Hostile Takeover

*Eden*

I stood in the sterile glow of the laboratory, the only place where the world felt manageable. The hum of the refrigeration units, the incubator cycling every four minutes and the soft click of my heels on the tiled floor were the only sounds breaking the silence.

The cultures needed another forty-eight hours.

I knew this without checking. I checked anyway.

Most people would call that conscientiousness. It wasn’t. Conscientious people verified because they feared mistakes. I verified because I needed confirmation that the world was behaving exactly as I’d calculated it would.

The lab was empty at nine. My team left in predictable waves — junior researchers at six, senior staff by eight, Marcus last, who always said goodnight twice as if the first time didn’t count. I stayed until ten at minimum. Sometimes midnight. I’d stopped pretending it was about the work.

I pulled up the compound data on my primary monitor. Wonder 7, which was what we called it internally before the FDA filing gave it another name that none of us would ever use casually. It was now RX-7. Eighteen months of trials. Two years before that of development, which was a conservative timeline for what we’d achieved. The mechanism was elegant, targeting a receptor pathway that existing treatments approached bluntly, with the subtlety of a hammer, while RX-7 worked with the precision of something that understood what it was doing.

Best in class. That was what the independent reviewers had said, three of them, separately, without consulting each other.

The FDA approval process was moving. Slowly, the way large institutional bodies always moved. We had submitted fourteen months ago. Responded to two rounds of questions. Provided additional trial data twice. Our regulatory team said eighteen months, possibly twelve if the next review went cleanly.

In the meantime, Sebastian handled the financial side. Not that it didn’t interest me, but he had a talent for obtaining funds that I’d never bothered to compete with. After the stock market listing, which had happened exactly when we submitted the FDA application, we had enough liquidity to focus on testing and approval without worrying about money. Enough to start putting the final plan into motion. All of it thanks to Sebastian — the face of the company, the one who met with shareholders and the Board, the one who could convince even the most skeptical investor that RX-7 would change medicine. I, on the other hand, had perfected the art of invisibility in the corporate world. No one saw Eden Mercer coming. Not until it was too late.

Mercer Biotech wasn’t just a company Sebastian and I had built from nothing. It was our weapon. Our proof that we didn’t need Richard Briggs or his empire.

The door slid open behind me.

“Eden.”

Sebastian’s voice carried that familiar edge of urgency. I didn’t turn immediately. I finished noting the readings, then straightened, smoothing my coat.

“What is it?” I asked, my tone even.

He placed a tablet on the workbench. “We have another opening. One of Briggs Pharma’s minor shareholders—the old founder, the one who was with Richard from the beginning. He’s looking to sell. Quietly. Health issues, wants to secure something for his grandchildren.”

I picked up the tablet and scanned the details. 2.8%. Small, but every piece mattered in this long game. We had been planning this for seven years—mapping the shareholder structure, studying contracts, identifying weaknesses. Richard Briggs had never acknowledged us. He had chosen to adopt Jace, the son of another woman, to inherit everything while our mother fled, changed her name, and died bitter and broken. The hatred I felt for that man — for both of them — was old and familiar. It didn’t need managing anymore. It just needed a target.

“Good,” I said finally. “We move on it.”

Sebastian studied me, his eyes—identical to mine in shape but far more restless—narrowing slightly. “You’re sure? This is the first real step.”

“I’ve been sure since the day I read Mother’s journals.” My voice was steel. I set the tablet down. “We take back what’s ours. Piece by piece. Until Briggs Pharma belongs to the Mercers.”

He nodded, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “And Clara?”

“Clara stays where she is for now. She doesn’t know we exist. Let’s keep it that way until we’re ready.” Clara was Richard’s third child, the one born after our mother left, raised inside the empire we’d been locked out of. I hadn’t decided yet whether she was a variable or a casualty. Sebastian thought I was being sentimental for not deciding faster. Sebastian thought a lot of things.

He gave me that look of his — the one that said I was being too harsh, but he didn’t dare say it out loud — and closed the door without a word.

The moment the door closed, I allowed myself a single deep breath. The hatred surged. Richard Briggs. That selfish, arrogant bastard who had built an empire on the backs of people he discarded. And Jace—his chosen heir, not even his blood, which made the whole arrangement almost funny if I let myself think about it too long. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that entitled posture of a man who had never known what it meant to fight for scraps. I had seen the photos in the files over the years. I felt nothing when I looked at them. No curiosity. No pull. Only the cold certainty that I would dismantle the life built for him on our stolen birthright.

Frustration clawed at me. The lab suddenly felt too small, too quiet. The numbers on the screen blurred. I needed air. Noise. Something to remind myself I was still flesh and blood, not just this machine of revenge.

I left the building an hour later, trading the lab coat for a simple black dress that skimmed my curves and ended just above the knee. No makeup beyond a dark red lipstick, a perfect match for my red hair. This time I left it loose, a rare indulgence I allowed myself because the color reminded me of our father. I had contemplated the idea of dyeing it, then thought that would be yet another thing Richard Briggs would take from me, something I should be settled with just because he existed. So I left it exactly as it was, but I almost never wore it loose.

