Serena needed a welcomed distraction. Business trips were rarely an opportunity for indulgence; she was not the type to blend leisure with work. But New Orleans was a city of contradictions, of allure and decadence—its heartbeat a hypnotic rhythm of jazz notes and distant footsteps on cobblestone streets. She gave in, deciding to indulge in a craving that had been clawing at her since she arrived: a warm, powdered beignet and a cup of chicory coffee.

She found herself at a modest café, its interior dimly lit with antique chandeliers that swung gently with the stir of the ceiling fan. The place smelled of frying batter, scorched sugar, and something faintly floral, like jasmine from a bygone summer. Sitting at a small corner table, Serena bit into a beignet, the hot dough dissolving into sweet bliss on her tongue. The chicory coffee was dark, strong, slightly bitter, but she liked it that way. It reminded her of her father's kitchen in the early mornings, long before her world became a careful balancing act of ambition and doubt.

Yet, even as the sweetness of the moment settled in her chest, her thoughts were elsewhere. They strayed to the man she was here for. August Monroe. His name carried weight, an understated elegance. He was nothing like the corporate types she was used to dealing with. His presence was commanding, deliberate, but with an undercurrent of secrecy she couldn't ignore. And it was secrecy, not charm, that intrigued Serena.

She thought of the gala, the event he was orchestrating to raise funds for underserved communities like the Boys and Girls Club. He spoke of it with purpose, threading personal tragedy into a public cause. It was clever. It was calculated. And it left her with an uneasy curiosity. Who was August Monroe, really?

Her musings carried her out of the café and into the labyrinthine streets of the French Quarter. The city seemed alive in a way that defied explanation—its wrought-iron balconies creaked with history, and the air smelled faintly of rain and decay. She allowed herself to wander, her heels clicking softly against the cobblestones, until her path led her to a narrow alley she hadn't noticed before.

A faint light glimmered from a window at the end of the alley. Above the door, a crooked sign read: Madame Devine—Tarot, Fortune, Fate.

Serena hesitated, the preacher's daughter in her screaming to turn away. Her mother, devout and unyielding, would have called this place wicked, a den of blasphemy. But curiosity had always been Serena's undoing. The pull was too strong, like a whispered invitation she couldn't refuse.

She stepped inside.

The room was cloaked in shadow, its air heavy with incense and something faintly metallic, like blood or rust. A single candle burned on a small table draped in deep burgundy velvet. The woman seated there—Madame Devine, presumably—was tall and angular, her dark eyes sharp as the blade of a knife.

"You've come," the woman said without looking up, her voice low and rasping, like leaves crackling underfoot.

"I didn't—" Serena began, but Madame Devine cut her off with a raised hand.

"You don't need to explain. The cards know why you're here."

Serena sat, her throat dry, her nerves betraying her usual composure. The woman began shuffling the deck, her bony hands moving with practiced ease. The cards whispered against one another, and Serena felt the hair on her arms stand on end.

The first card flipped over was The Moon, its silver crescent casting an eerie glow against the black sky in the image. Next came The Sun, radiant and golden, its heat almost tangible. The final card was The Tower, a crumbling structure engulfed in flames.

Madame Devine leaned closer, her shadow looming over the table. "The moon and sun are your dance," she said, her voice a blend of melody and menace. "Opposites pulling you apart—truth and illusion, clarity and obscurity. You stand at the center of this storm, but you don't yet see it." She tapped the Tower card, her nail clicking against its surface. "Change is coming. Sudden, violent. A fall that cannot be stopped."

Serena's chest tightened. "Is this about my career?"

Madame Devine tilted her head, her dark eyes boring into Serena. "This is about the man in shadows. He carries death in his heart and fate in his hands. Be wary of him."

Her words were a jolt, but Serena swallowed her unease, reminding herself it was just a show—a parlor trick meant to scare tourists. Still, as she left the shop and stepped into the night, the words clung to her like the humidity, heavy and unrelenting.

Back in Lafayette, the familiarity of Sapphire Strategies brought her little comfort. The sleek modern office with its glass walls and cold, clinical lighting felt sterile after the enigmatic energy of New Orleans. She sat at her desk, scrolling through her planner as her team gathered in the conference room.

Eleanor was already there, her imposing frame commanding attention as she adjusted the cuff of her tailored navy blazer. With her auburn waves pinned neatly at the back of her head and eyes as sharp and blue as ice, Eleanor embodied the archetype of a southern belle with teeth.

Marco lounged in his chair, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, exuding his Miami-born charm. His dark eyes glimmered with amusement as he caught Serena's glance, but his smirk faded when Eleanor spoke.

"Let's get to it," Eleanor began. "Serena, where are we with the Monroe Collective?"

Serena cleared her throat. "The gala is set for the end of the month. August wants a strong focus on community engagement, particularly with underserved groups like the Boys and Girls Club. Jess will work directly with Lila, who's handling the floral arrangements and decorations, as well as the catering. Marco, we'll need a targeted marketing strategy—something that balances exclusivity with accessibility. The goal is to draw in both high-profile donors and local leaders."

"And Monroe himself?" Marco asked, his tone skeptical. "What kind of man are we dealing with?"

Serena hesitated, her mind flashing back to the intensity of his gaze, the measured way he spoke, as though every word had been rehearsed. "He's... guarded," she said finally. "There's a personal element to this for him. His late wife, Clarissa, was deeply involved in the arts. This gala is as much about preserving her legacy as it is about the charity."

Eleanor arched a brow. "Tragic and strategic," she said, her voice tinged with approval. "A man who knows how to wield his grief. Use it."

Serena bristled at Eleanor's pragmatism but didn't argue. This was the job, after all: turning stories into strategy, emotion into capital. But as the meeting continued, she couldn't shake the image of the Tower card or the words of Madame Devine.

The man in shadows. Fate in his hands. Death in his heart.