Byano stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Manhattan penthouse, the city's skyline a glittering constellation of ambition and excess. The glass reflected his silhouette—broad shoulders, tailored navy suit, graying temples that betrayed his fifty years—but not the storm brewing in his mind. Below, the streets pulsed with life, oblivious to the unraveling of his empire. His phone buzzed on the mahogany desk behind him, a message from his lawyer: Victoria's team is digging into offshore accounts. Brace for impact. Byano's jaw tightened. He'd built his fortune from nothing, a kid from a Brooklyn tenement who'd clawed his way to billions in tech and real estate. But wealth, he'd learned, was a magnet for vultures, and now one circled closer than he'd ever imagined.
The penthouse was silent, save for the faint hum of the city filtering through the glass. His children were scattered—Elena at her sustainable fashion startup in SoHo, Sophia sketching in her Brooklyn loft, Marcus… somewhere, hopefully safe after his latest therapy session. Byano's chest ached at the thought of his son, whose darkness seemed to deepen with every family fracture. Victoria's divorce filing had been a grenade, but Byano sensed a deeper betrayal lurking, one that threatened not just his wealth but the fragile bonds he held with his children.
He turned from the window, crossing the room to a sleek bar cart where a bottle of Macallan 25 waited. Pouring a finger of amber liquid, he let the burn of the first sip ground him. His advisor, Charles, had warned him yesterday: "Someone's leaking boardroom secrets, Byano. It's not just Victoria." Charles, with his salt-and-pepper beard and unflappable calm, had been Byano's anchor for two decades, a mentor who'd seen him through dot-com crashes and hostile takeovers. But even Charles couldn't pinpoint the traitor. Byano's gut churned with suspicion, and the weight of his isolation pressed harder.
A knock at the door broke his reverie. "Come in," he called, setting the glass down. The door swung open to reveal Tessa Langston, his chief of operations at Norwood Enterprises. Her crimson blazer hugged her frame, her dark hair swept into a polished bun. At thirty-five, Tessa was a rising star, her sharp mind and relentless drive earning her a seat at Byano's inner table. She'd been instrumental in the Singapore expansion, her late-night strategy sessions with him sparking rumors of something more. Byano had dismissed the gossip—he knew better than to blur those lines—but Tessa's gaze tonight held an intensity that set him on edge.
"Byano, we need to talk," she said, closing the door with a soft click. Her heels clicked across the hardwood as she approached, a tablet clutched in her manicured hands. "It's about the Shanghai deal."
He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the desk. "The contracts were finalized last week. What's the issue?"
Tessa hesitated, her eyes flickering with something Byano couldn't place—guilt, perhaps, or calculation. "I got a tip from a contact at Meridian Capital. They're planning to undercut us with a rival bid, using details only someone inside could know." She swiped the tablet, pulling up a spreadsheet dense with figures. "Profit margins, timelines, even our supplier contacts—someone fed them everything."
Byano's pulse quickened, but his face remained a mask of calm. Meridian was a shark in the real estate world, led by Victor Crane, a man who'd once tried to poach Byano's entire board. "Who's the leak?" he asked, voice low.
Tessa's lips parted, then closed. She stepped closer, her perfume—jasmine and something sharper—filling the space between them. "I don't know, Byano. But I've been cross-checking access logs. Only five people had clearance to those files: you, me, Charles, Elena, and…" She trailed off, her eyes meeting his.
"Victoria," Byano finished, the name a bitter weight. His wife had no formal role in Norwood Enterprises, but her marriage gave her access to secrets she'd never hesitated to exploit. He thought of the divorce papers, her demands for half his fortune, the way she'd sneered at him across the lawyer's table: "You built this on my sacrifices, Byron." Sacrifices. The word was a mockery, coming from a woman who'd spent their marriage curating her image and little else.
"Could be her," Tessa said, her voice softer now, almost intimate. "But we need proof. I've set up a sting—dummy files with unique trackers. If someone shares them, we'll know." She placed the tablet on the desk, her fingers brushing his as she did. The touch lingered a fraction too long, and Byano's instincts flared. Tessa was brilliant, loyal—or so he'd thought. But loyalty in his world was a currency too often counterfeited.
