The morning sun didn't bring warmth. It brought a harsh, unforgiving light that exposed the cracks in the world.
I woke up expecting to see police tape, bloodstains, or the shattered remains of the vase I had knocked over. Instead, the penthouse was immaculate. The marble floors gleamed with a high polish that reflected the morning sky. The sofa where Damian had sat, dripping with the tension of supernatural combat, had been replaced. There was no sign of the violence that had transpired just hours ago.
It was as if the night had been a fever dream, a hallucination born of stress and terror.
But I knew it wasn't. My hands still remembered the icy chill of Damian's skin. My ears still rang with the dull *plink* of bullets hitting the floor.
I walked out of my room, the silk robe rustling softly. The penthouse was silent, a vacuum of sound high above the waking city.
I found Damian on the terrace.
He was sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, facing the rising sun. He wasn't wearing a shirt. The morning light caught the rippling definition of his back, the shifting of muscle under pale skin. But it was the air around him that made me stop in my tracks.
It was shimmering.
Not like heat haze, but like the air above a road on a scorching day. Dust motes dancing in the sunlight were swirling around him in a slow, deliberate spiral, defying gravity. He looked like a statue of a god meditating on a mountaintop, completely still, yet vibrating with a terrifying, unseen energy.
I stood in the doorway, afraid to breathe, afraid to break the spell.
"Sleep well?"
His voice cut through the silence, calm and normal. The swirling dust motes froze and then dropped to the ground, the shimmering air vanishing instantly. He turned his head, looking at me over his shoulder.
"I... yes," I lied. "I thought you'd be gone."
"I rarely leave the Spire in the morning," he said, unfolding his legs and standing up in one fluid motion. He grabbed a white t-shirt from a nearby chair and pulled it on, covering the intricate map of scars and muscle that marred his torso. "It is the best time to cultivate. The Yang energy of the sunrise is... potent."
"Cultivate," I repeated, the word still feeling foreign on my tongue. "Is that what you were doing? Recharging?"
"Something like that." He walked over to a small table where a pot of coffee and two cups sat waiting. "Pour us a cup. We have a busy day."
I walked over to the table, my hands trembling slightly. "What did you do with the... the men?"
"The cleaners handled it," he said, leaning against the railing. "They are professionals. They scrub the world clean for people like me. By noon, those men will be John Does in a landfill outside the city, and your father will be wondering why his hit squad went dark."
I poured the coffee, the dark liquid steaming in the cool air. "My father sent them."
"I know."
"You're going to kill him today, aren't you?"
Damian took the cup from me. His fingers brushed mine—they were warm now. The cultivation had worked.
"Killing him is too easy," Damian said, taking a sip. He looked out at the city, his eyes narrowing. "No, today I take his soul. Today, I take the one thing he loves more than money: his legacy."
He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Get dressed, Elena. Wear something professional. We're going to your office."
***
Vance Global Tower was a monument to glass and steel in the financial district. It was the building I had visited since I was a little girl, bringing my father lunch on weekends, sitting in his big leather chair and spinning around until I was dizzy.
Now, as the black town car pulled up to the entrance, it looked like a gallows.
A crowd of reporters had gathered, alerted by the rumors of the stock crash and the mysterious "technical difficulties" that had plagued the company's servers all night. Cameras flashed as the car stopped, but security rushed out to hold them back.
"Head high," Damian commanded, checking his reflection in the window. "Remember, you are the queen walking into the dungeon. Don't look like a victim."
I nodded, smoothing the skirt of the navy-blue suit I had found in the closet. It was tailored perfectly, of course.
We stepped out. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
"Mr. Tian! Is it true you're mounting a hostile takeover?"
"Elena! Are you okay? Where have you been?"
"Rumors of embezzlement, Mr. Vance! Any comment?"
Damian ignored them. He offered me his arm, and I took it. We walked through the glass doors, leaving the chaos behind.
The lobby was silent. The security guards at the desk froze when they saw us. They knew who Damian was. Everyone in the business world knew the face of the man who owned the world.
We walked to the private elevators. The guards didn't try to stop us. They just watched, eyes wide, as we ascended to the top floor.
The elevator ride was short. The doors opened directly into the reception area of the executive suite. The secretary, a woman named Martha who had known me since I was five, stood up, her face pale.
"Miss Vance," she stammered. "We... we weren't told you were coming."
"Is he in?" I asked, my voice sounding surprisingly steady.
