Page 2 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

I’ve learned that victory feels a lot like contempt in a nicer suit.

The man across the table is sweating through his collar. This is the third time he’s adjusted it in the past ten minutes. His jaw ticks every time I open my mouth, like it’s a muscle reflex and he’s anticipating pain. I don’t blame him. I was brought in to deliver it.

The room smells like old paper and institutional regret. Polished wood table, faux fern in the corner, sunlight choking in through half-closed blinds. The air conditioning is on but losing the battle.

Outside, Manhattan traffic blares and pulses like a distant war drum.

Inside, it’s quiet and tense. Everyone is pretending to be polite.

I cross my legs under the table, smooth the ivory silk of my blouse where it’s tucked into my slate-gray pencil skirt, and press my spine straighter against the hard-backed chair.

Power doesn’t live in raised voices or pounding fists. It lives in the control not to fidget, in the silence between answers, and in the calculated pause that makes men sweat before you even speak.

“Ms. Calloway,” the arbitrator says, with that polished tone men use when they’re half-impressed and half-afraid. “For the record, your closing analysis was... surgical.”

I smile, but only with my lips. We’ve been at this since 7 a.m. “Thank you. Precision matters.”

To my left, the partner from my firm, Finch Corp, leans back with that satisfied gleam in his eye. Jay Banning.

He’s young, ambitious, and already acting like he owns the floor. I let him. Let men like him think they’re the gravity in the room. Meanwhile, I’m the thing no one sees coming.

At the far end of the table, the representative from Miriad Equities, our opposition, can’t stop blinking. He has the jawline of an ex-athlete turned corporate stooge and the nervous energy of someone realizing his career might not survive this deposition.

He shifts forward. “With all due respect, Ms. Calloway, I think your conclusions about our offshore assets were…aggressive.”

I tilt my head. “Aggressive would’ve been accusing your Cayman arm of laundering payouts for political favors. I didn’t do that.”

“You implied it.”

“No,” I say, cool and clean. “The numbers implied it. I just read them out loud.”

Jay chuckles beside me. The arbitrator doesn’t. He’s busy trying to appear neutral while scribbling notes that will probably make someone cry by the end of the week.

My heel taps once against the marble floor before I still it.

The deposition is nearly done. Miriad Equities will take a quiet settlement, pay a fine large enough to sound painful but small enough to write off in quarterly losses.

A few board members will resign, scrubbed LinkedIns and all. They’ll rebrand under another shell within the year. This is the game. I’ve played it long enough to know exactly how the rules bend.

What they don’t know is that this wasn’t supposed to be a win for me.

After we adjourn, people shake hands and avoid eye contact. Jay claps me on the back like we’re old war buddies. I let it happen.

“Fucking clean, Vera,” he says under his breath. “They didn’t know what hit them.”

“They never do,” I murmur.

He smirks. “Drinks tonight? Finch crew’s celebrating.”

I glance toward the hallway. “I’ve got something to finish up. Rain check.”

Jay shrugs. “Their loss.”

Out in the hallway, the building hums with late-afternoon heat and bureaucracy.

I pass a secretary whispering into a headset, another lawyer tapping through frantic emails, a courier clutching a folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL” like it holds the cure to regret.

I walk slower now. My heels echo with too much clarity. Every step is precise and deliberate.

I feel watched.

It’s not the cameras or the press. It’s something else.

That sixth-sense pull at the base of my neck. The way the air changes when a presence is near but not visible. I’ve felt it before years ago, in different shoes, and a different life.

It unsettles me.

I push through the revolving doors into the city heat. Horns scream at crosswalks. A food vendor swears in Spanish as steam pours off his grill. Somewhere, someone’s crying into a phone.

This is New York, raw and honest.

I exhale slowly, and let the sun burn into my skin. It grounds me.

Still, there’s that whisper behind the ribs. That sense that today wasn’t a win. That I missed something.

The case was handed to me by the coalition a watchdog front that’s politically clean but a little too enthusiastic. They fed me files, hinted at corruption, asked for my finesse. I delivered. But the more I look at the puzzle, the more the pieces feel placed.

