THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

I want to kill him.

The urge is so potent, so all-consuming, that it takes every ounce of my willpower to remain still, to keep my hands clasped gracefully around the champagne flute instead of reaching for a weapon. The vision is vivid: the satisfying jerk of his body, the brilliant, shocking crimson blooming across his crisp white shirtfront. I can almost see it oozing out, drenching the polished floor in a shimmering, wet stain.

A slow smile touches my lips as I swirl the pale gold liquid in my glass. Satisfied? Perhaps. I have mentally sketched out fifty different ways to end Ethan Croft, and yet, it never feels like enough. The hatred is a fire that burns brighter and hotter than anything else I have ever felt.

"Miss Ashford, I am so delighted to see you tonight."

The voice pulls me out of my head. I divert my attention from the scumbag across the room to the lovely woman now standing before me. Dahlia Johansson offers a broad, genuine smile. She is the legendary organizer of this fashion show and the director of Aethelred House, a name that commands reverence in American fashion. Receiving her personal invitation two months ago was a shockwave through the industry. But then again, who am I kidding? I had well expected the exclusive envelope to arrive at my doorstep. My current collection has set the world on fire, and Aethelred House needs my name.

"You are too kind, Dahlia," I say, flashing a perfect smile. "The show was amazing. I loved the last segment with all the black and white pieces."

Her eyes light up. "Precisely! It's about the narrative. I told the team, we are not just dressing bodies, we are draping characters in a story. And your work, Vanessa, has that very same cinematic quality. It's why I knew you simply had to be here."

She then laughs, a light, tinkling sound that perfectly suits the surroundings. "I look forward to working with you, Miss Ashford."

We make a bit more small talk about fabrics and trends before someone calls her away. As soon as she's gone, my eyes snap back to where he was standing.

He's gone.

My heart does a little jump. Did he leave? No, he can't have. The party is just getting started. I start moving through the crowd, trying to look casual as I scan the room.

The after-party is in a cool, industrial-looking loft. The ceiling is high, with big, modern art pieces hanging down. Everyone is dressed in their best, wearing crazy-expensive outfits and sipping cocktails. The whole place buzzes with noise and energy.

"Vanessa!"

The shrill call of my name cuts across the sophisticated din. I turn to see Samantha Falls waving enthusiastically. I had the profound misfortune of being seated next to her during the show. She is a minor television actress and a professional talker, who spent the entire hour rambling about her auditions and her co-stars. She has now mistakenly decided we are the dearest of friends. We are not. She waves her hand, motioning for me to join her little circle. I can see two or three people flanking her, all now looking in my direction.

Having no choice, I weave my way over, offering a polished, impersonal smile to her companions– a gallery owner, a tech investor, and someone whose name I immediately forget.

The next ten minutes are torture. I have to smile and nod while they talk about boring famous people I don't care about. My head starts to ache from all the fake socializing. All I can think about is that I've lost sight of him.

I can't take it anymore. I make an excuse and slip away, moving through the sea of designer dresses and suits.

And then I see him. A flash of his perfectly styled brown hair. Even after all these years, i can recognize him just by the back of his head. And I hate that I can.

His mistress and also my ex-best friend is clinging to his arm a few feet away from me. He's talking to some important-looking guys, probably lying through his teeth. I look at them and wonder, do they have any idea what he's really like? Can they see the terrible person hiding behind that charming smile?

He hasn't noticed me yet.

But that's the plan. It's not time.

I glance at the delicate diamond watch on my wrist. There are still eight minutes left.

I can wait. I've been waiting for five years. What's eight more minutes? I've spent all this time planning his downfall. I can stand here a little longer.

I take a small, subconscious step back to steady myself, and my shoulder bumps softly into a solid form behind me. I turn, and my gaze lands first on the crisp, pristine white of a dress shirt, layered beneath a impeccably tailored black suit. It's a man's chest. I crane my neck up, and my eyes lock with a pair of cool, analytical grey ones. He is looking down at me, and his gaze is piercing, seeming to see right through my social mask.

