The study of Robert Steele was a tomb of smoke and shadows. The curtains were drawn, sealing out the sunlight. Heavy cigar fumes clung to the ceiling like a suffocating storm cloud, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey left half-drunk in the crystal tumbler on his desk. Piles of papers, red-marked invoices, and unopened letters lay scattered across the mahogany surface, each one a silent witness to his empire's collapse.
Robert sat with his face buried in his hands, his once-proud shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his failures. He had built his fortune brick by brick, crushing rivals beneath his heel, but now it was crumbling faster than he could hold it together. The Marlowes' fall had sent shockwaves through Serelis, but instead of being an opportunity for him, it had exposed the cracks in his own foundation. He was bleeding money, and his allies were vanishing like rats from a sinking ship.
There was only one name left—one family untouchable in both power and reach.
The Barones.
The name alone filled him with equal parts dread and awe. They were whispered of in hushed tones in boardrooms and on trading floors. No one summoned them. No one bargained with them. They chose their partners, their pawns, their enemies. To stand before the Barones was to place one's fate entirely in their hands.
Robert rose abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor. He slammed his fist down on the desk, sending a half-empty decanter toppling and whiskey bleeding into the carpet. His secretary, a thin man with spectacles perched on his nose, flinched.
"Find me a way in," Robert barked, his voice raw. "Do you hear me? I don't care what it takes—burn every contact, break every wall. I will not watch everything I've built die!"
The secretary swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his notebook. "S-sir… forgive me, but… no one books an appointment with the Barones. They appear when it suits them, not when asked. Everyone knows this."
Robert's lip curled in disgust. He strode to the man, grabbing him by the collar, their faces inches apart. "Then we'll make them choose me. If it takes tearing Serelis apart brick by brick, I will sit at their table. Mark my words."
The doors opened behind them, soft but certain. Maria Steele entered.
She was the image of elegance—draped in a fitted crimson dress, heels clicking against the marble floor. Her dark hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—sharp, calculating—took in the chaos of the room without flinching. For a heartbeat, she looked like her mother had once looked in her youth: untouchable, poised, untamed.
"You called for me, Father?" Her voice was calm, though faint wariness lingered in her tone.
Robert turned at once, his expression shifting from fury to something more frantic, more desperate. He moved toward her with surprising speed for a man of his age, seizing her arm and pulling her closer.
"You," he hissed. "You've been out at galas. Cocktail parties. Private auctions. Don't think I don't know how you've been flaunting yourself. Now tell me—" His grip tightened, and Maria winced. "Tell me you know someone close to the Barones."
Maria's breath caught. "What?"
"Don't play games with me!" Robert roared, shaking her so hard her hair slipped over her face. "I've seen you, Maria. With men who think they own this city. With women who whisper in corners. Tell me you've brushed against their circle. Tell me you can open that door!"
The secretary shifted uncomfortably, but Robert didn't care. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot with desperation.
Maria's pride surged—she hated when he handled her like property, hated how his desperation made him cruel. Still, she kept her chin high. "Father, I know people who claim to know them. That's all."
Robert's grip became punishing, digging into her skin. "That's enough! Do you hear me? Enough! You'll use every ounce of charm, every whisper of beauty, every connection you've cultivated, and you'll make them listen."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "And if they don't? If I can't—"
The slam of his hand on the desk made the decanter shatter against the floor. Whiskey splashed across the rug like blood.
"Then you'll make them want you!" His voice was venom. "Do you think I raised you to be as useless as Lilith? No. You are my good daughter, Maria. My blood, my pride, my heir. You will not fail me."
Maria's chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding in her throat. He always did this—pitted her against Lilith, dangling praise like a poisoned fruit. And though it burned her to be used, though his words sliced into her pride, ambition stirred deep within her veins.
Slowly, she nodded. "I'll try."
Robert's expression softened with sickening pride. He released her arm, patting her cheek as if she were a child again. "Good. That's my girl. You'll save us yet. You'll prove yourself worthy."
Maria turned away, her jaw tight, hiding the storm behind her calm mask. In her heart, fury and resentment coiled like serpents—but she would obey. For now.
Behind them, the secretary scribbled notes nervously, already planning inquiries and calls.
None of them noticed the faint shift of shadows near the open window upstairs. None of them saw the man standing silently, watching with eyes dark as obsidian. Rhett Barone had been listening long enough.
When the time was right, he would make Robert Steele understand what it meant to beg.
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