Lucian jolted awake.
For a breathless moment, the world was nothing but the echo of his own voice ricocheting off the walls of his penthouse suite. His throat burned, his pulse a hammer against his ribcage. The sheets clung to his skin, damp with cold sweat. In the darkness, he could almost still hear it, his younger self's desperate cry, breaking through the years like glass shattering against marble.
Mother.
The sound never aged. It was the same broken plea that had haunted him for years, replaying in his head like an old film he could never turn off. The kind of film that had no ending, no resolution, just the same cruel loop.
Lucian dragged a hand over his face, forcing himself upright. He knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep, not after that. The city stretched out before him, glittering through the floor to ceiling windows of his private suite at the top of the Blackthorn Tower.
Manhattan's skyline burned with artificial stars, but even amidst the light, Lucian felt the familiar weight pressing down on his chest.
He checked the time. 4:37 a.m.
Of course.
Nightmares didn't care about time zones or alarms. They came when they wanted, left when they pleased, and left him hollow when they did.
Lucian rose, bare feet soundless against the cool marble floor. The penthouse was a picture of restrained luxury, polished obsidian counters, steel fixtures, handpicked modern art. Everything curated, flawless, yet lifeless. His father always said that the Blackthorn name demanded presentation. Even in private, Lucian's life had been built to impress.
He poured himself a glass of water, staring into his reflection against the kitchen's tinted glass.
At twenty-eight, Lucian Blackthorn was the kind of man who drew attention without trying. Sharp jawline, dark hair slightly tousled, eyes the stormy gray of ash after fire. Women chased him, men envied him, business executives feared him. Yet here he was, just a man trapped in silence, drinking water at nearly five in the morning, terrified of the ghosts that wouldn't let him sleep.
By dawn, he was already in his gym. The penthouse's private training space overlooked the city, giving him a view of the Hudson as he punished his body into exhaustion. Sweat poured down his back as he pushed through his last set of pull-ups, the muscles in his arms burning, veins straining. Pain was the only language his body understood that could silence his mind, at least for a while.
By the time the sun crowned the city, Lucian was already suited for the day. A tailored black Armani, tie knotted with military precision, Rolex glinting at his wrist. To the world, he was perfection. Lucian Blackthorn, COO of Blackthorn Global Holdings, heir apparent to an empire that stretched across continents.
Blackthorn Global Holdings ( BGH) was not just a company. It was a dynasty. Hotels that defined skylines, real estate that reshaped cities, luxury cars that turned heads from Paris to Dubai. Where wealth gathered, where power shifted, BGH was there. It was an empire whispered about on trading floors, printed across Forbes covers, studied by competitors who could never hope to catch up.
And Lucian stood at the heart of it all.
When the Blackthorn limousine pulled up in front of the Tower, staff bowed their heads slightly in acknowledgment. The chauffeur opened the door, and Lucian stepped out, the picture of control, his expression unreadable. The massive glass doors of Blackthorn Tower, fifty stories of steel and dominance reflected his image back at him.
Inside, the air was sharp with the scent of polished oak and fresh-cut flowers, the kind of atmosphere designed to remind anyone who entered that they were standing on holy ground. Employees in sleek suits moved quickly, respectful, their eyes lowered when Lucian passed. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone was command.
On the fifty-second floor, the executive level gleamed with wealth. Crystal chandeliers, custom artwork, silence so heavy it almost dared anyone to break it. Lucian walked straight into his office, where the skyline stretched out like an empire at his feet.
But even there, behind all the glass and power, the ghosts still followed.
His assistant, Clara, entered quietly with his schedule for the day. She was efficient, unflappable, one of the few people who him in the eye without fear.
"Board meeting at nine. The Paris project review at eleven. Lunch with the investors from Dubai, your father will be joining that one."
Lucian gave a short nod, scanning the papers she placed on his desk. His father. Of course. The king of Blackthorn Global Holdings, the man who had built the empire from blood, brilliance, and ruthless ambition. A man who demanded perfection and had raised Lucian with the same unforgiving expectations.
"You didn't sleep again." Clara's voice was quiet, almost hesitant. She'd been with him long enough to know better than to ask too many questions, but she also saw more than most.
Lucian's eyes flicked up, hard steel. "That's not on the schedule, Clara."
She lowered her gaze, murmuring, "Of course," before leaving him alone.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, staring at the city sprawling endlessly below. On paper, he had everything. Wealth, power, control. To the world, he was untouchable. But behind the carefully built armor, he was still just a boy waking up at 4:37 a.m., calling for a mother who never came back.
And deep down, he knew no matter how many empires he built, no matter how many towers carried his name, some ghosts could never be outrun.