MICHAEL VOSS
Mike's grip tightened on the phone, the sleek device suddenly feeling like a live wire in his palm. The gravelly voice on the other end chuckled, a low, guttural sound that slithered through the line like smoke.
"Don't hang up, Mr. Voss. We both know that's not in your best interest."
"Who the hell is this?" Mike demanded, making sure to keep his voice steady despite the ice flooding his veins. This was not the first time he would find himself in this scenario, and he knew getting a grip on himself was everything. So he paced the penthouse floor, the cool marble doing nothing to ground him. Outside, the city lights blurred beyond the windows, mocking his isolation.
"Names are for people who matter. Let's just say I'm someone who's been watching you closely. Very closely. That little visit to Dr. Vasquez today? The glioblastoma? Yeah, I've got the full scoop. And word like that spreads fast in the right circles. Imagine the headlines, can you:
"Not exactly," Mike chuckled. "Give me some insight."
The silence on the other end of the line thrilled him, proof that this man had not expected this answer. Yet, he spoke: "Billionaire Tycoon Battles Brain Cancer… Empire in Jeopardy. Or worse, all depending on how creative the media can be when they want to be with you. Oh…how it might affect that Voss stock price. Shareholders hate uncertainty, don't they?"
Now, Mike's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat echoing the throbbing in his temples. The headache that had been a faint pulse earlier now roared to life, a vise clamping down on his skull. He pressed a hand to his forehead, willing it away, but the pain sharpened, sending sparks behind his eyes.
He knew what it was. Proof of his death.
This wasn't just stress; it was the tumor, reminding him of its presence, its power. He sank onto the edge of the armchair, the leather creaking under his weight.
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, unbidden and unfamiliar, and he still refused to give in. He strategized, he dominated, he won. But this? This was a chink in his armor, exposed and raw. The diagnosis was his alone—a private war he waged in silence. If it leaked now, before he had a chance to secure his legacy, it would unravel everything. Investors would flee, board members would scheme for control, and the media... God, the media would feast. His empire, built on the illusion of invincibility, would crumble under pity and speculation.
And Sophia—sweet, unsuspecting Sophia—would be dragged into the vortex if this bastard connected the dots to his sudden interest in her.
No. Not until his death. He wouldn't let the world know until he was gone, his affairs in order, his child on the way or born, safe from the fallout. The thought of his secret spilling out like blood from a wound made his stomach churn. He needed time. Control.
"How much?" Mike forced out, his tone clipped, businesslike.
That was the way to handle time. Buy time, assess the threat—that's what he did with hostile takeovers.
The voice laughed again, sharper this time. "Smart man. I won't ask for too much. Half a million. Wired to an account I'll text you. Do it by noon tomorrow, or I hit send on the juiciest email blast you've ever seen. Oh, and stay away from that redhead. Wouldn't want her finding out you're shopping for a baby mama while your brain's turning to mush."
The line went dead.
Mike stared at the phone, the screen dark and accusing. He opened his mouth to spit something venomous, but his words stuck in his throat so that only his breath came in shallow bursts, the room spinning slightly as the headache intensified. He dropped the device onto the coffee table and buried his face in his hands, elbows on knees. The pain was a drill now, boring into his frontal lobe, each throb syncing with his racing pulse.
Nausea rose, bitter and hot, but he swallowed it down.
Not now. Not like this.
"Who could it be?" he muttered to the empty room, his mind racing through possibilities. The doctor's office? A nurse with a grudge? His assistant who handled his schedule with military precision? No, she was loyal, vetted for years. Marcus? The lawyer had been with him since the early days, but lawyers were snakes by trade. Or someone from the gala—eavesdropping on his conversation with the coordinator?
Paranoia crept in, feeding the panic.
He trusted no one fully, but this betrayal cut deeper, personal.
He needed to act. Fast. Grabbing the phone again, he dialed Marcus, his lawyer, the call connecting on the second ring.
"Marcus, it's Mike. Emergency. Meet me at the office in twenty minutes. And bring your best private investigator."
"On my way," Marcus replied without question, the efficiency of a man who'd seen crises before.
Mike hung up and stood, wobbling slightly as a wave of dizziness hit.
The tumor's gifts: migraines, disorientation, the slow erosion of his sharp mind. He steadied himself against the bar, downing a glass of water to chase away the dryness in his throat. No more scotch tonight.
Clarity was his only weapon.
The drive to the office was a blur, the city streets a neon haze through the tinted windows. His driver, Javier, glanced in the rearview but said nothing—discretion was part of the job. Voss Tower loomed ahead, a sleek monolith of glass and steel, its top floors lit like a beacon. Mike's domain.
Marcus was waiting in the executive conference room, a nondescript space stripped of ostentation for sensitive meetings. The lawyer, mid-forties with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow and eyes like a hawk, slid a folder across the table as Mike entered.
"The investigator is on standby—ex-FBI, the best. What's the fire?"
Mike collapsed into a chair, the headache pounding relentlessly. He massaged his temples, describing the call in clipped detail, omitting nothing. Marcus's face hardened with each word.
"That is a classic case of blackmail. We'll trace the number, but burners are untraceable. The account will be offshore, layered. But half a million? Pocket change for you, but it won't stop there. They'll want to bleed you dry."
"Pay it," Mike said through gritted teeth. "For now. I'll buy his silence while we hunt him."
Marcus nodded, already typing on his laptop. "Done. Wire's set. Now, the source. Doctor's office first—I'll subpoena records discreetly. Your assistant?"
"She's clean," Mike snapped, but doubt flickered. "Check her anyway."
"And the gala?"
Mike thought of Sophia, her card still in his pocket.
"Possibly. But keep it contained. No leaks."
As Marcus coordinated with the private investigator, Mike's mind drifted back to the plan. The surrogacy. It felt more urgent now, a lifeline amid the chaos. Sophia—could she be trusted? Her background check had come back spotless, but trust was a luxury he could not afford—even now, somebody was trying to pick something out of him.
Yet, something about her pulled at him, a gravitational force against his isolation. If she fit, he would try to pivot from cold contracts to something warmer, more personal.
He would try to keep love out of things so she would not hurt when it finally came. And how would they do it? Inseminate naturally, perhaps? The thought sent a forbidden thrill through him, mingling with the pain.
The headache crested, forcing him to close his eyes. Flashes assaulted him: shadows of hospital beds and final breaths as he felt time passing.
He was on a race to set his affairs in order, and he could not let this derail him. For now, he was concerned with holding his legacy.
That was what mattered.