The morning air, thick with the tang of salt and hot metal, was usually a tonic to Cornelia.
It was the scent of industry, of progress, of an empire forged from grit and steel.
But on this particular Tuesday, as she stood by the vast window of her office overlooking the controlled chaos of the shipyard, the air felt suffocating.
The rhythmic clang of hammers against steel seemed to her ears not a symphony of creation, but the ticking of a clock counting down to her ruin.
Her secretary, Mrs. Gable, a woman whose loyalty was as starched as her collars, entered without her usual brisk knock.
She placed the morning’s stack of newspapers on the corner of Nell’s mahogany desk, her movements unnaturally delicate, as if the newsprint itself were coated in poison.
“The Chronicle is on top, Mrs. Davies,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Nell’s shoulder.
Nell didn’t turn immediately.
She kept her eyes on the skeletal hull of the freighter in Drydock Two, a monument to her ambition. “Thank you, Beatrice. That will be all.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Nell in a silence that felt heavier than the din outside.
She walked to the desk, her reflection a severe silhouette in the polished wood. Ronan Kent’s byline was a black gash beneath the headline.
She had known it was coming, of course. But knowing a storm is on the horizon and feeling the first icy drops of rain are two entirely different things.
THE IRON BARONESS OF THE EAST RIVER
How Cornelia Davies Forges a Shipping Empire on the Backs of Her Men
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the paper.
She forced herself to read, to absorb every poisoned barb, every artful twist of the truth. Kent had a talent, she had to grant him that.
He had taken the facts of their interview—her talk of efficiency, of deadlines, of the relentless pace required to compete—and burnished them into the armor of a tyrant.
He wrote of her office as a “gilded fortress,” from which she presided over a “kingdom of sweat and toil.”
He painted a picture of her workers as “nameless cogs in a merciless machine,” their grievances ignored, their safety a secondary concern to the all-important bottom line.
He twisted her pride in her self-made status into a narrative of ruthless ambition, suggesting she had forgotten the very struggles she’d claimed to have overcome.
He even referenced the recent equipment failure, framing it not as a suspicious incident but as the inevitable result of her “callous disregard for maintenance and the men who depend on it.”
A cold, white-hot fury uncoiled in her gut. He had sat in her office, met her gaze, engaged her in a duel of wits she had found almost… exhilarating.
She remembered the unwelcome spark, the flicker of sharp intelligence in his eyes that she had mistaken for a worthy adversary’s respect.
It hadn’t been respect. It had been assessment. He had been measuring her for a coffin.
He had called her a predator, but he was the true hunter, stalking her with a pen, ready to bleed her reputation dry on the pages of a ten-cent paper for the sake of his own ambition.
The betrayal was so profound, so personal, it left a metallic taste in her mouth.
The telephone on her credenza jangled, its ring shrill and insistent.
Mrs. Gable appeared a moment later, her face pale. “It’s Councilman Albright’s secretary, Mrs. Davies. He wishes to express his… concern… regarding the article and its potential impact on public perception of the naval contract bid.”
“Tell him I am in a meeting,” Nell said, her voice a chip of ice. “And hold all my calls.”
The dam had broken.
Before noon, three more calls came from city officials. A telegram arrived from a key investor, its language couched in nervous diplomacy.
The article wasn’t just an article; it was a weapon, and it had found its mark.
The naval contract, the culmination of five years of relentless work, was now dangling by a thread of public opinion, a thread Ronan Kent was gleefully attempting to sever.
She strode to the center of her office, forcing herself to breathe. Panic was a luxury she could not afford.
Weakness was a death sentence.
She had built this company from nothing, staring down creditors, rivals, and politicians who saw a woman in a man’s world and smelled blood.
She had not come this far to be undone by a charming scribbler with a thesaurus.
She summoned her shipyard foreman, a barrel-chested man named MacReady whose face was a roadmap of industrial accidents and hard-won loyalty.
He held a copy of the Chronicle, his knuckles white where he gripped it.
