A dull thump hit the three-inch soundproof glass of the Rolls-Royce Ghost.
Jadon Barak didn't flinch.
He was driving, but his pale blue eyes were not on the narrow, rain-soaked street. They were focused on a place in his mind that felt like it was burning to the ground.
Was it a pothole? A tipped-over trash bin?
It didn't matter. That was outside. The real disaster was within.
His hand gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel, steady but strained. Inside, he felt like a black hole. The weight of his life was collapsing inward, crushing every feeling—empathy, annoyance, even anger—into a cold, dense void.
The car, his personal fortress, moved through the mews in its usual silence. He felt a slight lurch as he corrected the wheel, avoiding something—a flash of color, perhaps a small, messy obstacle.
He pressed the accelerator. The Ghost surged forward with terrifying power. He didn't care.
All he could think about was the blinding notification that had lit up his private phone five minutes earlier. A gossip blog. Tatler's tasteless online cousin.
'SOCIETY SHOCK: CHLOE DUPONT DUMPS MYSTERY LOVER FOR... A BARAK? MATTHIAS BARAK SPOTTED WITH STUNNING NEW BRUNETTE IN MONACO.'
There was a photo. His girlfriend of two years—the woman he loved and trusted—was laughing on the deck of a yacht. His yacht. Her hand was pressed against the bare chest of his brother.
Matthias.
For two years, he had been "Jadon Asher," the ghost founder of The Asher Group, Europe's fastest-growing culinary and spice empire. He was a Forbes cover story but a social ghost. He owned Michelin-starred restaurants and controlled the rarest spice routes on earth. He dictated culinary trends from London to Lisbon.
And he had done it all without the family name.
The name, Barak, felt like a shackle. It was oil, gas, and global shipping. It was a dynasty so powerful and private that they were like modern royalty, fiercely guarding their anonymity.
The Barak tradition was stern: sons were educated in secret, tucked away in Swiss schools and private universities, their faces unknown to the public. At 25, they were "Unveiled" and given a position at the head of the global empire.
His three older brothers had all complied.
Jadon, the fourth son, had refused.
He had fought his father, his grandfather, and his entire family for a single concession: Let me build something myself. Let me prove I am not just a name.
They had agreed, amused by his "project" in the "lowly" food industry. Now, at 29, his "project" was a global marvel, and he was the most successful, ruthless, and private of them all.
And Chloe... Chloe had known it. He had broken his sacred rule for her. He had let her in. He had told her his real name. He had introduced her to his family. He had shown her the real power he wielded. He thought she loved him, Jadon Asher, the quiet, intense man.
He now saw, with chilling clarity, that she had just been auditioning. She had used his privacy as a way to find the one thing he refused to give her: the spotlight. And she had found it in the arms of his 31-year-old brother, the one who craved attention.
The Rolls pulled into the private underground area of his headquarters, a sliver of glass and steel on the Thames. He didn't park in his reserved CEO spot. Instead, he parked in the shadows, three levels down.
He took the biometric-keyed elevator straight to his penthouse office. The doors opened onto a spacious, minimalist area of gray stone, dark wood, and windows that overlooked the grim river.
His assistant, Ari Cohen, was waiting. Ari was a sharp, well-dressed man who knew exactly who Jadon Asher really was.
"Sir," Ari said, his voice clipped and efficient. With one look at Jadon's face, he knew the world was crumbling. "Two situations. One, your family is..."
"Silence," Jadon said. His "Barak" phone, the encrypted family device, was vibrating off the desk. He silenced it with a violent jab of his thumb.
"Second," Ari continued without missing a beat, "a small fire at Élan. Chef Arnaud is... furious. He's threatening to leave."
Jadon turned. His focus shifted from his personal crisis to his professional one. Élan was his flagship. His laboratory. "Arnaud is always threatening to walk. What is it this time? The humidity affecting his bread?"
"A supplier," Ari said, tapping his tablet. "A local one. 'Solomon's Spices.'"
Jadon's gaze remained blank. The name meant nothing to him.
"They were supposed to deliver the new saffron and the custom ras el hanout blend at 2 PM. It's now 2:10. They never arrived. No call, no answer. Arnaud says the entire dinner service for the private dining room depends on that specific blend. He is... using colorful language."
Jadon rubbed the bridge of his nose. A supplier. A small, replaceable part of his massive, perfect machine. He had just lost the woman he loved and the brother he grew up with. He had no patience for this. He had no space for incompetence within the void in his chest.
"Ari," he said, his voice empty of emotion. "Call Arnaud. Tell him I'll have a replacement kilo of our reserve saffron at his kitchen in twenty minutes. As for 'Solomon's Spices'..."
He turned back to the gray window, dismissing the whole insignificant affair.
"Terminate the contract. Immediately. I don't care about their excuse. If they can't handle a single, critical delivery, they don't deserve to supply my restaurant."