I quickly put a polite distance between us. "My apologies," I say, my voice smooth and detached. "That was clumsy of me."

The man is undeniably handsome in a classic, tall-dark-and-handsome way. In another life, another moment, I might have appreciated the sharp line of his jaw or the intensity in his expression. But not now. I have got something important on my plate to deal with.

"No harm done," he replies in his deep voice. I expect him to move on, to continue his evening, but he doesn't. He simply stands there, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking completely at ease, as if our brief collision had anchored him to this very spot.

I feel a flicker of impatience. I check the time on my wrist again. Four minutes left now. "If you'll excuse me," I say, not waiting for a response before I turn my back to him, my eyes scanning the crowd once more for Ethan Croft.

I find him. His mistress has drifted away, likely in search of another glass of champagne. Perfect. But I can still feel the weight of that grey-eyed stare from behind me. It's a tangible pressure between my shoulder blades. What does he want? Whatever. It doesn't matter. He is not part of the plan.

My entire world narrows to the countdown in my head. When there is only one minute left, I begin to glide forward, ignoring the heated stare from the stranger. I calculate it perfectly, it will take six to seven steps to reach Ethan. By the time I arrive, the lights will be gone.

And just as planned, it happens.

The entire loft is plunged into a sudden, profound pitch black. A collective, startled gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by a rising wave of confused whispers and murmurs.

A voice cuts through the darkness in an authoritative manner. "Everyone, please remain where you are! The lights will be back on in a second!"

I know better. They will be off for three full minutes. And that is all the time I need.

I am now standing directly in front of Ethan Croft, so close I can smell his expensive cologne. He is just a shadow in the dark. "What's going on?" he mumbles to himself, and the sound of his voice sends a shiver of pure distaste down my spine.

Oh, how I wish I could reach out in the darkness and rip that head of his. But that is a pleasure saved for later.

I take one final, silent step, closing the last of the distance between us.

"Ethan," I whisper into the blackness.

"Sorry, who is this?" he asks in confusion.

Instead of answering, I raise my hand and flick the lid of my vintage silver lighter. A small, defiant flame sparks to life, illuminating the space between our faces. In the sudden, intimate glow, I see the familiar lines of his face, the smug set of his mouth.

I let the flame catch the reflection in my eyes as I meet his bewildered gaze.

"Hello, husband," I speak in a hushed, deliberate tone. A slow, cold smile forms on my lips.

The shock that transforms his features is a pure, unadulterated joy to behold. His eyes widen, his jaw goes slack, the color draining from his face in an instant. It is the look of a man seeing a ghost.

I snap the lighter shut, plunging us back into darkness. Without another word, I turn and walk quickly away, my movements silent and sure through the disoriented crowd. Just as I reach the main exit, the lights flicker back on, flooding the loft with a brilliant, jarring light. I pause at the door and turn for one last look over my shoulder.

There he is, Ethan Croft, still standing frozen in the same spot. He looks pale as a sheet, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He brings a trembling hand up, wiping his face again and again, as if he could erase the vision burned into his retinas.

A scoff escapes me. I turn away and push through the doors, stepping out into the cool night air before anyone can see me.

The first step is done. The seed has been planted. For the next two days, Ethan Croft will be trapped in a private hell, questioning his own sanity, trying to convince himself it was a hallucination, a trick of the light. Because in his world, I am dead. He will not be able to guess that i am alive and breathing. Afterall, he is the one who left me to die.

It will drive him to the edge. And when he is teetering there, vulnerable and paranoid, the second phase of my plan will begin.

But as I walk away, a faint, unsettling prickle runs down my spine. I can't shake the feeling that a pair of eyes watched me every step of the way out from the shadows.

Five Years Ago,

"Daphne!"

The sharp sound of my name cracks through my parents' living room, making me flinch where I stand. A cold trickle of fear creeps up my skin. My husband, Ethan, is marching toward me. He isn't supposed to be here. His face is a thundercloud, his eyebrows drawn together in a dark line. The way he looks at me makes my instincts scream at me to run.

