Chapter 21: The Third Option

The shadow grew longer, and there he was…

Maximilian’s Borzoi stood framed in the doorway, its pale form blocking nearly half the light. Its posture was rigid, as if it had stepped into a battlefield rather than a faculty office.

Catherine frowned faintly. Slowly, deliberately, the Borzoi padded forward.

Not toward Ashley. Not toward Jonathan.

It stopped beside Catherine. Closely. Protectively. Like a knight taking position at his queen’s flank.

Ashley and Jonathan stared. They knew that dog.

Everyone did.

Arcturus did not serve. He tolerated. He ruled. He was treated like a monarch: fed by hand, obeyed by all, feared by most.

And yet…

Here he stood, calm and unwavering, aligned with Catherine as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ashley let out a startled gasp and stumbled backward, colliding with Jonathan. Jonathan, pale and sweating, instinctively stepped behind the desk.

Catherine blinked.

Yes, the dog looked lethal: beautifully, dangerously… But still… who reacted to a dog like that?

Then a voice cut through the silence.

“Arcturus.”

The name was a command, and the doorway darkened further as a tall figure stepped in, blocking what little light remained.

Maximilian.

His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing… until it landed on Catherine.

And just as he looked at her… everything about him softened. The tension drained from his shoulders. The cold precision melted into something dangerously warm.

“Oh,” he said, smiling at her as though they shared a lifetime of familiarity. “You’re here too.”

Ashley’s breath caught.

“I’ve already booked a restaurant,” Maximilian continued easily, extending a hand toward Catherine. “Shall we?”

Catherine had no idea what game he was playing. Or why.

But she did enjoy, immensely, the color draining from Ashley’s face, the way Jonathan looked like a man watching his carefully constructed world collapse.

“Sure,” Catherine said lightly, shrugging as she turned toward the door.

Then she stopped.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes sharp, smile slow and deliberate. “This isn’t over,” she said softly.

Jonathan looked like he had lost control.

And then, with exaggerated sweetness, she bent slightly and ran her fingers through the Borzoi’s silken fur. She noticed Ashley flinching through her peripheral vision.

“Come along, Arcturus.”

Catherine commanded with a smirk. The dog obeyed without hesitation.

The three of them disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind two people who could only stand there, stunned, watching power slip through their fingers like smoke.

Sebastian peeked out from Maximilian’s office and smirked. “Never thought I’d see the day Max turned into a simp,” he muttered, amused.

Jonathan Vale, however, couldn’t take his eyes off.

“How does she know Whitmore?” he asked, still staring at the empty doorway, as though the answer might materialize if he waited long enough.

Ashley Renfield didn’t answer immediately. Her father’s warning echoed, unwelcome now.

Do not involve yourself with Whitmore.

He had said it once. Firmly. Without explanation. That alone made it intolerable.

She pushed the thought aside with practiced ease. Men like her father mistook caution for wisdom. If Whitmore was dangerous, then he was simply another apex predator, one that could be studied and used.

“She certainly knows how to circulate,” Ashley said lightly. Too lightly. “One wealthy boy yesterday. A Whitmore today.”

Jonathan frowned.

There was something in his expression that Ashley didn’t like. Was he regretting letting her go? Sure, that country bumpkin was young, and she looked extraordinarily beautiful today. But he wouldn’t be swayed, would he?

Ashley reached for his arm, her grip deliberate. “You’re not reconsidering,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder.

Jonathan pulled away, irritation flashing. “I’m thinking about contingencies,” he replied. “That’s all.”

Good, she thought. Think. Panic was useless. Strategy wasn’t.

Jonathan had never been this close to success, not in forty years of mediocrity disguised as patience. Ashley knew that hunger well. She had grown up watching men destroy themselves just to taste it once.

Billions were within reach now. Influence. Permanence.

Nothing else mattered.

“BioQuant Pharma is announcing their new Research and Development division,” she said smoothly. “My father mentioned it.”

Jonathan turned sharply.

She nodded, pleased by the reaction. “The old man is bringing in his grandson to run it.”

“Grandson?” Jonathan echoed. As far as he knew, the Blackwood dynasty had no heir. The company was supposed to pass to an outsider.

Ashley smiled conspiratorially. “Daughter’s son. Raised under another surname. Recently acknowledged.” Her eyes gleamed. “He wants to arrive loudly.”

Jonathan inhaled, understanding clicking into place.

“A miracle,” he murmured.

“A cure,” Ashley corrected. “For Alzheimer’s. Parkinson’s. Announced through his department.”

Through our research.

Jonathan’s lips parted in something close to reverence. “Even Whitmore wouldn’t challenge Big Pharma.”

Ashley rose onto her toes and kissed him briefly, precisely, sealing the moment like a contract rather than celebrating it.

“Exactly,” she said.

She stepped back, already arranging outcomes in her mind—publication dates, conferences, controlled outrage. Catherine would be framed as emotional. Difficult. Unprofessional. The kind of woman who confused possession with contribution. Then she’d be dismissed.

The Renfield name would do the rest.

Whitmore was a variable. But variables could be contained. Neutralized. Reframed. Just like she did with Jonathan Vale.

She smiled, serene and unshaken.

With her name on the paper and Big Pharma at her side, how could she possibly lose? The world had always rewarded people who knew they belonged at the top. And Ashley Renfield had never once doubted that she did.

—–

Catherine walked out with her jaw clenched, fists balled so tight her nails bit into her palms.

The helplessness she’d felt inside that office had not broken her; it had fermented, turning into a slow, burning rage that settled deep in her bones. She refused to lose her research. Refused to bow to cruel gatekeepers just to be allowed to exist in the field she had bled for.

And she refused…utterly refused to disappear quietly.

She had been a queen once.

In another life, she had endured worse than this. She had stood straight when kingdoms crumbled, when losses piled high, when every victory cost her something precious. She had never bowed. Not in defeat. Not in grief. Never in shame.

She had lost many things. Her pride had never been one of them.

But here… here was the cruel irony.

Without a name, how did one fight?

She slowed as she exited the History department, the question echoing like a challenge. There had to be another way. There was always another way. The world could not be so small, so crude, as to leave her with only ruin or surrender.

She stopped in the middle of the courtyard and drew a slow, steady breath.

And then… her lips curved.

Her problem was not money. Nor intelligence. Those would have been harder to fix.

Her problem was lineage.

A name.

And then it struck her… sharp, bitter, and almost laughable.

She was a woman. A capable one. An attractive one. A dangerous one.

To acquire a name?

That might be the easiest thing of all.

A quiet, humorless laugh escaped her. Funny how some truths survived centuries untouched. Empires fell, laws evolved, women gained voices and power… and still, one rule remained intact.

Women could always climb through marriage.

She let out a wry scoff.

She didn’t have to lose her research. She didn’t have to sacrifice her place in academia. She could outflank those traitors by leveraging wealth, influence, and alliances.

So…

Whom could she marry?

Her gaze lifted… and stilled.

Remington Building.

Gotcha!

Remington… That sounds like a powerful name!

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