Chapter 71: Iron Grip Victor POV

I sat at my desk, the morning sun slicing through the blinds, casting sharp lines across the polished wood. I adjusted my cufflinks, twisting them with a flick of my fingers, the metal glinting as I grabbed a stack of merger papers from the pile—Sinclair Global and Argus Corp, now one beast under my control. I smirked, flipping to the final page, my pen hovering over the signature line.

"Done," I muttered, signing with a flourish, the ink flowing black and bold, my hand steady as I tossed the pen aside with a clatter. I stacked the papers neatly, tapping them into place with a sharp rap of my knuckles, then stood, pacing to the cabinet, my shoes clicking against the hardwood.

I grabbed a bottle of scotch from the shelf, twisting the cap off with a crack, pouring a splash into a glass, the amber liquid glugging out. "To domination," I said, raising it with a smirk, sipping the smooth burn, the ice clinking as I set it back down on my desk with a soft thud.

I adjusted my tie, tugging it straight with a quick pull, then grabbed my phone, scrolling to security’s number with a swipe. I tapped the screen, pacing again, my free hand brushing the edge of my desk as it rang. "Tom, it’s Victor," I said when he picked up, stopping to pick up a paperweight, rolling it in my palm.

"Mr. Sinclair," Tom replied, his voice gruff, a faint clack of keys in the background. "What’s up?"

"New cameras—every floor, every exit," I ordered, setting the paperweight down with a tap, my fingers drumming the desk. "I want eyes everywhere—now."

"More cameras?" he asked, his chair squeaking as he shifted. "We just upgraded last week."

"Not enough," I snapped, pacing to the window, pushing the blinds aside with a flick, peering out at the city—cars crawling below, a pigeon flapping past. "I’m locking this place down—suspect leaks."

"Leaks?" Tom repeated, his tone cautious, typing faster now. "Who’re we watching?"

"Everyone," I said, turning back, grabbing my glass, swirling the scotch. "No one crosses me and walks away." I slammed my fist on the desk, the wood vibrating, the glass wobbling as I set it down hard, the ice rattling.

"Got it," Tom said, his voice steadying. "I’ll have the crew up by noon—full sweep."

"Make it fast," I replied, hanging up with a jab at the screen, tossing the phone onto the papers, the thud muffled by the stack. I grabbed a cigar from the box on my shelf, snipping the end with a cutter, the snap sharp as I lit it with a match, puffing smoke into the air, the scent curling around me.

I paced back to my chair, sinking into it, kicking my feet up onto the desk, crossing my ankles. "Sinclair and Argus—mine," I said, exhaling a plume of smoke, watching it drift toward the ceiling. I grabbed the merger papers again, flipping through them, my thumb brushing the ink on my signature, the victory sinking in deeper with every page.

The door swung open, Morris stepping in, his briefcase swinging as he set it on the floor with a thud. "Victor, merger’s filed—official as of an hour ago," he said, pulling a folder from his bag, adjusting his glasses with a nudge.

"Good," I replied, tapping ash into a tray, the gray flakes scattering. "No pushback?"

"None worth noting," he said, handing me the folder, flipping it open to a stamped page. "Boards are quiet—Ethan’s out, no one’s fighting."

I took it, skimming the approval stamps, tossing it onto the pile with a flick. "Perfect," I said, puffing the cigar again, the smoke swirling as I leaned back. "They’re all mine now."

Morris grabbed a pen from his pocket, clicking it open and closed. "Security’s buzzing downstairs—your orders?"

"Yeah," I said, sipping my scotch, the glass cool against my lips. "New cameras—tightening the net. Can’t trust anyone."

He nodded, tucking the pen away, picking up his briefcase. "Smart. Keeps the rats in line."

"Or catches them," I shot back, smirking, setting the glass down with a clink. "Anything else?"

"Not today," he replied, heading for the door, swinging it open. "I’ll check the filings tomorrow."

I waved him off, the door clicking shut behind him. I stood, pacing to the cabinet again, topping off my glass, the bottle clinking against the rim as I poured. "Power’s mine—every inch," I muttered, sipping the scotch, walking to the window, peering out again, the city sprawling beneath me like a conquered map.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through emails, my thumb pausing on a memo from PR—Ethan Blake: Reckless CEO Ruins Argus. "Good work, Janet," I said, tossing the phone back onto the desk, picking up a stress ball, squeezing it hard in my fist.

The door opened, Lisa stepping in, her heels tapping softly, a clipboard in her grip. "Mr. Sinclair, camera crew’s here—where do you want them first?" she asked, adjusting her glasses, scribbling a note.

"Start with the exits," I said, pacing back, squeezing the ball tighter. "Then the floors—every corner."

She nodded, jotting it down, picking up a stray pen from my desk, setting it in the holder. "Anything else?"

"Keep an eye out," I replied, tossing the stress ball onto the desk, the bounce muffled by the papers. "Anyone acting off—report it."

"Will do," she said, heading out, the door clicking shut behind her. I paced to the window again, sipping my scotch, my eyes scanning the street below—workers milling about, a delivery truck idling.

Then I saw her—Vanessa, stepping out the side exit, late for her usual hours, her phone glowing in her hand as she typed, her scarf fluttering in the wind. I set my glass down hard, the ice rattling, my suspicions flaring as I watched her disappear around the corner.