Chapter Two
The night was a blur of camera flashes.
"Over here! Over here!"
"Look this way!"
"Smile for us, darling!"
The red carpet stretched like a river of velvet, glittering under the harsh white storms of paparazzi bulbs. Every click was violent, desperate, hungry. Gold-plated letters spelling CROIX gleamed on banners and marble columns, stamped across every plaster wall like a royal seal.
Limousines pulled up in procession, doors opening to spill celebrities in shimmering gowns and sharp tuxedos. The air buzzed with wealth and perfume, the sound of heels striking marble syncing with camera shutters.
Then—one car stole the attention.
A sleek black limousine rolled to a stop at the very center of the carpet. The moment its door opened, the crowd's volume doubled. Paparazzi surged forward like a tide.
First to emerge was a man in his sixties, tall and agelessly fit. Silver-gray hair slicked back immaculately, a tailored suit cutting a silhouette of discipline and power. His sharp jawline and piercing hazel eyes carried an authority that needed no announcement. Victor Cross stepped onto the carpet like a king who owned it. The cameras ate him alive, yet he didn't so much as flinch.
Then came the son.
He unfolded from the limousine with the slow, deliberate ease of a predator. Broad shoulders framed in midnight tailoring, lean muscles sculpted beneath his shirt. Tousled icy-blonde hair caught the light, a dangerous contrast to the feline sharpness of his hazel-gold eyes. The cameras clicked faster, louder, more desperate—because Sebastian Cross didn't walk. He prowled. His lips curved into that trademark smirk, seductive and arrogant all at once, and the crowd was spellbound.
And then the final touch of the trio: a flash of platinum blonde hair, a glittering gown clinging to a delicate frame. Celeste Marigny stepped down gracefully, one manicured hand slipping around Sebastian's arm. She played to the lenses effortlessly, every turn of her face calculated, every smile camera-ready. To the world, she was his glittering counterpart, the perfect accessory to his dangerous charm.
Together, the three of them commanded the carpet. Father, son, and the polished girlfriend—each radiating their own brand of power. The paparazzi's frenzy hit a fever pitch, lights strobing across the night until it was almost blinding.
Inside the limousine's dark glass, their reflections still lingered, framed by gold banners and the roar of the press.
The Cross dynasty had arrived.
Microphones and cameras lunged forward as the trio advanced up the carpet.
"Mr. Cross, why choose this city for your global expansion?"
"Maison de la Croix already has headquarters in Paris, New York, Dubai—what makes here different?"
"Are you expecting a major cultural shift with this launch?"
Victor lifted a hand, his voice cutting through the frenzy with practiced elegance.
"This city represents growth, innovation, and legacy. Our goal is to create opportunities that bridge tradition with modern enterprise. Maison de la Croix is not simply investing—we are committing."
The crowd applauded lightly, the press scribbling furiously. But under the hum of questions and flashes, a voice snaked out from somewhere near the velvet ropes.
"That's the irresponsible son…"
Sebastian's head snapped toward the sound, his feline eyes narrowing into slits. His jaw tightened, breath sharpening. In a single motion, he pivoted on his heel and stalked toward the barricade, shoulders squared, every inch of him coiled with rage.
"Say it to my face," he growled, voice low but venomous.
The crowd gasped.
Celeste reached for his arm, her manicured fingers clutching silk, but he shook her off. Even Victor's hand twitched, but before he could speak, the carpet itself seemed to still.
The paparazzi froze. Only the shutters continued—rapid, violent bursts capturing every flicker of Sebastian's fury. The red carpet, moments ago a stage for perfection, had become a public arena for scandal.
Victor's eyes cut toward his son, sharp as a blade, his face unreadable but heavy with controlled fury. He adjusted his glasses with a steady hand before stepping forward, inclining his head toward the press.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, his tone cool, professional. "We are grateful for your welcome tonight. I assure you, our family's focus is—and always will be—excellence."
With that, he gestured forward. Celeste tugged lightly at Sebastian's sleeve, forcing her smile back into place.
And though the cameras didn't stop flashing, the atmosphere had shifted. What began as admiration now buzzed with whispers and speculation.
Together, the three disappeared into the gala hall, but Victor's jaw was set like stone.
The night air was sticky and warm as Kairen walked down the cracked pavement of his neighborhood. His shoes scuffed against the concrete, hands buried deep in his pockets, the weight of something unfinished pressing on his chest. The glow of the streetlights stretched his shadow long and thin, a reminder of how small he sometimes felt.