"Mr. Vance is in a meeting with the board," she said, her eyes darting nervously to Damian. "It's an emergency session."
Damian smiled. It was a shark's smile. "Perfect."
He walked past her desk toward the double oak doors of the boardroom. I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Sir! You can't just go in!" Martha cried out, but she didn't dare physically stop him.
Damian didn't open the doors. He didn't knock.
He placed his hand on the wood, and with a sudden, explosive *crack*, the locks shattered. The doors flew open, slamming against the walls with enough force to shake the pictures on the walls.
The room went silent.
Twelve men and women sat around the long mahogany table. My father sat at the head. He looked haggard, his tie loose, dark circles under his eyes. They were all staring at the doorway, stunned.
Damian stepped inside, pulling me along with him.
"Good morning," Damian said, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
My father stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Damian. How did you get in here? Security!"
"Security is currently... otherwise occupied," Damian said smoothly. He released my arm and walked to the empty seat at the foot of the table—the seat usually reserved for the guest of honor. He pulled it out and sat down, crossing his legs.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the table. "Continue. You were discussing the stock price, were you not? Down forty percent at the opening bell. Impressive."
One of the board members, a man with a gray beard and a red face, stood up. "This is illegal! You have no right to be here! I'm calling the police!"
"By all means," Damian said, leaning back. "But you should know that the police commissioner owes me a rather significant favor. And the mayor. And the governor."
He looked around the table, his gaze lingering on each person. When he looked at them, they flinched. I felt it too—that heavy, suffocating pressure. It wasn't just his presence; it was something leaking out of him. A *Killing Intent*.
It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. It made you want to curl up in a ball and beg for mercy.
"I am not here to negotiate," Damian said, his voice dropping an octave. The room seemed to dim. "I am here to discuss terms of surrender."
My father slammed his hand on the table. "I will never surrender to you! You're a thug! A gangster with a fancy suit!"
"I am a consequence," Damian corrected softly. "And I brought a gift."
He looked at me. "Elena, come here."
I walked to the side of the table, standing between Damian and my father. I looked at my dad. I wanted to run to him, to hug him, to tell him it would be okay. But I saw the fear in his eyes. Not fear for *himself*, but fear that I was defecting.
"Tell him, Elena," Damian said.
"Tell me what?" my father asked, his voice cracking.
"Tell him about the men who came for us last night," Damian said. "Tell him how they died."
The room gasped.
My father went white. "You... you killed them?"
"Three assassins," I said, my voice trembling but clear. "They came to the penthouse. They tried to kill us."
"He's lying!" my father shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Damian. "He's trying to turn you against me! I didn't send anyone!"
"Didn't you?" Damian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, crushed electronic device. He tossed it onto the table. It skidded to a stop in front of my father. "A tracker. Found in the pocket of the lead gunman. Encrypted signal. It didn't take long for my tech division to trace the source."
My father stared at the device. He didn't touch it. He didn't deny it.
"I did what I had to do!" my father screamed, his composure shattering. "You're destroying everything I built! You're a monster! You're taking my company, my money... I had to stop you!"
"By killing your own daughter?" I whispered. The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. "Dad? Was I just collateral damage?"
My father looked at me, and for a second, the ruthless businessman was gone, replaced by a desperate, frightened old man. "No! Elena, never! I told them... I told them to scare him. I told them to take *her* away, not hurt her. Just to get you away from him!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
I looked at my father—the man who had read me bedtime stories, who had taught me to ride a bike. He had sacrificed me. He had handed me over to killers to save his bottom line.
I felt sick.
Damian stood up slowly. He placed a hand on my shoulder. The touch was grounding, steady.
"You see, Elena?" he murmured. "The price of his greed is your blood. He doesn't love you. He loves what you represent. An asset. A pawn."
He looked at my father, and the air in the room grew cold. So cold I could see my breath mist.
"I have taken your money, Alexander," Damian said, his voice sounding like it was coming from everywhere at once. "I have taken your reputation. Now, I am going to take your freedom."
He walked around the table toward my father.
"I won't go to jail!" my father yelled, backing up until he hit the window. "I'm Alexander Vance!"
"Not anymore," Damian said.
He raised his hand. He didn't touch my father. He just pointed a finger at his chest.
"Do you feel that?" Damian asked.
My father gasped. He clutched his chest, his eyes bulging. "What... what are you doing?"
