Chapter 5 Lies and Legacy

Chapter 5

Lies and Legacy

The next morning came with muted colors. A drizzle hung in the air like a secret yet to be spoken. Racheal sat in her apartment, the shadows of last night's revelations weighing heavily on her. Without saying a word, Michael had quietly dropped her off. The pistol lay locked in her drawer, untouched but undeniable. Every sound from the hallway now made her flinch. She had slept in spurts, waking at every creak, every gust of wind. She wanted to believe the world was still normal, but Michael's words echoed in her thoughts like a curse.

She made coffee slowly, forcing herself into a routine. Her mind wandered to Allen-his smile, the way he had kissed her neck when she least expected it. It wasn't just betrayal now; it was mourning.

The Face Behind the Empire

Meanwhile, miles across town, Collins Miller stared out the glass wall of his high-rise office that overlooked the Hudson. Manhattan gleamed beneath him, a monument to the kind of power that made men untouchable. His tailored suit, Italian leather shoes, and platinum wristwatch weren't vanity-they were symbols of a legacy carved through decades of dominance.

Collins was more than just a real estate magnate; he was the very definition of the American mythology. At just 44, he had inherited his father's multibillion-dollar empire-Miller Urban Holdings-and multiplied its value fivefold. He had turned decrepit districts into thriving neighborhoods, launched billion-dollar projects in New York, Miami, and even Dubai. His influence extended from city mayors to senators, and some whispered even beyond.

He wasn't just building homes. He was building reach, leverage, and silence.

Journalists rarely touched him. Those who tried lost funding. Or disappeared from relevance. His charities-education, housing, youth empowerment-shielded him in the public eye. He sponsored orchestras, built churches, even helped post-hurricane rebuilds in Puerto Rico. But behind closed doors, Collins was surgical. Ruthless. Every friendship served a purpose. Every favor was a debt.

Collins never raised his voice. He didn't need to. He had people like Cruz. in government databases, ghosts. Movers of assets. Makers of disappearances.

Now, seated across from his legal advisor, Collins tapped his fingers lightly on a leather folder.

"They're getting too close," he said calmly.

"To Cruz?"

"No," Collins said. "To her."

He didn't say Racheal's name. He never did. Saying her name meant acknowledging his own mistake.

"She was never supposed to get curious," he murmured, mostly to himself.

The advisor adjusted his glasses. "You want her silenced?"

Collins looked out again, at the storm clouds curling above the city.

"No. I want her watched. And when she realizes who she's up against... she'll stop."

A Dangerous Man's History

Collins had started young, shadowing his father in business meetings when other boys were still learning to tie shoes. At 22, he closed his first multimillion-dollar land deal. By 30, he had absorbed two major competitors. He wed the governor's daughter when he was 35. Now, divorced and unbothered, he wielded relationships like tools in a chest.

Collins Miller was not just a strategist; he was a legend in the underworld of espionage and high-stakes deception. Known for his razor-sharp intellect and unnerving calm, Collins operated like a chess master, always several moves ahead of his enemies. One of his most brilliant plans involved the recovery of a stolen microchip containing classified government data. Disguised as a flamboyant art dealer, Collins infiltrated a billionaire's auction in Monaco. With charm and precision, he swapped the real chip hidden inside a priceless sculpture and replaced it with a flawless replica, all under the watchful eyes of international security.

But it wasn't just technology he outwitted - Collins was equally dangerous in the realm of human manipulation. In Berlin, he staged a fictitious assassination attempt to expose a shady member of the European Diplomatic Council. As chaos unfolded, the mole unknowingly contacted his handler, revealing a decade-long network of espionage. Collins's trap not only shut down the ring but also elevated him to mythic status among intelligence circles.

Perhaps his boldest move was "Operation Mirage," where Collins tricked a cartel into destroying their own shipment by hacking their internal GPS network and rerouting it to a rival's territory. Collins disappeared into the shadows, leaving only his signature, a silver lighter, as the two groups clashed. Cunning, charismatic, and dangerously unpredictable, Collins Miller thrived on risk. He transformed missions into performances, each of which perfectly balanced control and chaos. While no one truly knew his allegiance, one thing was certain: wherever Collins went, brilliance - and trouble - followed.

But his father's final gift wasn't land or money-it was knowledge of a network. Hidden routes. Shell companies. Offshore connections. It was this gift that Collins had turned into something bigger-into Cruz.

The codename didn't refer to one man. It referred to a protocol, a way of doing things unseen. Cruz was laundering, yes-but more. It was a funnel, a gateway, a movement of people whose names weren't in the census. "Protected" were some of them. Others were being used.

And Collins Miller was at the center.

He didn't need violence. He had access. He had cities. He had secrets.

But now, that calm confidence began to tremble. Racheal Taylor was a wildcard. She had once loved Allen, but she had once worked with Collins too-briefly, long ago, before she became insignificant.

He should have kept her closer.

He hated loose ends.

The Spark of Suspicion

Back in her apartment, Racheal stared at a folder Michael had left. Inside were banking statements, photos, handwritten notes. She flipped through them absently until a name froze her: Miller Holdings.

A cold rush surged through her.

She remembered a meeting, two years ago, with a sharply dressed man who shook hands with Allen. He hadn't stayed long. But now she remembered the name.

She called Michael after reaching for her phone. "You didn't tell me Collins Miller is part of this," she said.

Silence.

Then: "Because I wasn't sure you could handle it."

"Well, I can't. But now I have to."

Michael's voice dropped. "If Miller's involved, this is bigger than we thought. He's the kind of man who doesn't make mistakes. People don't investigate him. They admire him. Or fear him."

"I don't care. If he's part of what happened to Allen-if he's using people like they're chess pieces-I want the board flipped."

"You're talking about war."

She looked at the pistol again.

"No, Michael. I'm talking about justice."

That night, Racheal spotted the black SUV again. Parked two blocks down. Lights off. But there.

She pulled her curtain aside slowly.

They were no longer hiding. They wanted her to know. That was the real threat-not a bullet, but a presence. Constant. Watching.

Her phone buzzed. One message.

"You don't know what you're doing."

No name.

Just a warning.

She stared at it for a long time, then deleted it. Her reflection in the dark window seemed older. Tired. Determined.

For the first time, Racheal wasn't just reacting.

She was preparing.