But his mind wasn't on the road. It drifted—back to that suffocating office, earlier today.
---
He had sat stiffly on the chair opposite his manager, a battered desk between them. The man's expression had been neutral, too careful, like someone trying not to spill oil on a clean shirt.
"Here," the manager had said, sliding an envelope across the desk.
Kairen, bone-weary from pulling through yet another shift, thought it was his paycheck. Relief had brushed over his face—until he opened it. His eyes skimmed the words once, twice, then froze.
Termination.
The paper trembled faintly in his hands. His throat went dry.
"What the hell is this?" Kairen's voice was flat at first, almost calm. Too calm.
The manager shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "You're… not present here, Kairen. Not emotionally. Sometimes not even physically. We need people we can rely on, and—"
Kairen scoffed so hard it cut him off. He leaned back, tossing the letter onto the desk like it was filth. "You've got some nerve."
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, his stare sharp and mocking. "You—sitting here all day, pretending to manage. You don't lift a damn finger, yet you think you're entitled to hand me this?"
His hands flew up, gesturing around the cramped office. His voice cracked with anger now. "You're not even the real boss here. You're a parasite feeding off someone else's work. And you're sacking me?"
The manager stiffened, mouth opening, but Kairen was already moving. He snatched the paper up again, tore it down the middle—then again into smaller jagged scraps. His fingers trembled, but his eyes blazed with something that had been buried too long.
He tossed the shredded pieces onto the desk. They fluttered down like ashes.
"No," Kairen said, standing tall, shoulders squared for the first time in weeks. His chest rose and fell in sharp breaths. "You don't fire me. I quit. Uno reverse, asshole."
He slammed both palms against the desk so hard the pens rattled in their holder, the sound ringing through the room. The manager flinched.
Kairen turned on his heel, his jaw locked tight. His fists balled at his sides as he strode to the door. He yanked it open so roughly it banged against the wall.
"Good luck running this place without me," he spat, before slamming the door shut with a reverberating crack.
---
Now, back on the quiet road, his anger had cooled into a hollow ache. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his breaths shaky but steadying. Somewhere behind him, a dog barked; further down, a porch light flickered.
He exhaled through his nose, muttering under his breath, half to himself, half to the dark, "Maybe I really am running mad…"
But a sliver of something else stirred beneath the exhaustion. Pride. A flicker of liberation.
For the first time in a long time, Kairen felt the night air fill his lungs without choking him.
Kairen kicked at a pebble as he walked down the cracked pavement, the fluorescent streetlamps buzzing faintly above him. His chest still burned from the scene at work, from the way he'd slammed the manager's desk and stormed out like a storm breaking free. For the first time in months, he had nothing binding him. No shifts. No uniforms. Just empty hours waiting to be filled.
Maybe he could help Amara at her boutique for a while. She'd love that. Maybe it would distract him, maybe it would keep him from thinking too much.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen lit up.
"Sis."
He sighed before answering, already bracing.
"Hello?"
Her voice came through, warm but stretched thin. "Kairen. Hi."
His throat softened a little. "Hey. How's Mum?"
There was a pause. Long enough to tell him everything before she even said it.
"She's… not recovering, Kai. The doctor says she'll need another checkup soon. And… we'll need money."
Kairen's hand froze mid-step. His free hand pressed to his forehead, thumb massaging the corner of his brow. He leaned against the chipped rail of the stairwell.
"Money? For what this time?" His voice came out sharper than he intended.
His sister rushed the words out, like if she said them fast enough they'd hurt less. "Foodstuffs. Hospital bills. The checkup. We—there's no other way."
The knot in his chest tightened. He shut his eyes, tilting his head back toward the streetlight's glare, swallowing down the familiar bitterness. He had just quit. Just quit.
And now—this.
Her voice wavered. "I didn't want to call, but—"
From the background, another voice cut in. Male, stern, clipped. Their father.
Kairen's entire body stiffened. His lips curled, jaw locking. He didn't even let the man's full sentence reach him.
"Bye, sis." He hung up, thumb pressing the screen with finality.
For a second, he stood frozen. The silence rushed in, heavy. He let out a long, jagged sigh, dragging both hands down his face. His shoulders sagged as he shoved the phone back into his pocket, forcing his feet to move toward the door of the apartment building.
The world was too quiet, his thoughts too loud.
And the night carried him inside.