I called an Uber and arrived at a bar on the edge of the city—one I’d heard about but never visited. Dim lighting, expensive whiskey, the kind of place where professionals went to forget the weight of their ambitions.

I sat at the bar and ordered a single malt. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat. The second loosened the knot in my chest. I wasn’t looking for company. I simply didn’t want to be alone with the rage tonight.

He appeared beside me twenty minutes later.

“Rough day?” His voice was low, smooth, with a hint of amusement.

I turned my head. He was attractive in a sharp, dangerous way—dark hair, intense eyes, a lean muscular build under a tailored shirt. Mitch, he introduced himself. No last name at first. We talked sparingly at the beginning—surface things, the kind of conversation that required no real investment. But he was perceptive. He noticed the tension in my shoulders, the way my fingers gripped the glass a little too tightly.

One drink became two. His hand brushed mine when he reached for a coaster. The touch lingered. I felt a spark—not emotional, not romantic, but raw physical need. I hadn’t been touched in months. The frustration of years of planning, of hiding, of carrying this weight alone, demanded release.

“Come with me,” I said suddenly, my voice steady but commanding.

His eyebrow rose, but he didn’t hesitate.

We took a room in the hotel across the street. The door had barely clicked shut before I pushed him against it. I didn’t want tenderness. I wanted control. My mouth found his in a hard kiss, demanding. His hands moved to my waist, but I grabbed his wrists and pinned them briefly to the wall.

“Tonight, you do what I say,” I whispered against his lips.

He exhaled sharply, clearly aroused by the shift in power. Good.

I stripped him first, my fingers working efficiently down the buttons of his shirt, revealing a toned chest and abdomen. I ran my palms over his skin, feeling the heat, the quickening pulse. Then I stepped back and let the black dress slide off my shoulders. His eyes darkened as he took in my lace bra and matching panties, the smooth lines of my body honed by discipline and long runs at dawn.

I pushed him toward the bed. He sat on the edge, and I straddled him, grinding slowly against the growing hardness in his trousers. His hands finally touched me—sliding up my thighs, gripping my ass. I allowed it. I kissed him again, deeper, biting his lower lip until he groaned.

When I freed him from his pants, he was hard and ready. I took him in my hand, stroking firmly, enjoying the way his breath hitched. I rolled on a condom from the packet he’d tossed on the nightstand, then sank down onto him in one smooth motion. The stretch, the fullness—it pulled a low moan from my throat. Not love. Not even affection. Just release.

I rode him hard. My hips moved with purpose, chasing my own pleasure. His hands cupped my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples through the lace before I finally unclasped the bra and let it fall. I leaned forward, my hair curtaining us, and set a punishing rhythm. He thrust up to meet me, but I controlled the pace, grinding down when I wanted depth, slowing when I wanted to draw it out.

“Fuck, you’re intense,” he gasped.

I didn’t answer with words. I rode him until my thighs trembled and the orgasm built like a wave. When it crashed over me, I clenched around him, nails digging into his shoulders. He followed moments later, yelling “fuuuuck” and buried his face in my neck.

We didn’t cuddle. I rolled off him, breathing hard, and lay on my back staring at the ceiling. The frustration had eased, but the hatred for Briggs and his golden son remained untouched. Pure. Uncomplicated.

He turned his head toward me. “That was… unexpected. In a very good way.”

I said nothing at first. Then, after a minute: “That is a one time deal. We will never meet again.”

He chuckled softly. “Maybe I can find you. What happened tonight was too good to just be a one night stand.”

That caught my attention.

“And how exactly would you find me? You don’t even know my name.”

“I’m a private investigator. Pretty good one, actually. Figured I could take the chance.”

Of course he was. I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. “That might be the least original pickup line I’ve heard all year, and I work with venture capitalists.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Did it work?”

“We’ll see.” I looked at him properly for the first time that night. Useful. Controlled enough. Hungry for more, and not just the kind you could see.

“Then maybe we can help each other,” I said.

I gave him the short version. Sebastian and I were Richard Briggs’ legitimate children. He’d abandoned our mother, chosen another woman’s son to inherit Briggs Pharma. We’d built Mercer Biotech from nothing. Now I wanted what was ours. All of it.

“I need everything on Jace Briggs,” I said, my voice cold and precise. “His habits, weaknesses, relationships, business decisions. Every shareholder tied to Briggs Pharma. Nothing illegal at this stage—just information. Complete profiles.”

Mitch watched me, eyes gleaming with interest. “That’s a big ask.”

“You’ll be well compensated. And there might be… other benefits.” I let the sheet slip slightly, just enough to remind him of what had just happened. “But understand this: I’m in control. Always.”

He smiled slowly. “I think I can work with that.”

We exchanged numbers. He left after another round—quicker this time, me on my knees using his body again for relief. When the door closed behind him, I stood under the shower, letting hot water wash away the sweat and the temporary distraction.

Jace Briggs.

I pictured his face from the files. The hatred burned hotter than ever. I promised myself again that I would live to see his destruction.

This was only the beginning.