Byano woke to the soft chime of his alarm, the digital display reading 5:30 AM. The mansion was silent, save for the distant hum of the HVAC system, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing through its sprawling corridors. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his master suite, its coffered panels catching the faint glow of dawn through blackout curtains he hadn't bothered to close. Sleep had been elusive, his mind churning with Harlan's late-night warning about the boardroom leak and Victoria's parting shot: This marriage isn't working. Her words echoed like a gavel, signaling the end of a charade they'd maintained for years.
He rose, slipping into running gear—black leggings, a moisture-wicking shirt, and sneakers that cost more than most people's rent. The estate's private gym awaited, its glass walls overlooking a manicured garden where dew glistened like scattered diamonds. Byano hit the treadmill, the rhythmic thud of his steps syncing with his thoughts. At fifty-two, he was fit, his body honed by discipline born in leaner days. Back then, in a one-bedroom apartment with peeling wallpaper, he'd coded his first software breakthrough on a secondhand laptop, fueled by coffee and desperation. Now, his empire spanned tech and real estate, but the stakes felt higher, the threats more personal.
Victoria's threat of divorce wasn't new—she'd dangled it before, usually when her credit cards hit their limits—but last night's tone was different. Calculated. She'd mentioned "child support" for Marcus, a ludicrous claim given his age, but Byano knew her game. It wasn't about Marcus; it was about alimony, a legal siphon to drain his fortune. Her impoverished childhood, raised by a single mother in a crumbling tenement, had left scars—greed masked as survival. Byano had once loved her ambition, her hunger matching his own. But where his drive built, hers consumed.
He showered, the hot water failing to wash away the unease. By the time he reached the breakfast nook, clad in a tailored navy suit, the household was stirring. Elena was there, sipping espresso, her tablet open to spreadsheets. "Morning, Dad. You look like you slept as well as I did."
He chuckled, pouring coffee. "Boardroom drama. Harlan's got a lead on a leak. You?"
"Supplier contract's tricky. They're pushing for exclusivity." Elena's brow furrowed, but her eyes sparkled with the challenge. She was his mirror—strategic, relentless.
"Trust your gut, but get Harlan's take," he advised. "Where's your mother?"
"Probably plotting her next shopping spree." Elena's tone was dry, her loyalty firmly with Byano. Sophia joined them, still in pajamas, sketching on a napkin. Marcus was absent, likely holed up in his room.
The day unfolded in a blur of meetings. Byano's office at Norwood Enterprises was a fortress of glass and steel, perched on the fiftieth floor of a Manhattan tower bearing his name. Harlan greeted him, his silver hair and weathered face a contrast to the sleek decor. "It's Kessler," he said without preamble. "He's been cozying up to a competitor. I've got emails suggesting he's leaking our merger details."
Byano's jaw tightened. Kessler, a board member, had always been ambitious, his loyalty suspect. "Set a trap. Feed him false data and see where it surfaces."
As Harlan nodded, Byano's phone buzzed—a text from Victoria: We need to talk. Tonight. My lawyer's ready. His stomach churned. He'd known this was coming, but the timing, amid corporate betrayal, felt orchestrated.
That evening, he met Victoria in the mansion's library, a room of mahogany shelves and leather-bound books she never touched. She stood by the fireplace, her silk dress catching the flames' glow, a glass of pinot noir in hand. "Byano, I'm done pretending. I want a divorce."
He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "And what's the price tag this time?"
Her eyes flashed. "Don't patronize me. I've given you twenty-nine years, raised your children—"
"Raised?" he cut in. "You've barely spoken to Marcus in months. Elena and Sophia tolerate you at best."
She bristled, stepping closer. "I deserve half. And child support for Marcus. He's struggling, Byano. You can't buy his recovery."
"He's twenty-two, Victoria. Child support's a fantasy. This is about you."
Her smile was cold. "You built an empire. I helped. You think you're untouchable, but I know your weaknesses. The world will too."
The threat hung heavy—blackmail, perhaps, or media leaks. Byano remembered their early days, her laughter in that cramped apartment, her belief in his dreams. Where had that woman gone? "You want to play dirty, Victoria? Be careful. I don't lose."
She drained her glass and left, the door clicking shut like a guillotine. Byano sank into a chair, his mind racing. He recalled a moment from years ago, Victoria crying when Marcus was born, promising to be the mother she'd never had. But power and wealth had twisted her, and now she was a stranger wielding their children as weapons.
He called Elena, needing her clarity. "Dad, she's bluffing," Elena said after he recounted the conversation. "But get a lawyer. A good one."
"Already on it," he replied. Harlan had recommended Evelyn Pierce, a shark in divorce court. But as he hung up, his thoughts drifted to Marcus. Victoria's neglect had deepened his son's depression, yet she'd use him as leverage. And Sophia—her art show was tomorrow. He needed to be there, to keep the family's fragile bonds intact.
As night fell, Byano stood at his window, the city's lights a glittering reminder of his reach. But cracks were spreading—Victoria's schemes, Kessler's betrayal, Marcus's despair. His empire was a fortress, but even fortresses could fall.
Cliffhanger: A late-night email from an unknown source, subject line: We know what you did, Byano.