"That is your heart," Damian said calmly. "I am constricting the flow of blood. Just a little. Just enough to remind you that you are flesh and bone. That you can die in a heartbeat."
My father slumped against the glass, his face turning purple. He clawed at his throat, unable to breathe.
"Stop it!" I screamed, grabbing Damian's arm. "Damian, stop! You're killing him!"
Damian didn't look at me. His eyes were locked on my father. "Beg."
My father couldn't speak. He was gurgling, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Beg for your life," Damian commanded, his voice vibrating with power.
"P-please..." my father wheezed, tears streaming down his face. "Please..."
Damian lowered his hand.
The pressure vanished instantly. My father collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, sobbing like a child. The board members sat frozen, terrified to move, terrified to even breathe.
Damian adjusted his cufflinks. He looked down at the broken man with absolute disgust.
"Sign the papers," Damian said to the room at large. "Transfer of all assets. Control of the board. Everything. Sign them, and I let him live as a pauper. Refuse, and I crush his heart right here."
One of the board members—a woman I had known since I was a child—scrambled to open a briefcase. She pulled out a stack of documents and a pen. Her hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped them.
"Where do I sign?"
Damian pointed to the table. "There."
It took ten minutes. Ten minutes of silence, broken only by my father's ragged breathing and the scratching of pens. They signed away the empire. They signed away the legacy.
Damian took the papers, glanced at them, and nodded.
"Pleasure doing business," he said.
He turned to me. "We're done here."
"Wait," I said. I looked down at my father, huddled on the floor. He looked pathetic. Small.
"I can't just leave him like this."
"He made his choice," Damian said, his voice hard.
"I know." I knelt down beside my father. He flinched, thinking I was going to hit him.
"I'm not you, Dad," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you. But I'm not going to help you either."
I reached into my pocket and took off the diamond necklace Damian had given me. It was worth millions. I dropped it on the floor next to him.
"Sell that," I said. "Buy yourself a one-way ticket to somewhere far away. Because if Damian ever sees you again, he won't stop next time."
My father looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of shame and relief. "Elena..."
"Goodbye, Dad."
I stood up. I took Damian's arm. I didn't look back.
***
The elevator ride down was long.
"You should have kept the diamonds," Damian said, breaking the silence. "They suited you."
"They were bought with blood," I said. "Just like his company."
"So are you," Damian said quietly.
I looked up at him. "What?"
"You. You are the daughter of a sinner. By your logic, you are bought with blood too."
I looked at my reflection in the polished elevator doors. I saw the girl in the navy suit. I saw the exhaustion in her eyes.
"No," I said, meeting Damian's gaze in the reflection. "I'm not. Because I chose to walk away. I chose to stop the cycle."
Damian looked at me, a strange expression crossing his face. It wasn't admiration. It was... curiosity. Like he was looking at a specimen he hadn't classified yet.
"You are stronger than you look," he said. "Physically, you are weak. Emotionally... you are brittle. But your will? Your will is like iron."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation," he said. "It means I won't break you as easily as I thought."
The elevator reached the lobby. The doors opened.
The reporters were still there, shouting. Damian paused.
"Ready?"
"No," I said. "But let's go anyway."
We walked out into the flashbulbs. This time, I didn't hide behind Damian. I stood tall. I held my head up.
We got into the car. As we pulled away, leaving my father and his empire in the dust, I leaned back against the leather seat and closed my eyes.
"It's done," I whispered.
"The company is mine," Damian said. "Your father is ruined. The first phase of the revenge is complete."
"And the second phase?"
Damian looked out the window, his eyes tracking a bird soaring high above the city skyscrapers.
"The second phase," he said softly, "is about the past. About the man who taught me. And the promise I made to him."
He turned to me, and for the first time, I saw a crack in his armor. A hint of uncertainty.
"Revenge is a cold meal, Elena. Now that I've eaten it... I find I am still hungry."
"What are you hungry for?" I asked.
He looked at my lips, then my eyes. The air in the car grew heavy, charged with the same energy I had felt on the terrace.
"I don't know yet," he lied. "But I think you're the only one who can feed me."
The car merged onto the highway, carrying us away from the wreckage of the past. I didn't know where we were going, but for the first time, I felt like I wasn't just a passenger.
I was sitting next to a monster. But I was beginning to realize that the monster wasn't Damian. The monster was the world that made him. And I was the only one willing to look at him and see the man underneath.