My eyes dart behind him, and my breath catches. His parents are walking in, their faces stern and unyielding. But what shocks me is the sight of the woman trailing behind them. Natasha.

"What the heck do you think you are doing?" Ethan hisses, closing the distance between us in three long strides. His hand shoots out, fingers digging into the soft skin of my upper arm with brutal force. It stings, and a gasp escapes my lips. "Didn't I warn you?" he snarls.

"Let go of me, Ethan," I plead, trying to pull my arm back, but his grip is like iron.

He gives me a vicious, mocking sneer. "Just because you're hiding at your parents' house, did you think you could do whatever you pleased?" With a sudden, cruel shove, he releases me. I stumble backward, my balance lost, and land hard on the cold marble floor. The impact jars my bones, sending a fresh wave of pain through my body.

It hurts. My body, my soul, my heart... everything aches with a deep, weary pain. And in that moment, something inside me snaps. I have had enough.

I hold back the hot tears threatening to spill, pushing myself up onto my elbows. I look him straight in the eye, my voice trembling but clear. "No! I am not going to take it back! I want a divorce, and I don't care what threats you make!"

"Look at you," a cold, disapproving voice cuts in. My mother-in-law, Esther Croft, looks down at me with pure disdain. "How can you speak to your husband like this?"

A bitter, disbelieving scoff escapes me. Is she serious? "It's a problem for you when I raise my voice at your son," I say, my voice growing stronger, "but it's not a problem when he hits me? Huh, Mother? Am I not a human being?"

She simply stares back, her expression bored, as if my pain is a tedious drama she's being forced to watch. The last shred of my naivety shatters. I had truly believed they saw me as a daughter. I was a fool. They never did, and they never will.

Ethan bends down, his face close to mine. His fingers pinch my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are filled with venom. "So now you aren't scared if your father's company collapses?" he whispers, his breath hot on my face. "You've got some nerve these past few days, Daphne."

He yanks me roughly to my feet, his grip like a vise on my arm. A terrifying finality settles in his eyes. "It seems," he says, his voice low and deadly, "I'll have to teach you a lesson you won't forget."

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps thunders from the top of the stairs. "Get your hands off my daughter!" my father's voice roars, echoing through the hall.

He rushes down the staircase, his face flushed with anger. My mother follows closely behind him, her usually gentle, round face etched with deep worry. Seeing them, a sliver of safety returns to my heart.

Ethan lets go of my arm with a dismissive shrug, as if he's merely releasing a piece of furniture. I scramble away from him and rush to my father's side, my entire body trembling.

"Who allowed you to enter this property?" Dad thunders, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. "Leave my house right now!"

But the four of them–Ethan, his parents, and Natasha–don't move an inch. They stand there like a wall of cold superiority.

Ethan puts on a mask of calm reason. "Father, I am only here to take my wife home. Whatever stories she has told you are wrong. She hasn't been in the right state of mind lately."

"Stop lying!" I cry out, clinging to my father's arm.

Dad holds me firmly against his side. "My daughter is perfectly fine. It is you who is deranged! She is not going anywhere with you, ever!"

Ethan just laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. His parents, Victor and Esther, smile with proud, smug looks, as if their son has just told a clever joke.

"Well, well," Ethan says, his fake politeness vanishing. "I'll cut the melodrama then, since you aren't going to buy it." He runs his fingers through his hair, sighing dramatically before taking a threatening step toward us. "If you want this divorce so badly, you will have to pay me. Two hundred million. Then she is free."

I gasp in disbelief. How dare he say that to my father?

Dad's eyes bulge. "Two hundred million? We are not responsible for your–"

Ethan cuts him off disrespectfully. "You are responsible for the business deals you failed to honor, which cost my family a fortune! Consider this compensation."

My father releases me, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. His whole body is rigid with fury. "That is utter nonsense! Those deals fell through because of your own incompetence!"

My father-in-law, Victor Croft, jumps into the argument. "Our records show otherwise. The financial loss is clear. Pay what you owe."

