Corporate Villainy: Trampling Protagonists as a Business Dad

The Cornelius estate came into view like the slow unveiling of another world.

Helena Darrow sat upright in the back of a sleek black car that looked like it had never touched a pothole in its life. She tried not to sink too deeply into the ridiculously soft seat cushions, which were so plush they practically tried to cradle her like a treasured heirloom.

She glanced out the window and blinked.

Two massive red-blossomed trees flanked the entrance gates. Each tree had only a handful of large, glowing golden fruits nestled in the branches. Beneath them stood guards—real ones—in full black armor, motionless as statues.

Her eyes widened. "Wait... are those Crimson Vitality Pears? The ones that only grow once every three years?"

She clutched her purse as if the fruit might hear her and demand taxes.

"I've only ever seen those on TV," she whispered under her breath. "I thought those were, like, protected by law or... rich people regulations."

David, the driver, gave no response. He was focused, unflinching. His sharp uniform and silver-trimmed gloves made him look more like a royal escort than a chauffeur.

Helena leaned slightly toward the window and whispered, "Is it normal to guard fruit like it's gold?"

"They are after all quite valuable and can improve a person's health. They can be exchanged for other spirt fruits, valuables and... favors." David politely answered this time.

She sat back and tried not to whistle.

Her hazelnut brown hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, though a few loose strands danced from the car's subtle air vents. Her eyes, warm and rich like polished chestnuts, took in the estate grounds with increasing disbelief.

She was thirty-eight. Mature. Graceful. The kind of woman who made others calm just by entering a room—if they weren't distracted by her curves first. Her figure was lush, maternal, unmistakably sensual: full hips, a deep chest, and the kind of hourglass form that made custom tailors sweat.

But here?

She suddenly felt like an antique dropped in a glass shop.

The car eased to a stop before a grand staircase. The stone shimmered faintly under the sun, hinting at spiritual reinforcement. A servant opened the door with an elegant bow.

Helena stepped out, straightened her blouse, and tried not to gawk. The main doors ahead were made of dark ironwood with colorful gems inlay. There were no exaggerated flourishes—just sharp design and silent pressure.

The kind of wealth that didn't need to scream.

A pair of guards nodded as she passed. Behind them, the red-blossomed trees continued to glow softly, their golden fruit high and untouchable.

Inside, she was led through quiet, spotless hallways. She passed soft carpets, spirited lighting pearls, and servant staff that moved without a single wasted motion.

She didn't know if it was the polished floors, the faint scent of spirit oil and incense, or the fact that even the air here felt like it would cost her a fortune, but she suddenly became aware of every scuff on her shoes.

Vincent Cornelius had sent a gift basket to her house.

Now he was inviting her for tea.

Kindness from someone like him to someone like her?

It didn't feel right.

Finally, the servant stopped in front of a tall door carved with elegant patterns and inlaid blue sigils.

"The Azure Parlor," he said.

Helena swallowed. "Of course it is."

She adjusted her posture, smoothed her top one last time, and stepped inside.

Warm lighting. Subtle incense. Somewhere, soft instrumental music played—real strings, not recorded.

Vincent stood by a low marble table, his back to her. He turned slowly, one hand tucked behind his back, the other holding a small porcelain teacup.

His eyes were calm. Curious. Sharp.

"Miss Darrow," he said with that smooth, CEO tone. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. Please, have a seat. The tea is fresh."

Helena walked in cautiously. Her eyes flicked once to the cup in his hand.

She smiled, gently.

And silently wondered if the tea was poisoned.

****************

Helena took a sip of the tea, expecting the usual warmth and a faint aftertaste of bitterness.

Instead, something incredibly soft flooded her body—an almost imperceptible shift, like her bones had exhaled. The muscles around her spine eased. Her eyelids felt lighter.

She blinked. "What… is this?"

"Spiritual Darjeeling," Vincent replied.

She lowered the cup slowly, eyebrows raised. "I've heard the name. The most sort after tea in the world, but I thought it was exaggerated nonsense."

"It often is," he said. "But this batch, the silver tips, are handpicked from best buds--immature leaves just opening--plucked under moonbeams and sealed by hand in Temple-grade jade for seven years. I assure you—no exaggeration."

Helena let out a quiet breath. "Well. Either I'm ascending, or I just drank something worth more than my apartment."

She gave a small, helpless laugh—half shock, half disbelief.

Vincent did not laugh, but the corner of his mouth curled faintly, amused. "It's probably more than that" he thought

Of course it's expensive, she thought. Everything around him is.

But he hadn't offered it with pomp. No display. No explanation. Just a cup. That made it harder to resent him.

He gestured to Olivia who took out the near contract and handed it to Helena.

Helena although a bit taken aback took it with both hands then looked at Vincent with her deer eyes. 

"Read it. You will understand." 

As she read through the contract her gaze drifted downward for a moment.

She hadn't always lived in rented silence.

Elijah Darrow, her late husband, had once swept her off her feet with promises and poise. He ran a small logistics company, and he knew how to talk—smooth, charming, and polished like his suits.

She had married him for that warmth.

That warmth vanished the moment Liam was born.

Cold nights. Missed meals. Long stretches where he barely spoke to her unless in front of clients. When he brought home his second wife—taller, younger, and with the kind of confidence Helena had to learn by bleeding—he claimed the marriage was "a strategic investment."

Only after his death, two years later, did she discover he had already been seeing the woman during Helena's pregnancy.

The will divided his wealth with surgical cruelty: the third wife received the lion's share. The second got properties. Helena? A fixed stipend and a fraction of stock in a failing subsidiary.

And yet… she had never begged.

Which, Vincent suspected, was precisely why she still had her spine.

"You think I'm suited for this?" she asked.

"I know you are," Vincent said. "You're calm under pressure. You know how to read a room. And you haven't sold yourself—despite how easy that would've been."

Her fingers stilled on the teacup.

"You're not being poetic," she said softly.

"No."

He leaned forward slightly, voice cool but honest. "If I wanted beauty, I could buy a hundred prettier women with obedience and flawless spiritual symmetry. What I want is utility."

Helena blinked, then laughed—genuinely this time.

"I should be offended."

"You'd only be offended if it wasn't true."

[System Notification: Favorability Shift — Helena Darrow → 68 (+4)]

[VP +40 | LP +10]

[Liam LP: 780 (-10) | Vincent LP: 220 (+10)]

"I'll think about it," she said.

Vincent gestured to her tea. "Don't think too long. The world moves quickly. And I'd rather you be beside me than watching from the sidelines when the next story unfolds."