He stepped back, folding his arms. "Good work, Tessa. Keep me posted on the trackers." His tone was neutral, but his mind raced. Was Tessa playing him, dangling the leak to deflect suspicion? Or was she genuinely trying to protect the company? He'd seen too many women—and men—charm their way into his orbit, their smiles hiding agendas. A journalist last month, Claire Voss, had nearly seduced him into revealing trade secrets over dinner. He'd caught her recorder under the table, her flirtations a calculated trap. Tessa was smarter than Claire, but that only made her more dangerous.
As Tessa left, promising updates by morning, Byano's phone buzzed again. A text from Elena: Dad, Marcus missed his therapy appt. I'm worried. Can you check on him? His heart sank. Marcus, his youngest, was a shadow of the vibrant boy who'd once raced through their Hamptons estate, laughing. Depression had stolen that light, and Victoria's neglect—her cold dismissal of his struggles as "weakness"—had driven the blade deeper. Byano grabbed his coat and keys. The Shanghai deal could wait; his son could not.
The drive to Marcus's Upper West Side apartment took thirty minutes, each one heavy with dread. Byano's Bentley purred through the city, but his thoughts were a tangle of guilt and fear. He'd given his children everything—education, opportunity, love—but wealth couldn't shield them from pain. Marcus's struggles were a mirror to Byano's own failures, the nights he'd chosen boardrooms over bedtime stories, the years he'd let Victoria's venom fester unchecked.
He found Marcus's apartment dark, the door ajar. Panic surged as Byano stepped inside, the air thick with the stale scent of unwashed dishes and despair. "Marcus?" he called, flipping on a light. The living room was a mess—sketchpads scattered, half-empty coffee mugs, a bottle of pills on the coffee table. Byano's breath caught until he saw the label: antidepressants, prescribed last month. No overdose, but the sight was a gut punch.
Marcus emerged from the bedroom, his eyes red-rimmed, his dark hair disheveled. At twenty-two, he looked both too young and too old, his lanky frame hunched as if carrying an invisible weight. "Dad," he muttered, avoiding Byano's gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Elena said you missed therapy." Byano kept his voice steady, though his chest ached. "You okay, son?"
Marcus shrugged, collapsing onto the couch. "Does it matter? You're dealing with Mom's divorce, the company… I'm just a problem you don't need."
Byano sat beside him, fighting the urge to pull him into a hug. Marcus had always recoiled from physical comfort, as if it burned. "You're not a problem, Marcus. You're my son. I'd burn the company to the ground if it meant keeping you safe."
Marcus's laugh was hollow. "You don't get it, Dad. I see you—everyone does. The great Byano, saving the world with your billions. And then there's me, flunking out of Columbia, barely able to get out of bed. Mom's right—I'm a failure."
Byano's fists clenched. Victoria's words, weaponized to wound her own child. "Your mother's wrong," he said, his voice steel. "She's been wrong about a lot. You're fighting something she'll never understand. That takes strength."
Marcus looked away, but his shoulders softened slightly. Byano noticed a sketchpad on the floor, open to a drawing of a cityscape, jagged and raw, yet hauntingly beautiful. "This yours?" he asked, picking it up.
"Yeah," Marcus mumbled. "Just… messing around."
"It's good, Marcus. Really good." Byano's mind flicked to Sophia, whose art had become her salvation. Maybe Marcus had a spark of that too. "Ever thought about showing these?"
Marcus snorted. "Who'd care?"
"I would," Byano said firmly. "And so would your sisters. Let's start there."
For the first time, Marcus met his eyes, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—breaking through the fog. Byano seized it, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Dr. Patel. We're getting you back in therapy tomorrow, no excuses. And then you and I are going to talk about this art of yours. Deal?"
Marcus hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."
Back at the penthouse, Byano poured another whisky, the night's weight settling into his bones. Marcus's pain was a wound he couldn't heal with money or charm, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. His phone lit up again—Tessa, with a single line: Tracker hit. It's Charles. Byano's glass froze halfway to his lips. Charles, his mentor, his confidant, leaking secrets to Meridian. The betrayal cut deeper than Victoria's schemes, a knife to the heart of his empire.
He stood, staring at the city below, its lights now a map of enemies. Victoria's divorce, Tessa's ambitions, Charles's treachery—each a thread in a web tightening around him. But Byano hadn't risen from nothing by folding under pressure. He'd confront Charles, protect his children, and dismantle the threats one by one. The Byano Legacy wasn't just wealth; it was resilience, and he'd teach his children to carry it, no matter the cost.