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Chapter Nine
The collapse of Marlowe Corporation was the kind of news that rippled through the city like a silent earthquake. In the span of a week, their stocks plummeted, their branches shuttered, and their name, once respected, became synonymous with failure. Rumors swirled—embezzlement, reckless investments, betrayals among board members—but the truth was far simpler: Rhett Barone had orchestrated their destruction.
At dawn, in the Steele mansion, Robert Steele sat in his study, a glass of untouched brandy sweating in his hand. Papers were spread across his mahogany desk—reports of creditors demanding payment, contracts terminated overnight, and whispers of foreign investors pulling out. His empire was bleeding.
His secretary, a pale and nervous man named Graham, shifted uneasily by the door.
"Sir… there's… there's more."
Robert's tired eyes narrowed. "Speak."
Graham swallowed. "Marlowe Corporation has been officially declared bankrupt. Their assets—acquired, sir. All of them."
"By who?" Robert's voice cracked like a whip.
"Barone International."
The glass in Robert's hand shattered. Brandy dripped between his fingers and onto the rug, forgotten. His heart thudded. The Barones. Even whispering their name felt like inviting death.
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Far from the glittering towers of commerce, in a basement that smelled of rust and blood, Daniel Marlowe was learning what it meant to cross Rhett Barone.
The room was stark—bare walls, a concrete floor stained in places with old, unwashed blood. A single lightbulb swung overhead, casting shadows that stretched like claws. In the center sat Marlowe, tied to a chair, his once-pristine suit now torn and filthy. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, his lip cracked and bleeding.
Across from him stood Rhett Barone, tall, composed, and terrifyingly calm. His black shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows, his gloves spotless—for now.
Rhett circled him slowly, his boots echoing against the concrete.
"You built your empire on sand, Marlowe. And you thought you could stand against me?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, but the weight behind it made every man in the room tense.
Marlowe spat blood to the floor, glaring up through his half-closed eye.
"You're… insane. All this—over a woman?"
Rhett stilled. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, with controlled precision, Rhett's fist slammed into Marlowe's jaw. The crack echoed like thunder. Blood sprayed across the floor.
Rhett grabbed Marlowe by the hair, jerking his head back until their eyes met. His voice dropped to a whisper, dark and fevered:
"My woman. Don't ever let her name leave your filthy mouth."
Then the storm broke.
Rhett's punches fell like iron hammers—one, two, three—each blow more brutal than the last. Marlowe's body jerked with every strike, his groans turning to whimpers. But Rhett didn't stop. His gloves grew slick with blood as he struck ribs, chest, face. The sound of knuckles against bone filled the basement until it seemed the walls themselves were listening.
When Marlowe sagged forward, barely conscious, Rhett crouched beside him, his tone soft again, dangerously soft.
"Do you know why your empire fell?" He pressed two fingers against Marlowe's bruised chest, right over his heart. "Because you touched something that belongs to me."
Marlowe coughed, blood trailing from his lips. "You'll… destroy yourself… over her…"
Rhett's smile was cold. He leaned closer, lips brushing Marlowe's ear.
"No. I'll destroy the world if I have to."
He slammed Marlowe's head back against the chair with enough force to rattle the bolts. The man groaned, on the edge of unconsciousness.
Rhett straightened, removing his gloves with deliberate calm, and handed them to one of his men. His hands, free now, reached out again. He cupped Marlowe's chin, forcing him to look up at him.
"Stay alive. I want you to remember this every single day you breathe—that your downfall came the moment you looked at Lilith Steele as anything more than an opportunity."
Then, with a final blow, Rhett knocked him into darkness.
"Keep him breathing," Rhett ordered his men as he walked away. "Barely. That's punishment enough."
The steel door slammed shut behind him, leaving Marlowe broken and whimpering in the shadows.
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Back at the Steele mansion, Robert Steele's pacing grew restless, his thoughts spiraling. He couldn't shake the chill crawling down his spine. If Marlowe, powerful as he was, could be dragged down to nothing… what chance did he have?
"Sir," Graham said cautiously, "there is one path left. The Barones. If we could… secure an audience—"
Robert turned sharply, eyes blazing. "No one meets the Barones. No one!"
"Still… they are the only ones with the power to save us."
Silence filled the room. Robert's hand trembled as he poured another glass of brandy. Finally, in a voice that carried both fear and resolve, he said:
"Then book it. An appointment with the Barones. If it kills me, so be it."
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