“It’s lies, Mrs. Davies,” he growled, slapping the paper. “Every last word of it. The men are furious.”
“I know, Mr. MacReady,” she said, her tone calm and steady, a stark contrast to the inferno within her. “But fury doesn’t patch a reputation. I need you to keep the men focused. We have deadlines to meet. Any man caught spreading rumors or causing unrest will be dismissed. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, ma’am.” He hesitated. “But they’re calling you… they’re saying you don’t care.”
“Then we will prove them wrong with our work,” she said, her gaze unwavering.
“Let Mr. Kent write his fantasies. We will build ships. Now, I want a full report on our revised schedule for the Olympian by end of day. We cannot afford any more delays.”
He nodded, his shoulders straightening as if her confidence were a physical brace.
As he left, Nell felt a sliver of the control return.
This was her world. She understood logistics, tonnage, and the sheer force of will required to bend steel to her design.
Public relations was a murkier, more treacherous sea, but she would navigate it all the same.
The day bled into a long, tense evening. The shipyard lights glittered against the dark water, a constellation of her own making.
As the last of her staff departed, a quiet knock came at her private entrance.
Silas Croft entered, melting out of the shadows like a wraith. He removed his hat, his movements economical and precise.
He looked less like a detective and more like a quiet accountant, an anonymity that was his greatest asset.
“Mrs. Davies,” he said, his voice a low baritone that seemed to absorb the light in the room.
“Mr. Croft. You have news?” She gestured to a chair, but he remained standing.
“Initial findings,” he corrected gently. “I’ve spent the day among your men. In the taverns, on the docks. Listening.”
“And what have you heard? Apart from Mr. Kent’s fiction, I assume.”
“There is discontent,” he stated, his face unreadable. “Whispers about wages, the pace of the work. The usual grievances you’d find in any yard this size. There are men who believe the article. There are more who don’t.”
“But do you believe any of them are capable of sabotage?”
Silas was silent for a moment, his gaze distant as he sifted through the day’s conversations. “The anger is there. But it’s the unfocused anger of tired men, not the sharp-edged anger of a saboteur,” he explained.
“A man who wants to make a point smashes a window. He throws a wrench in a gear to be found, to make a statement. He doesn’t execute a clean, quiet failure that could just as easily be blamed on wear and tear.”
He finally met her eyes, and she saw a glint of certainty in their depths. “I had a look at the winch housing from the crane this afternoon. Your foreman kept the parts.”
“And?” Nell prompted, leaning forward.
“The gear that failed… it wasn’t worn through. It was scored. Deeply, precisely, in a way that would maximize stress on the axle pin without being immediately obvious.
“And the pin itself wasn’t sheared from fatigue. It was acid-pitted. A targeted chemical corrosion. It’s professional work, Mrs. Davies. Deliberate. Quiet. Too clean for a simple worker’s protest.”
The confirmation landed like a block of lead in her stomach. Her suspicions had solidified into a horrifying fact.
Someone was not just trying to undermine her; they were waging a calculated war against her, using her own machinery as their weapons.
The article wasn’t a standalone attack. It was artillery cover for an invasion. Ronan Kent was either a fool or a co-conspirator, providing the perfect narrative to obscure the truth.
“It’s a rival,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “Someone who wants the naval contract.”
“It’s the most logical conclusion,” Croft agreed. “This level of sabotage requires resources. And a motive powerful enough to risk exposure.”
Nell rose and walked back to the window.
The shipyard below was her battlefield, and she had enemies in the shadows and an enemy in plain sight.
Ronan Kent had painted her as a monster, a ruthless baroness. A cold, dangerous smile touched her lips, devoid of all humor.
Perhaps it was time she started acting like one.
Her fury had not dissipated. It had simply cooled, hardening from a raging fire into a blade of ice.
They thought a newspaper article and a broken winch could bring her to her knees.
They had no idea who they were dealing with. Cornelia Davies had not built an empire by being gentle.
And she would be damned if she let them take it from her without a fight.