The two fathers go back and forth, their voices rising, their arguments clashing in the air. I have never seen my father argue like this; his face is red, and the veins in his neck are standing out. He looks like a cornered animal, and it terrifies me. Helpless tears stream down my cheeks, leaving wet marks on my skin. My mother wraps a protective arm around me, her own eyes wide with fear.

"Shut up!" Ethan suddenly yells, his patience gone. In a shocking move, he lunges forward and grabs my father by his collar, shaking him. "Stop bullshitting and pay the amount, or your daughter is coming with us right now!"

"We aren't scared of your threats!" I manage to choke out, my voice trembling. My eyes land on the house phone on the side table. "I'll call the cops!"

I break away from my mother and run toward the phone. My hand is just about to pick up the receiver when another hand–a familiar, delicate one with a perfectly manicured nail–slaps down on mine. I look up into the smirking face of Natasha.

"That's not happening, Daph," she says, her voice sweet with poison.

The rage and betrayal I feel toward her is a fire in my chest. I shove her away from me. I know it wasn't that forceful, but she lets out a dramatic gasp, stumbling backward and landing perfectly in Ethan's waiting arms.

Bitch.

Ethan glares at me over her head, his eyes burning with a new, dangerous fury. He gently sets Natasha aside and takes another step toward me, his expression promising pain. "You want to play it that way, Daphne? Fine. We'll play."

Ethan's voice is low and terrifying. He ignores my father's shouts and lunges for me, his fingers digging into my arm like claws. "You're coming with me, now!"

"Let her go!" my father roars, rushing forward. He is older, but fueled by a father's love, he throws himself at Ethan, trying to pry his hands off me.

In a brutal, swift motion, Ethan shoves him away. My father stumbles backward, his legs tangling with the rug. There is a sickening, heavy thud as the back of his head strikes the sharp corner of the marble coffee table.

The world freezes.

A single, choked sound escapes my father's lips before he goes completely still, his eyes open but unseeing.

A scream tears from my throat, raw and guttural. "DAD!"

I break free from Ethan's slackened grip and fall to my father's side, my hands fluttering over him, afraid to touch him. The commotion is deafening-my mother's piercing wails, my own sobs, the Crofts' shocked murmurs.

But Ethan's face shows no remorse. The chaos seems to feed his rage. His eyes, wild and unfocused, scan the room. They land on the ornate fruit bowl on the dining table, and the sharp, silver letter opener beside it.

"See what you made me do?" he snarls, his voice cracking as he snatches the blade. "This is all your fault!"

He isn't talking to me anymore; he is lost in his own fury. My mother, seeing the weapon in his hand, rushes toward her husband's body with a heartbroken cry, "Tim!"

In his enraged state, Ethan sees her movement as an attack. As she passes him, he swings out blindly. The sharp point of the letter opener sinks deep into her side.

She gasps, her hands flying to the wound, a look of pure shock on her face. She crumples to the floor beside my father, her body shuddering.

The world dissolves into a nightmare. I scream again, scrambling toward my mother. But Ethan is still moving, consumed by his violence. He turns back to me, the bloody letter opener raised. I try to push myself away, but I am too slow. A searing, white-hot pain explodes in my abdomen. I look down and see the handle protruding from my stomach.

The strength drains from my legs. I collapse, the cold marble meeting my cheek. My vision begins to tunnel, the sounds fading. The last thing I see is my mother, her hand stretched out toward me, her eyes wide with terror and pain. Then her hand falls, limp, and her chest goes still. The shock and grief are too much for her heart.

The last thing I hear is Natasha's shrill scream, and Ethan's panicked voice, "What have I done...?"

Then, there is only silence, and the overwhelming, coppery smell of blood.

The pain is a distant, throbbing echo. My body feels heavy, anchored to the cold floor. Through blurred vision and the dark haze creeping at the edges of my sight, I see them moving.

Ethan is pacing across the living room, running his hands through his hair, his breath coming in ragged pants. Victor Croft's voice is low as he says, "This is a mess. An unforgivable mess."

