Mia's scoff was soft, almost theatrical. "Access? He's been 'retired' for twelve years. He doesn't even show up to the annual meetings anymore unless someone dies or the stock tanks five points in a day."
"Exactly." Bianca turned toward the doorway, already composing her face into the mask of gracious daughter-in-law. "He doesn't need to show up. The old guard still calls him first. The original investors still send him quarterly reports before they send them to the board. The offshore trusts he set up in the seventies? Those don't answer to Marcus. They answer to him. One phone call from that man, and half the voting shares we pretend to control could swing against us before breakfast."
Ryan set the untouched glass down harder than necessary. "And he hates her more than any of us do. Calls her 'the mistake that keeps breathing.' Last Christmas he told Marcus point-blank that if she ever set foot in the Hamptons house again, he'd rewrite the codicils himself."
"Which is why," Bianca murmured, stepping toward the hall, "we make sure he never has reason to question our loyalty. Or our usefulness."
The voice from below came again, patient but edged with steel.
"Bianca. I don't enjoy repeating myself."
Mia muttered under her breath, "God, even his echoes are condescending."
Bianca paused at the threshold, glancing back at her children with eyes that held no warmth, only strategy.
"Smile," she said. "Both of you. He'll want to know where the little heiress is this time. Tell him the truth—whatever version makes her sound most irredeemable. He likes hearing how far she's fallen. It reminds him he was right not to trust Marcus with the final keys."
Ryan exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders down. "And if he asks why we're still letting her run wild?"
Bianca's lips curved—just enough to pass for fondness if viewed from a distance.
"Then we tell him the same thing Marcus tells himself every night: that she's still young. That she'll grow into it. That the empire needs continuity." She tilted her head slightly. "And we let him believe we're the only ones patient enough to wait for that continuity to fail."
She turned and descended the staircase without another word, heels clicking in perfect rhythm, each step a reminder that in the Ravencroft family even silence was a weapon.
Behind her, Mia leaned toward Ryan, voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Think he'll live long enough to see her crash and burn?"
Ryan didn't smile. "Doesn't matter. As long as he lives long enough to hand us the matches."
Downstairs, the old man waited—silver-haired, spine straight as a blade, eyes the same arctic gray as his son's but colder, older, carrying the weight of every decision that had built an empire on other people's graves.
Bianca descended the curved staircase with the measured grace of someone who had long ago learned that speed betrayed weakness. At the bottom, in the cavernous marble foyer lit only by the soft glow of dawn filtering through the east-facing atrium, stood Everett Ravencroft.
Eighty-two years old, silver hair still thick and impeccably combed, posture unbent by time or regret. He wore a charcoal cashmere coat over a three-piece suit that had probably been tailored in Savile Row before Bianca was born. His cane—ebony, silver-handled, more weapon than support—rested lightly against the floor, but everyone in the family knew he could still swing it with enough force to crack bone.
He didn't greet her with warmth. He never did.
"Bianca," he said again, though she was already in front of him. The word carried no question, only expectation.
"Dad." She inclined her head the precise degree required: deference without submission. "You're up early."
"I don't sleep when there's rot in the foundation." His eyes—pale gray, sharp as frost—flicked past her toward the staircase. "Where's my son?"
"Marcus stepped out for a moment. Security business. He'll be back shortly." A smooth half-truth; she knew better than to lie outright to this man.
Everett's mouth tightened into a line so thin it nearly vanished. "Always 'security business.' Always a reason to avoid the conversation that needs having."
He tapped the cane once, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel. "The house in the Hamptons closed escrow last week. The new wing is finished. I assume the staff has been instructed to keep the east suite prepared?"
"Of course. Everything is ready whenever you choose to visit."
"And the London office? Quarterly projections came in yesterday. Acquisitions pipeline looks thin. Your son's name is on half the memos. Ryan. Tell me he's not the one making the calls on the Zurich merger."
Bianca's smile remained serene. "Ryan has been overseeing the due diligence personally. The numbers are conservative, but solid. Marcus approved the final structure last month."
Everett exhaled through his nose—a sound that conveyed more contempt than most men could pack into a full sentence. "Marcus approves everything after the ink is dry. That boy never learned the difference between leading and following. If the merger fails, the board will look to the name on the letterhead, not the one hiding behind it."
He shifted his weight, cane tapping again. The rhythm was deliberate, a metronome for discomfort.
"Now," he said, voice dropping lower, "the real question. Where is she?"
Bianca didn't pretend not to understand. "She was… indisposed last night. An incident. She's been discharged from Bellevue. We're locating her now."
"Discharged." Everett repeated the word as though tasting something bitter. "Another overdose, I presume. Another headline waiting to be bought off. How many does this make? Four? Five?"
"Three documented," Bianca answered calmly. "The others were… managed privately."
"Managed." He let the word hang. "You manage messes. I built an empire. There's a difference." His gaze sharpened. "She's still breathing, then. Still the designated heir. Still the noose around this family's neck."
Bianca folded her hands in front of her, the picture of composure. "The trusts are locked, as you know. Bloodline only. She inherits whether we like it or not."
Everett's laugh was dry, humorless. "I wrote those clauses myself. To protect the name from outsiders. Not to hand it to a junkie who can't stay out of a hospital long enough to learn her own birthday." He leaned slightly on the cane. "Tell me honestly, Bianca. Do you think she'll live to see twenty-one?"
The question landed like a thrown knife—casual, but aimed to draw blood.
Bianca met his eyes without flinching. "I think she's young. Reckless. But young can change. With the right… guidance."