Like someone wanted me to take this shot and the kill was staged.

And I’m not sure who I just embarrassed in that room.

But I’m almost certain I was never the one in control.

***

I don’t go to drinks or take the car waiting out front. I walk, because it’s easier to think when I’m moving.

I need the buzz of the street noise, the shout of life ricocheting off buildings older than most empires. Manhattan may be a playground for power, but it doesn’t pretend to love you. That’s what I respect about it.

Anissa catches up to me two blocks in.

She’s been my assistant for four years and got promoted to be my executive assistant two years ago.

She’s razor-sharp, perfectly curated, and loyal in the way only someone who wants your job someday can be. I let her catch up, even though I hear her steps long before she opens her mouth.

“You want a recap, or space?” she asks, falling in beside me.

I glance at her. She’s in flats today. That’s how I know she expected this to be long.

“I already know what happened,” I say. “The summary would just piss me off.”

Anissa smiles without humor. “Then let me just say: The statement is drafted, the media spin is tight, and we got three new requests for you to consult by the time you cleared the elevator.”

“From who?”

“Two think tanks. One West Coast investor. All want you to do exactly what you just did but cleaner.”

I snort. “Cleaner meaning quieter.”

She nods. “Always.”

The corner light turns. I cross first. Anissa lingers.

“Are you okay?” she calls from behind me.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t believe me. But she knows better than to press.

***

I slip into the offices of Finch Corp. The elevator dings. I step onto the 42nd floor, trading the smell of concrete and exhaust for crisp air and low-grade gossip.

My current assistant, Emery Collins, meets me at the bank of cubicles. She’s already hovering over my inbox on the side of my open door.

“Good morning, Ms. Calloway.”

Her hair is in an intricate side braid that somehow looks both effortless and meticulously arranged.

“Your 9:30 with Drummond Capital just cancelled, but we’ve swapped in a prep call with Senator Wardwell for noon. And Tara Lin from the NGO wants a quick chat about the whistleblower report—”

“Data later,” I cut in, settling into my chair. “I need the Wardwell briefing deck on my screen in thirty.”

Emery nods, fingers flying. “On it.”

I glance across the bullpen.

Russ Falkner, head of analytics, waves a printout at me. “Your chart on their liquidity ratios is smoking. You bury them in that cross-jurisdictional exploit, they’ll have to fold.”

I lift my coffee cup. “Thanks, Russ. But keep tomorrow’s numbers confidential. No leaks.”

He grins. “Confidential as the recipe for my grandmother’s pie. Got it.”

At 10:00 a.m., I conduct a Strategy Session with Drummond Capital. Though Drummond called off, I go ahead with my internal team.

We dissect every bullet point: shifting markets in Western Europe, political headwinds in the Levant, and rumors of a hostile acquisition looming in Asia. Camila Duarte, our lead for Middle East policy, warns that Drummond’s “philanthropic fund” is a front for influence-peddling.

I tap my pen on the polished table. “If they think we’ll let them lobby under cover, they haven’t met me yet. Draft an advisory: ‘Best Practices for Ethical Capital Deployment’ with a side note on red flags.”

Camila shuffles her notes. “Consider it done.”

An hour and thirty minutes later, I navigate the hallways to the “Innovation Lab,” where junior consultants brainstorm AI tools for compliance. Their excitement reminds me of what this job looked like five years ago—idealistic and bright-eyed.

Dex Nguyen is demoing a sentiment-analysis algorithm that scans social media for protest signs against our clients. “It flags negative sentiment with 92% accuracy,” he boasts.

I lean against the cubicle wall. “Great. Can it also distinguish between genuine outrage and bot-driven noise? Because I don’t want us to overreact to trolls.”

Dex blinks. “Um, yes. I’ll tweak the parameters.”

I give him a half-encouraging, half-warning smile. “Keep me posted.”

The phone rings at exactly 12 p.m.. Wardwell’s office is a whirlwind of urgency and entitlement.