"It was an accident!" Ethan snaps, but his voice is thin, frayed with panic.

"Does it matter?" Natasha's voice is sharp, cutting through the men's panic. "They're gone. All of them. Who will know the difference?"

Her words slither into my fading consciousness.

"We need to do something" Ethan tells them, looking back at me and then back to his parents and Natasha. I can't even cry anymore. My body is numb and too weak to speak anything.

I watch, helpless, as Ethan Croft moves with a chilling efficiency. She finds the bottle of expensive cooking sherry my mother kept in the sideboard and begins dousing the heavy velvet curtains. He then pulls out his lighter from his pocket and wait for a minute before lighting the fire. My heart which had been broken before has been shredded now into thousand different pieces.

The first flicker of flame catches the fabric, a small, almost gentle orange tongue. It licks hungrily at the dry material, growing, spreading with a soft whoosh. Smoke, acrid and thick, begins to fill the room, stinging my nostrils.

Ethan looks at my body, at the blood pooling beneath me. For a fleeting second, our eyes meet. He sees the faint gleam of life still in my gaze. I see the final, cold decision in his. There is no mercy left.

He turns away.

"Let's go. Now," Victor commands.

They move toward the door, a parade of monsters leaving their carnage behind. Natasha is the last to leave. She pauses at the threshold, looking back at the growing inferno, at the bodies of the family she once claimed to love. There is no regret on her face. Only a grim satisfaction.

Then, she pulls the front door shut.

The heat intensifies, becoming a physical weight. The smoke is a thick, black fog, filling my lungs, choking my last breaths. The crackle of the fire is the only sound now, a roaring applause for their evil. The flames dance closer, their light the last thing I see, their heat the last thing I feel.

The world dissolves into nothing but fire and smoke.

And then, nothing at all.

Obsessed.

It's a weak word for what I'm feeling. It doesn't capture this... compulsion. This raw need to understand something, someone, who is a complete mystery. I know it's unpredictable, and I usually hate unpredictability. That's what makes this so unsettling.

I've noticed women before. I've dated. But the idea of one actually getting under my skin has never ever happened. Until her. Vanessa Ashford. She's got me twisted up, and I can't seem to straighten myself out.

Am I sounding like a fucking dog in heat? Probably. But for the first time, I find I don't care.

I take the last sip of bourbon, the amber liquid burning a smooth path down my throat, and set the heavy crystal glass on the mahogany desk. Fourteen days. I've seen her twice in that time, and only once was I close enough to speak three words to her. "No harm done." Pathetic.

The file with her name typed neatly on the label lies beside the glass. I've gone through it a dozen times. The more I read, the more the puzzle deepens. The official story is there-her rise in the fashion world, her business-but I know, with a certainty, that there's more. There's so much more hidden beneath the surface, and I have to know what it is.

The first time I saw her was at JFK. I was killing time in the executive lounge, foregoing the jet for a commercial flight for a change of pace, when I heard a commotion outside near the duty-free shops. Through the glass, I saw it all unfold with the clarity of a scene in a film.

A man was running, clutching a handbag. And then, her. A woman in a tailored jumpsuit, moving with a fluid, shocking grace. She closed the distance and executed a perfect, devastating kick to the back of his knee. The man went down hard with a grunt.

I stood and went out. It was better than sitting there, pretending to ignore the usual stares from other passengers. I leaned against a pillar, just another face in the gathering crowd, and watched.

She didn't scream. She simply stalked over, grabbed the whimpering man by his collar, and pinned him with a knee in his back. Her voice was loud enough to be heard, cutting through the airport buzz.

"Instead of stealing, go find some work!"

The man just groaned. She leaned in closer, her dark brown hair falling like a curtain beside her face. "If men like you stopped doing shit like this, the world might be a better place."

A smirk tugged at my mouth. I couldn't help it. She let him go with a shove, snatched her bag back, and stood up, brushing off her coat.

"And it's the only Bottega Veneta I own, you douchebag!" she hissed, her tone full of a venom I found utterly captivating.

