When lilies burn

Fifteen years had passed since the night Lily Kent was buried in the river and Passion Coleman was born.

The private jet touched down with a low hum on the secluded airstrip just outside London. The sky was iron grey, the wind biting, but Passion Coleman stepped out like she owned the city, well in many ways, she did. Her black coat billowed around her as she descended the jet steps, flanked by two assistants and her ever-present security, Dax. She paused at the bottom, surveying the runway with calm precision before slipping on her sunglasses.

The Passion Group, a powerful investment and tech consultancy firm, had grown quietly and swiftly over the last five years. Its influence now stretched through finance, pharmaceuticals, and clean energy sectors. And it bore her mark, it was efficient, discreet, and dangerously brilliant.

But it hadn't always been hers. Elena and Matteo De Luca had created the foundation. They had taken in a traumatized child and taught her not just how to survive but how to conquer. Elena had once run black market operations during her younger days in Europe, and Matteo had been a skilled financier with deep connections. They poured every ounce of that experience into building Passion Group in Lily's name while she studied, trained, and grew into herself.

"Passion," Elena had said, "is a weapon. If you learn to wield it, they'll never see you coming."

Now Passion was twenty six, sharp edged, calculating and unreadable. She had mastered control, learned the language of power, and transformed herself into the perfect weapon but today wasn't about power. Not exactly.

Today, she would be meeting the Bishops. The thought settled in her chest like cold iron.

As the sleek black car drove her into central London, she scrolled through her notes, though she had them memorized. Bishop Industries had recently expressed interest in merging with one of Passion Group's subsidiaries unaware, of course, that the woman behind the company had once watched their patriarch execute her family.

Robert Bishop, CEO. Ruthless. Old money. No known legal convictions, but whispers of blood money clung to him.

Scott Bishop, heir apparent. Thirty, arrogant, spoiled. He had a reputation for sharp business instincts and sharper flings. Passion had seen him once in the financial news, a chiseled jaw, a confident smirk, careless charisma. Nothing about him had struck her as threatening but she knew better than to trust appearances.

The car turned down a private street and stopped before the Bishop Tower. She stepped out, her heels clicking against the stone as she approached the doors. Inside, the air smelled of wealth. Polished marble floors, oversized art, and whispers of power behind glass walls.

At the top floor, she was led into a sunlit conference room. Seated already were several executives, including Robert Bishop, who hadn't aged kindly. His silver hair was slicked back, his eyes calculating behind thick lenses. But her attention snagged on the man beside him.

Scott Bishop.

He rose when she entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that same confident charm from the photos but his eyes, something darker simmered there. Amusement, maybe. Or interest.

"Miss Coleman," Robert said, standing. "A pleasure at last."

She shook his hand, firm, cold. "Mr. Bishop."

"And this," Robert gestured with a glint in his eye, "is my son, Scott."

Scott took her hand, slower. His touch lingered.

"Passion Coleman," he said, like testing the taste of her name. "I've heard a lot about you."

She withdrew her hand smoothly. "Let's hope only the good parts."

He chuckled. "With a name like yours, I expected a show. But you're more, uh, restrained."

"Discipline," she said, taking her seat, "is the most underrated trait in business."

The meeting began. Numbers. Projections. Proposals. She handled it all with perfect poise, every word precise, every smile laced with just enough charm to hide the storm beneath.

She was aware of Scott's eyes on her more than once. He watched her too intently for someone who thought he held the power. And she couldn't tell if he knew anything? Had his father confessed the blood on his hands? Was Scott as ruthless as the man who had plagued her dreams all these years or was he just another product of privilege, clueless and careless?

As the meeting ended, Robert stood again. "We'll review the proposal and get back to you. But this is promising, Miss Coleman."

"I look forward to it," she said.

Scott held the door for her on the way out. "You don't look like someone who likes waiting."

"I don't."

"Then I guess we'll just have to move faster."

She turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Speed doesn't matter if the direction is wrong."

He tilted his head, a slow grin curving his lips. "You're dangerous."

She leaned in slightly, her voice low. "You have no idea."

As she stepped into the elevator, her pulse remained steady. She had been trained for this, calculated moves, measured risks. She would get close, learn the truth and tear them apart.

But as the doors slid shut between her and Scott Bishop's watchful eyes, a part of her hesitated because something in his gaze looked almost human.

And that was dangerous.