CHASE
The lawyer's office smells like old money and older secrets. Mahogany panels, leather chairs, crystal decanters filled with scotch that costs more than most people's cars. I sit across from Edward Whitmore, the Sterling family attorney for three generations, while he reads my grandfather's will in that droning legal monotone.
"To my grandson, Chase Aldrich Sterling, I leave the entirety of Sterling Industries, all associated holdings, properties, and assets, with the condition that he assume full control immediately upon graduation."
My hands rest flat on the armrests. Steady. Controlled. Everything Dominic taught me to be.
"The total estimated value of the estate, including liquid assets, real property, and corporate holdings, is forty-seven point three billion dollars."
Forty-seven billion.
The number should mean something. Should feel like victory, like vindication, like everything I've been waiting for my entire life.
It feels empty.
Whitmore slides documents across the desk. "Sign here. And here. Initial here."
I sign. My hand moves mechanically, forming the letters of my name over and over. Chase Aldrich Sterling. Not Chase Ryder anymore. Not the broke college student who thought love mattered more than legacy.
That version of me died on graduation day.
"Congratulations, Mr. Sterling." Whitmore extends his hand. "Your grandfather would be proud."
I shake it. "Thank you."
The words taste like ash.
I leave the office with a briefcase full of legal documents that essentially make me one of the richest men in the world. The elevator ride down feels longer than it should. Forty-seven floors. Forty-seven billion dollars.
My phone buzzes. Text from my publicist: Interview with Forbes confirmed for next week. Also, three more date requests from socialites. Want me to set something up?
I don't answer.
The car waiting outside is mine now. Black Mercedes, driver included. I slide into the backseat and give him my new address. Not the apartment I shared with takeout containers and secondhand furniture. The Sterling penthouse. Sixty-second floor. Views of the entire city.
Everything I always knew would be mine.
The migraine hits somewhere around 45th Street.
It starts as pressure behind my eyes, sharp and sudden. I press my fingers to my temples, but the pain intensifies, spreading like ice water through my skull. My vision blurs at the edges.
"Sir?" The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." The word comes out through gritted teeth.
The cold follows. It seeps into my bones, radiating from somewhere deep in my chest. The car's heat is on full blast, but I'm shivering, breath misting in the air.
This isn't normal.
I close my eyes, trying to breathe through it. The pain pulses in time with my heartbeat, each throb sending fresh waves of ice through my veins.
It begins.
The voice is a whisper in my head, feminine and ancient. I know that voice. Haven't heard it in six years, but I know it.
Mother.
My eyes snap open. The pain recedes slightly, just enough for me to see straight. We're pulling up to the building now. The doorman rushes to open my door.
"Mr. Sterling. Welcome home."
Home.
I make it to the elevator before the next wave hits. This time it's not just pain. It's rage. Pure, undiluted fury that has no source, no target, just exists like a living thing coiled in my gut.
I grip the elevator railing until my knuckles go white.
Breathe. Control. You're a Sterling.
The penthouse doors open to sixty-second-floor luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. Art worth millions on the walls. Furniture that costs more than college tuition.
And sitting on the marble counter, a cardboard box. My things from the old apartment. The movers must have brought it up.
I walk over slowly, footsteps echoing in the vast space.
Inside the box: textbooks I'll never need again. A coffee mug Vivian gave me for my birthday with some stupid philosophical quote on it. Photos from college. Notes passed in class. A ticket stub from the one movie we saw together because we were too broke for anything else.
Mementos of a life that doesn't exist anymore.
I pick up the coffee mug first. "The unexamined life is not worth living." Her handwriting on the gift tag, loopy and optimistic.
The rage surges again, stronger this time.
She rejected you. Called you a nobody. Would have thrown you away without a second thought.
I hurl the mug at the window. It shatters against the glass, ceramic shards scattering across the polished floor.
The textbooks follow. Rip the pages out, tear them to confetti. Philosophy, literature, all the classes where we sat together arguing about Kant and Kierkegaard like any of it mattered.
None of it mattered.
The photos burn easily. I light them in the kitchen sink, watch the edges curl and blacken. Vivian's face disappears into smoke. Her smile, her eyes, everything that made me think I could have something real.
Gone.
The ticket stub is last. I hold it over the flame, watching it catch.
"Goodbye, Vivian."
The paper turns to ash in my palm.
I'm breathing hard, surrounded by destruction. The rage is still there, simmering just beneath my skin, but it's different now. Focused. Cold.
She wanted to prove she didn't need me? Fine. I'll make sure she regrets ever knowing me.
I walk to the bathroom to wash the ash from my hands. The mirror above the sink reflects my face, and I pause.
Storm gray eyes stare back. Sharp features. The face I've worn my entire life.
Except.
The reflection's mouth curves into a smile.
I'm not smiling.
My hands grip the edge of the sink, heart suddenly pounding. The reflection tilts its head, that smile widening, turning cruel.
Hello, Chase.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. My mother's voice. But the lips moving are mine.
No. The reflection's.
"What the hell..." I breathe.
The reflection's smile grows. You've been waiting so long. And now, finally, you're mine.
Ice floods my veins again. The migraine explodes back to life, and I stagger, gripping the counter to stay upright.
When I look up again, the reflection is normal. Just me. Pale, shaken, but me.
I'm alone in the penthouse.
Alone with forty-seven billion dollars and something dark that's decided to make a home in my bones.
Outside, somewhere in the city, I know my mother is watching. Waiting. Knowing exactly what she's unleashed.
And I can't stop it.
Don't even know if I want to.