Then she just walked away, disappearing into the river of travelers. And I just stood there, rooted to the spot. I didn't know her name. I didn't know a single thing about her. But I felt an intrigue so sharp it was like a physical pull. I had to know who she was. And that was just the beginning.

The next time I saw her was at the Aethelred House fashion show. I hadn't expected her to be there at all. But then I spotted her across the room, and it was like everything else just faded into background noise.

She was wearing a dark green gown that seemed to drink the light. It was a cascade of silk, so dark it was almost black, but then she'd move and a thousand tiny rhinestones would catch the light, shimmering like stars against a midnight forest. She looked both utterly real and completely ethereal. Unreachable.

I watched her for most of the night. It was a new kind of torture. She wasn't looking at the clothes or mingling with the crowd. Her entire focus was fixed elsewhere, a deep intensity that I could feel from across the room. I followed her gaze and found its target: Ethan Croft.

The connection sent a jolt through me. Did she know him? Were they involved? The thought that she might be interested in a married man, a man like him, sat in my gut like a stone. I couldn't just watch from a distance anymore. I needed to be near her, to break that focus, if only for a second.

So, I made my move. I intentionally stepped back, letting her bump into me. When she turned, and her eyes-those sharp, blue, intelligent eyes-finally met mine, I wanted to freeze the moment. To stretch it out. But she was all caution and distance, a beautiful fortress with its gates slammed shut. She was even more captivating up close.

And then she was gone. She had a motive for being there, I was sure of it. I saw the way she disappeared into the crowd after that strange blackout.

It's been two days since that night, and she hasn't left my goddamn mind. It's fucking annoying. So irritating that I finally called Simon and told him to dig up everything on Vanessa Ashford. But the file is thin. She's a vault. Privacy. Discreetness. She's not some socialite leaving a digital trail. She's something else entirely, and that, more than anything, is what I find so goddamn interesting.

Fuck.

My phone vibrates, cutting through the silence. Simon's name flashes on the screen.

"What is it, Simon?"

"Sir, Croft Textiles International has sent their tenth email requesting a meeting. Should I decline again, as per standard protocol?"

I press my fingers to my temple, the beginning of a headache forming, and drop into the leather chair behind my desk. Ethan Croft. A man and a company I have given zero fucks about for years. But now... now it's different. He's a thread connected to her.

"No," I say, the decision solidifying as I speak. "Tell them I'll see them. Thursday, 11 AM sharp at my office."

Simon notes it down, the sound of his typing faint through the line. He's about to end the call when I stop him. "There's something else I want you to do. Find out her whereabouts when she was in Santorini, apart from the information that she lives with her brother. You know what to do."

"Sure, sir," he replies, his voice neutral. Then the line goes dead.

I release a long breath, leaning back in the chair. I try to focus on the business meeting with Ricci tomorrow, on Croft, but my mind betrays me. It drifts back to the feeling of her shoulder against my chest in that crowded room. How surprisingly small she felt. And her scent-like dark roses, not sweet, but deep and complicated, with a hint of thorn.

I need to stop, because if I don't, I'm liable to do something completely irrational, like drive to Manhattan and show up at her apartment door like a fucking creepy stalker. And the last thing I want to do is scare her away.

The sharp knock on the door comes just then, a welcome interruption from my own dangerous thoughts. For a moment, I can't decide if I'm annoyed or thankful for the distraction.

"Come in."

The door opens and one of the housekeepers stands there, her hands folded neatly. "Dinner is served, sir. Your father is expecting you downstairs."

I give a curt nod, and she disappears. Dinner. Or, as I like to call it, my father's favorite opportunity to piss his only son off. I slide Vanessa's file back into the locked drawer of my desk, a deliberate action to shut her away for now. Then I head downstairs, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor as I make my way to the formal dining room.

My parents don't see me often, so the few times I am here, they don't waste a single minute. They sure do love me, in their own uniquely pressuring way.

"Hello, everyone," I say, my voice flat. I greet my mother with a glance and then my father, who is already seated at the head of the long table. I take my usual seat beside him, directly across from my mother.

