Edward Crowford stood with his back to the tall windows of the mansion's private conference room. The evening sun poured in behind him, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Four men stood around the walnut table, silent, alert, waiting. None of them dared sit before he did.
Edward inhaled slowly, then took the head chair.
A small, knowing smile curved his lips.
"I heard everything," he said calmly. "Every word that woman said."
The men stiffened. They knew exactly who he meant.
One of them, tall with a sharp jawline, spoke. "So it's true? She told Alexander everything?"
Edward nodded once. "More than she should have. Far more than she was meant to know." His eyes darkened. "And Alexander still believes he's in control."
Another man shifted uneasily. "What does this mean for us?"
Edward rested his hands on the table, fingers tapping softly, deliberately. "It means my suspicions were correct." He leaned back slightly. "And now, we change direction."
The room went quiet.
"Do we move faster?" someone asked.
Edward raised a finger, silencing them instantly. "No. Not faster. Smarter."
The men exchanged looks, anticipation glinting in their eyes.
"You will act only when I say," Edward continued. "Stay ready. Stay quiet."
Slow smiles spread around the table. These were men who understood danger and enjoyed it.
Edward stood. "Let's begin."
They followed him out, their expressions identical, satisfied, dangerous, already imagining the damage ahead.
*****
The college sports field buzzed with life. Cheers rang out. Laughter echoed. The air pulsed with weekend excitement as the volleyball match reached its peak.
At the center of it all was Oliver Crowford.
Tall, powerful, unstoppable, he dominated the court with effortless confidence. Sweat glistened on his skin as he leapt, spiking the ball cleanly over the net. The crowd erupted.
Girls screamed his name.
Some clapped wildly. Others stared, breathless.
Oliver wore only shorts, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, hair tousled from the game. He barely noticed the attention. He never did.
When the final point landed and the game ended in victory, the field exploded with cheers.
Oliver wiped his face just as a group of girls rushed toward him.
"Cold drink?"
"Take mine."
"You played amazing."
Bottles and cans were thrust at him from every angle. His teammates were pushed aside, invisible in comparison.
One of them muttered, "Why do we even show up?"
Another laughed. "That's what happens when you look like that."
Oliver smiled politely, accepting a drink, already searching for an escape.
At the side court, under a shaded pavilion, Ryan Whitman watched it all with quiet amusement. Calm, observant, he leaned back in his chair as Maya Sinclair approached, handing him a cold bottle of water and a towel.
"Special treatment?" Ryan teased.
Maya smiled, sitting sideways on his lap. "Someone has to take care of you."
They watched Oliver fend off attention with gentle courtesy.
"He doesn't even try," Maya said. "And yet everyone notices him."
Ryan nodded. "That's just Oliver."
Her smile faded slightly. "Have you noticed he's been distant lately?"
Ryan's expression sharpened. "Yes. Something's bothering him."
"Should we ask?"
"Not yet," Ryan replied. "He'll talk when he's ready."
They fell into silence, watching Oliver finally slip away from the crowd.
Maya spoke softly. "Kind people attract trouble."
Ryan's gaze lingered on Oliver, thoughtful rather than dark.
"I just hope he's ready for whatever life throws at him next."
Maya followed his line of sight. "He'll be fine," she said softly.
Ryan nodded, though unease flickered briefly across his face, not from knowledge, but from instinct.