The morning broke dull and gray over the city, as if even the sky had grown weary of pretending to shine. Somewhere in the depths of his sprawling office, Robert Steele sat at his desk, his eyes darting over the balance sheets in front of him. His fingers, once steady and decisive, now drummed nervously on the oak surface. Every new page brought worse news.
Calls came in one after the other. His secretary's voice, normally brisk and professional, cracked as she relayed them.
"Sir, the Thompson deal has been suspended—indefinitely."
"Sir, shareholders are demanding an emergency meeting."
"Sir, Wells Capital has recalled the loan."
Robert Steele swore under his breath, slamming the receiver back into place. His empire, carefully built over decades, was crumbling before his very eyes. Something—or someone—was tightening a noose around his business.
But Robert Steele was too blind, too frantic, to see the predator moving behind the curtain.
On the other side of the city, Rhett Barone was already awake. His morning routine was brutal, punishing—because weakness disgusted him, in others and especially in himself. The sound of fists striking leather echoed in his private gym. Thud. Thud. Thud. The punching bag swung wildly as if in fear of him.
Every hit carried weight.
Every strike, a thought.
Every exhale, a fragment of his rage.
Lilith had gone to a pharmacy. She had asked for the morning after pill.
The information had reached him the night before, delivered by Steve, his right-hand man. It had been spoken cautiously, almost fearfully, because everyone who worked for Rhett understood what such news meant.
She had tried to erase him. To deny what had happened.
Rhett's jaw tightened, his knuckles burning as he struck harder. She thinks she can wipe me from her body? Pretend it never happened? Pretend I never existed inside her?
The thought was almost laughable. He wasn't the kind of man who could be erased.
The bag rocked again under his fists until, finally, he stopped. He ripped the gloves from his hands, breathing heavy but eyes still cold. He didn't pant like a man exhausted. He inhaled like a beast calculating its next hunt.
"Steve," Rhett called.
The assistant hurried in immediately, notepad ready. His eyes flicked to the discarded gloves, then back to Rhett.
"Yes, sir?"
"Begin with Steele Corporation," Rhett said, voice low, even, and terrifyingly calm. "I want a list of every partner. Every investor. Every contract. If Robert Steele owes them, I want the debt. If they depend on him, I want them dependent on me by midnight."
Steve scribbled furiously, but Rhett didn't stop.
"Their international accounts—squeeze them. Quietly. Pull at the threads until the whole fabric unravels. When Robert Steele wakes tomorrow, I want him drowning before he even realizes he's in water."
"Yes, sir," Steve said quickly.
"And Robert's reputation," Rhett added, his gaze narrowing. "Begin rumors in the right circles. Make it seem like incompetence. By the time he tries to defend himself, he should already look guilty."
"Yes, sir."
Rhett paused. Then, softer: "And Lilith's mother?"
Steve blinked. "She's been transferred, sir. Lilith made the arrangements herself. A discreet private hospital. Expensive. Very expensive."
Rhett's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something darker, sharper. "Then pay for it. Cover every bill, every last medication. But not under Barone's name. I want her to think it's her doing, until I choose to reveal otherwise."
Steve nodded, though unease rippled in his chest.
But Rhett wasn't finished. His next words came like the snap of a whip. "And the dinner—What about Marlowe? "
"We—we're still investigating, sir," Steve stammered. "But I have leads."
Rhett's gaze turned glacial. "Find him And when you do…" His voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. "…bring them to me alive."
Steve froze, his pen trembling slightly in his hand. Alive meant suffering. Alive meant Rhett would be the one to strip them of dignity, piece by piece.
"Yes, sir," Steve managed.
Rhett dismissed him with a flick of his hand and walked from the gym to his office. The Barone's estate was silent, guarded, suffocating. Not even the birds outside dared to sing near its walls.
On his desk lay a photograph. Not posed, not planned—taken in secret. Lilith, leaving the hospital. Her face pale with exhaustion, her shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had been chained to her fragile frame. Even so, she was radiant. Even so, her image burned into his veins like fire.
Rhett touched the edge of the photograph, his fingers almost tender. He could still remember the fire in her eyes when she fought him. The sharp way her voice cut when she called him cruel. She hated him. He knew it.
And he reveled in it.
Hatred was not indifference. Hatred meant she remembered. Hatred meant she thought of him, even if only in rage.
"Run if you want, little flower," he murmured into the stillness. "Take your pills. Spend your last coins. Pretend you're free."
He leaned back, his cold smile spreading slowly.
"In the end, everything around you will collapse. And when you finally reach for help, the only hand left will be mine."
Meanwhile, Robert Steele's world was already collapsing. He slammed the financial report onto his desk, veins bulging in his forehead.
"This doesn't make sense!" he barked into the phone. "What do you mean the deal is canceled? We had the contract signed last week!"
The voice on the other end was apologetic but firm. "Mr. Steele, circumstances have changed. I'm afraid we can't risk further partnership at this time."
Robert cursed, slamming the phone down. Another call came. Then another. Each one worse than the last. His empire was bleeding from every vein, and no matter how he patched one wound, three more opened.
Unseen, unheard, Rhett Barone waspulling every string.
And as Robert struggled, gasping for financial breath, Rhett sat in his office like a predator in the shadows, watching, waiting, smiling faintly at the sound of prey thrashing in his net.
The game had begun.