brother, chased ghost in South America, retracing Grandpa's early conquest.
And I chose the Ruby Republic, to seize opportunities in this populous nation surging in economic might.
For two years, I thrived. Deals closed. Influence grew. The Ruby Republic bent, slightly, in my direction.
Then I tried to bend it a little too much. Now, the Night Witch is the only person who can help me.
It took a couple of long weeks to gather the courage to respond to her, after exhausting all other options.
Lyra. That's her name. Yet, somehow, it doesn't make her less intimidating. She is not to be trusted. But it doesn't matter now. After all, she is just a woman, albeit a powerful and dangerous one. I can take her help without giving her anything I'll regret in return. I hope.
As I approach the curb, a gleaming black Rolls-Royce Phantom glides out of traffic and stops in front of me. The window descends, and the first thing I see is red—red lips curved into a sinful smile. Then the woman emerges from the shadows within the car. She's dressed in black, but a vast expanse of white is exposed from her neck downward, a plunging neckline disappearing into the darkness beneath the window's edge.
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Without her uttering a word, I know who she is. "Lyra,"
"The very one."
I don't know much about her, beyond my grandfather's rants. A young enchantress who threatened everything he held dear. One who tried to seduce and entrap him. Marriage destroyed, family ruined, businesses devoured. If not for his cunning, Hightower Group might have been taken over.
From what grandpa said, she must be in her fifties, yet she looks much younger. Or rather, she possesses that ageless beauty, forever thirty-one. Her smile widens, though it doesn't reach her dark blue eyes. "Come on. Get in the car."
Getting into cars with strangers was the first rule my security coach warned against before I came to the Ruby Republic, a country where Americans were known to silently disappear. Yet here I am, about to do precisely that.
I lift my chin. "Sure."
A satisfied smile spreads across her face. She rolls up the window as I walk toward the car, blinking at my own distorted reflection. For a businesswoman, I look impossibly young and naive.
The driver's side door opens, and a tall Black woman with short-cropped hair steps out. She gives me a quick once-over and opens the door for me silently. It's too late to back out now. I climb into the backseat.
When I was small, my sister used to scare me with the Night Witch. "If you don't behave, the Night Witch will come and take you away." She terrified me as a child. Now, she terrifies me for different reasons entirely. A woman doesn't earn a reputation like hers without some truth to it. But she is only a woman, flesh and blood, just like me. Or that's what I tell myself, trying to shake the image of a mouse nestled against a cat.
Her presence fills the space, squeezing my chest despite the wide center armrest separating us.
In the dim interior, I can see that she's wearing a wrap dress with a dark pattern, almost like bubbles on it. It accentuates her curves and is obviously expensive.
She's looking at me the same way I'm looking at her. I don't want to know what verdict she comes up with. I'm definitely not looking my best. I prioritized business attire over beauty today, and those dark circles and puffiness are proving tough to hide.
The silence stretches between us, strangely charged. I can't stop myself from breaking it first. "I don't trust you!"
"You shouldn't." She shrugs a shoulder, the movement sending a ripple through her impressive cleavage, momentarily capturing my attention, and I immediately jerk my eyes back to her face.
Lyra is beautiful, but more than just beautiful. She's powerful. She's not even doing anything other than looking at me, and I'm fighting to draw each breath.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask bluntly.
"I want you to be the heir." There it is again, her wicked smile that does nothing to reassure me. "Not everyone has the opportunity to hold a favor against the future owner of the Hightower Group."
"Did you set all this up?" I narrow my eyes. "We didn't do anything wrong. We had the top law firm review our plans, and they gave us a clean bill of health."
"Don't be naive." Lyra scoffs, casually taking out a two-page document from a leather folio. The ruby-red heading of the document reads, Opinion on Regulating and Standardizing the Financial Market.
"Look here," her delicate finger points at clause 1.4, any financial services deemed illegal by the Central Bank.
"This clause grants the Central Bank absolute discretion."
I glance at the date under the red title. January 12th, 1995. An administrative regulation stated as opinion twenty years and four prime ministers ago.
"Is such a regulation even legal?"
"It is in this country. Unlimited power cannot be written into law, but every department needs it. Such a regulation is the way to get it," she explains as if these were obvious facts, the way one might explain gravity to a child.
Then her smile widens, as if a storyteller reaching the climax of a tale. "Notice it says 'deemed illegal.' It's phrased this way for convenience, so the government can take action against any service it doesn't like. But it also gives wiggle room to anyone who can convince the Central Bank otherwise."
"How does one convince them?"
"Wrong question." Her eyes gleam with temptation and intrigue. "The real question is: what can you offer the right person?"
"Isn't that bribery? Something truly illegal?"
"In this country, legality isn't a fact. It's an opinion."