"Guidance." He studied her for a long moment. "You mean control. You always did prefer the indirect approach. Cleaner hands."
She allowed herself the smallest tilt of her head. "I prefer results."
Everett straightened, the brief vulnerability—if it had ever been there—gone. "Then get results. Find her before the next photographer does. Get her clean, or get her quiet. I don't care which. But if she keeps dragging the Ravencroft name through the gutter, I'll do what my son is too sentimental to do."
He turned toward the atrium doors, coat sweeping behind him like a shadow.
"And Bianca?"
She waited.
"When Marcus returns, tell him I expect a full accounting of the Zurich deal by end of week. Face to face. No proxies." He paused at the threshold, looking back once. "And tell him his mistake is still breathing. For now."
The doors closed behind him with a soft pneumatic hush, leaving Bianca alone in the foyer. Upstairs, she could hear the faint murmur of her children waiting—plotting, listening, already turning every word into ammunition.
She exhaled once, slowly.
Then she straightened her robe, composed her face again, and started back up the stairs to deliver the message—and to begin the next move in a game that had been rigged long before any of them were born.
Another luxurious suite—this one on the top floor of the Wythe Hotel in Williamsburg—bathed in the pale, unforgiving light of late morning. The room smelled of expensive candles burned to stubs, spilled champagne gone flat, and the faint metallic tang of last night's excess. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the East River glittering like shattered glass, but the blackout curtains had been yanked half-open by someone careless or cruel.
Isadora Ravencroft opened her eyes slowly, lashes sticky with yesterday's mascara. The ceiling spun once, then settled. Her mouth tasted like copper and regret. She was sprawled across a king-sized bed in nothing but black lace underwear and a silk robe that had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone and the faint purple bloom of a fresh bruise on her ribs—probably from falling against something sharp in the club bathroom.
Lexi was already perched on the edge of the mattress, legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone with one hand while holding a half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the other.
Jade lounged in the velvet armchair opposite, feet kicked up on the coffee table littered with empty pill bottles, rolled-up hundreds, and a mirror dusted with white residue that no one had bothered to wipe clean.
Both of them looked up the second Isadora stirred.
Lexi grinned first, wide and wicked. "Morning, sunshine. Or should I say afternoon? You were out cold for like fourteen hours."
Jade snorted, popping the cap off a fresh energy drink. "Fourteen? Try sixteen. I had to carry your ass up here like a sack of designer bricks."
Isadora pushed herself up on her elbows, hair falling in a tangled black curtain around her face. She blinked at the room, at her friends, at the evidence of chaos still scattered everywhere. Then a slow, reckless smile spread across her lips.
"Don't tell me I fucking overdosed last night too."
The words hung for half a second—half accusation, half joke—before all three of them cracked up at once.
Lexi threw her head back, laughing so hard the champagne sloshed over her fingers. "Too? Babe, you say that like it's a surprise. You went full supernova in the VIP booth. One minute you're dancing on the table screaming the lyrics to some remix nobody's heard, next minute your eyes roll back and you drop like a bad investment."
Jade mimed it dramatically, flopping sideways in the chair with an exaggerated limp body. "Thud. Security thought you were just passed out drunk until the foam started. Classic Isadora entrance, exit, encore."
Isadora laughed harder, the sound raw and bright, the kind that masked everything underneath. She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at Jade, who caught it without missing a beat.
"Fuck you both," she gasped between breaths, but there was no heat in it—only the manic relief of still being alive to joke about it. "I remember the lights. And the bass. And then… nothing. Black screen. Did I at least look hot while I was dying?"
Lexi leaned over and tapped the screen of her phone, pulling up a blurry photo someone had already posted to a private story—Isadora mid-laugh, head thrown back, nose red, eyes glassy, crown of rhinestones slipping sideways like a fallen halo.
"Hotter than sin," Lexi said, zooming in on the detail. "The comments are calling it your 'iconic rockstar collapse.' You're trending in the group chats again."
Jade raised his drink in mock toast. "To the girl who turns near-death experiences into content. Never change, Dora."
Isadora snatched the phone from Lexi, stared at the photo for a long beat. Her reflection stared back—beautiful, wrecked, untouchable. She handed it back without a word, then flopped onto her back again, staring up at the ceiling as the laughter slowly ebbed.
"Bellevue?" she asked quietly, the humor leaching out just enough for the question to land real.
"Bellevue," Lexi confirmed, softer now. "They pumped you, stitched the cut on your arm—don't ask how it got there—and kicked you out at like six this morning. We grabbed you before the paps could swarm the loading dock."
Jade shrugged. "Your dad's security was circling like sharks. We lost them in a cab switch on the L train. You're welcome."
Isadora closed her eyes, the smile gone now. "Great. Another discharge summary for the family scrapbook."
Lexi reached over, brushed a strand of hair off Isadora's forehead with surprising gentleness. "Hey. You're here. That's what counts. The rest is just noise."
Isadora opened her eyes again, met Lexi's gaze, then Jade's. For a second the room felt smaller, the laughter thinner, the truth sharper.
Then she forced the grin back into place, bright and blade-edged.
"Fuck the noise," she said. "Pour me whatever's left in that bottle. We're not done celebrating yet."
Lexi laughed again, genuine this time, and tipped the champagne toward her. Jade raised his can in salute.
And just like that, the three of them slipped back into the rhythm—laughing, reckless, unbreakable—while the city outside kept spinning, indifferent to how close they'd come to losing one of their own.
Again.