Mom offers a soft, practiced smile, the pearls around her neck glinting in the warm light of the chandelier. With a subtle wave of her hand, she gestures for the serving staff to leave us alone. The rich, savory aroma of roasted chicken and herbs fills the air, and for a fleeting second, it takes me back. I'm a teenager again, coming home from school to the smell of my mother actually cooking for me herself, before all this formality took over.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. After my first bite, my father cuts to the chase. "How is the Aurora Point acquisition going?"

"It's on track," I answer, my tone even. "The due diligence is complete. We're just finalizing the shareholder agreements." It's the truth, and it's an answer designed to satisfy him. He hates surprises.

He gives a single, approving nod and continues his meal, taking a slow sip of his Chardonnay.

The silence stretches until my mother breaks it with something completely random. "I went to the Hamilton's tea party today. I met Rebecca there you know, Theresa's daughter? She's around your age, Ceron."

I don't even look up from my plate. I already know exactly where this is heading.

"She was asking about you," she continues, her voice light and hopeful. "Why don't the two of you meet up? Get to know each other?"

"Sorry, Mom. I'm busy," I say, focusing on cutting a piece of chicken.

She lets out a heavy, visible sigh. "You say that all the time. You're twenty-seven already, son. It's time you started thinking about marriage."

I'm almost done with my dinner. I drain the last of my wine and set the glass down with a quiet finality. "I'm only twenty-seven, Mom. And I will not be getting married just for the sake of marriage, so please don't pressure me. We've had this conversation." I keep my tone neutral.

Mom frowns, deeply unsatisfied. I've been giving her some version of this answer for the last four years. She should be used to it by now.

My father, who has been quiet this whole time, finally speaks. He lays his silverware down and meticulously wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. "A strategic marriage is an integral part of our legacy, Ceron. In the world we live in, it is a necessary alliance. No matter what your... personal feelings... you will be married before you are thirty-five."

The ultimatum hangs in the air. It's not a request.

"I am aware of it, Dad," I say, my voice cool. I push my chair back and stand. "Thank you for the dinner."

"Where are you going now?" my mother asks, her worry evident.

"I'm supposed to meet with an investor," I lie smoothly.

With that, I turn and walk out. But there's no investor. The truth is, there's a fucktard who has been locked in a warehouse for the last forty-eight hours. It's time I went down there and ended this.

Humans and their selfishness. They make one stupid, greedy mistake, and it costs them everything. Even their life. Of course. It's a story as old as time, and it always ends the same way. Just like Dennis Baker.

For years, Dennis was just another face in the finance department. A reliable employee, or so I thought. He had a family, a mortgage, the whole picture of a man content with his lot in life. But that's the thing about greed, it paints over contentment. He decided that his loyalty, his integrity, was worth less than the huge sum of money and empty promises our rivals dangled in front of him.

He thought he could be clever. He thought he could access the internal data for the 'Aurora Point' project (the very project I just discussed with my father) and slip it to our competitors without a trace.

Idiot.

He should have thought thrice. He should have understood that when you sign a contract with me, you're pledging your allegiance. Crossing me isn't a career risk; it's a life-altering miscalculation. I don't tolerate disloyalty. It's a weakness that, left unchecked, infects everything.

Now, he's had forty-eight hours sitting in the dark, locked in a secure, soundproofed room in a forgotten warehouse on the industrial docks. Forty-eight hours to reflect on that one stupid, greedy mistake. He's had time to realize that the money he was promised won't do him any good where he's going. That the assurances he was given were worthless.

The drive there is quiet. The city lights blur past the tinted windows of the car. The car pulls up to the warehouse. The air outside is cold and smells of salt and rust. My head of security, Marcus, meets me at the door with that poker face of his. "He's awake, sir. And he's... talkative."

"Let's go and listen, then," I say, my voice even. "I want to hear what a man who has lost everything has to say for himself."

It's not a task I relish. But it is a necessary one. In my world, consequences aren't a threat; they are a promise. And tonight, Dennis Baker is going to learn that firsthand.