“Ms. Calloway, the Senator is concerned about media narratives,” says Jordan Harker, Wardwell’s press aide. “We saw your write-up in The Economist and we need talking points that don’t make him look like he’s bought and sold, okay?”

I review the screen’s bullet points.

“Understood. I’ll deliver a neutral briefing that emphasizes his bipartisan reach and philanthropic ventures. He’ll come off as statesman, not donor.”

Jordan exhales. “Thank God.”

Lunch time rolls around two hours later. I walk to the private dining suite while typing furiously on my phone.

I join Marisol Reyes, our firm’s managing partner, in the wood-paneled dining room. A distracted hostess serves grilled salmon and quinoa. Marisol sips her green tea.

“You handled Drummond like a scalpel,” Marisol says quietly. “The Board’s talking about pitching you for their annual gala keynote. Are you interested?”

I pick at my food. “My focus is the Wardwell case right now.”

She smiles, knowing better. “Of course. But think about it. Exposure is currency.”

I’m back at my desk and shifting through emails less than an hour after.

A new message from Fiona Marchand, CEO of a women-led startup we championed last quarter, pops up on my screen. She’s grateful for our help navigating a hostile takeover bid.

“Your strategic insight saved our boardroom,” she writes.

I reply, “Happy to help. Let me know if you need anything else,” before turning to the folder marked Confidential: Drummond Sanctions.

I lose myself in my work until the phone buzzes. It’s Emery.

“Ms. Calloway, you need to see this.”

A red-flag alert flashes on the lobby screen: incoming Fed inquiry into lobbying disclosures. Drummond’s PAC contributions are under microscope.

My heart thuds. This should have been covered in the morning briefing.

I stand. “Pull the Wardwell deck. Switch to emergency mode. Draft a statement acknowledging our compliance review and have it on my desk in ten.”

Emery doesn’t hesitate. She’s sharp enough to know the gravity of my tone.

Twelve minutes later, I dictate my signature onto the compliance memo. By the time I hit “send” on my last email for the day, my coffee is cold and my throat is raw.

I check the clock: 9:15 p.m.. The office is thinning out. Lights flicker overhead. I pack my laptop and leather tote with practiced efficiency.

I’ve just finished steering a dozen high-stakes ships away from crashing, and I’m supposed to feel rewarded.

My phone buzzes once with Fiona’s heartfelt thanks. I close my eyes. “You’re welcome,” I murmur.

The parking garage is cooler than the street, dim under layers of concrete and fluorescent hum. I descend three levels before I remember I parked closer to the top. I’ve been distracted all day.

It’s not the kind of distracted that screams panic. It’s quieter than that, like a whisper under the skin. The sense of being observed not with malice, but with care.

I shake it off.

My car waits in its usual spot. It’s a polished and impersonal black sedan that’s never felt like mine. To me, it’s just another tool.

When I open the door, I freeze.

There’s an envelope on the driver’s seat. It’s plain and brown, with no markings, postage, or logo. And it’s sitting there like it belongs.

I scan the garage. It’s empty. There’s no movement. Only the distant click of someone else’s exit echoing off the walls.

I reach in slowly, like the paper might bite, and slide the envelope into my hand. It’s light and smooth. The flap is already unsealed.

I open it and find a single glossy, high-resolution photograph of me.

I’m walking home with my hair down, navy trench coat belted tight, while holding a coffee. My mouth is curved slightly like I’ve remembered something sweet. It’s soft and unguarded. I look…happy.

I don’t remember being happy that day. I stare harder at the image. My keys in my left hand. A leaf caught in my hair. I remember the coat. But not the moment.

Red ink circles my head. A perfect ring. You would expect a threat or a note attached to this, but there’s none. Just the photo and the mark.

I exhale slowly.

This isn’t about exposure. If it were, they’d have sent the kind of surveillance footage that makes you feel sick. This is curated.

Someone caught a version of me I don’t recognize anymore and decided to keep it.

To keep me.

And I don’t know what scares me more.

That they’re watching. Or that part of me…isn’t scared at all.

I haven’t smiled like that in weeks. I don’t even remember doing it. But someone else does. And they liked it enough to keep it.