The office at MediPrivate had seen blood, secrets, and the occasional miracle. What it hadn't seen—until now—was Lucian Throne losing his composure like a grenade losing its pin.
"You operate on people and you don't keep any record?!" Lucian's voice cracked through the air like a whip. He grabbed a stack of papers from Alex's desk and hurled them. They exploded outward, a blizzard of incompetence, drifting down around Alex's head. "This is all rubbish!"
Alex didn't flinch. He sat behind his desk, hands folded, the picture of a man who'd weathered worse storms and brought an umbrella to this one. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Lucian's every movement—the pacing, the clenched fists, the way his jaw kept ticking like a bomb.
"I told you," Alex said, his voice measured and slow, the vocal equivalent of a tranquilizer dart. "I remember the crest. But not who it belonged to." He leaned back. "And you've been at this for weeks, Lucian. Why are you disturbing me now?"
"I've been busy." Lucian's tone was sharp enough to draw blood. He turned away, running a hand through his hair, and when he spoke again, something raw bled through the anger. "I need to be alert of people around me. I don't want to mistakenly kill my own mother or father."
Alex studied him. The silence stretched. Then, quietly, with the precision of a surgeon making an incision: "That's not what's bothering you, Lucy."
Lucian's head snapped toward him, a retort already forming, but Alex kept going.
"I raised you. I know when you're detouring your problems." He ticked off fingers, one by one. "You can't find Frieda. Star is still insisting on marrying Adrian." A pause. "What did I forget?"
Lucian looked away. His whole body was a fist. The rage rolled off him in waves—not the hot, explosive kind, but something colder. Deeper. The kind of fury that had been simmering for weeks and was only now starting to boil over.
He crossed to the couch and dropped onto it, his weight landing heavy, defeated. He stared at the floor. When he spoke again, the fire had dimmed to embers.
"I just feel like I'm losing control of everything." He exhaled, the sound hollow. "I didn't save her just so she could run into Adrian's arms."
Alex tilted his head. His voice was gentle, but it didn't pull punches. "You and I both know you did more than just save her."
"Yeah." Lucian's eyes stayed fixed on the floor. "All in all to save her. She would have died that day." His hands rested on his knees, fingers curling into loose fists. "I just need a win, Alex. One win."
Alex looked at him for a long moment. The kind of look that said I've known you since you were a terrified mute boy and I know exactly what you're capable of. Then he reached across his desk and picked up a file.
"Okay." He stood, crossing the room to hand it to Lucian. "I got these files from the old families of Crestfall. That crest symbol you've been hunting?" He tapped the folder. "It popped up in one of them."
Lucian took it, frowning.
"I meant to give this to you yesterday," Alex added, settling back into his chair, "but Lyrl told me you were back at Randora."
"Yeah." Lucian flipped the file open, scanning. "I needed to oversee some projects there." His eyes moved down the page, then stopped. His brow creased. "Salvatore? The old Crestfall founders?" He shook his head, already dismissing it. "No."
"Look at their crest." Alex leaned forward, pointing. "And that ring—it's in there. It's like some sort of key."
Lucian pulled the ring off his finger. The Vargra crest sat at its center, intricate and cold. He'd stared at it a hundred times, turning it over in his hands, searching for meaning in the metal. But now—now that he was really looking—the Vargra looked... different. Raised. Almost like a button.
He pressed it.
The crest popped out with a soft click.
And the office exploded into light.
Red lines shot across the walls, the ceiling, the furniture—a web of lasers that coalesced in the center of the room. Then, rising from the ring like a ghost from a lamp, a 3D hologram flickered to life. A woman. Bandaged across most of her face, her body fragile and trembling. Only her eyes were visible—greenish-blue, startlingly vivid, the kind of eyes that had seen too much and survived anyway.
Lucian went still. Alex, for once, had nothing to say.
The woman winced as she tried to sit upright in what was clearly a hospital bed. Her movements were slow and pained. The camera shook as she adjusted it, her bandaged fingers fumbling, until finally it steadied. She was propped up now, her body fragile against the sterile white sheets, her breathing audible and uneven.
"Hello." Her voice was soft, cracked at the edges. "You must be having a lot of questions now, Lucian." A pause, as if the name itself cost her something. "But you only need one answer. I'm your birth mother. My name is—"
"Are you alright, Mrs. Salvatore?"
The voice came from off-screen. A doctor. The woman looked up, and for a split second, the camera caught the underside of her chin—a small mole, dark against her skin.
"Yes." She turned back to the camera, her voice steadier now. "I'm doing alright, doctor. Thanks."
The door clicked shut.
She exhaled. Her composure cracked, just slightly.
"I'm sorry, baby." Her voice was in a hurry now, urgent and fraying at the seams. "But I don't have time." She leaned closer to the camera, her bandaged face filling the frame, those greenish-blue eyes burning with something that looked a lot like desperation and a lot like love. "If you ever find this... don't look for your birth family. I didn't abandon you. I placed you somewhere safe. If your identity is ever known—if anyone finds out you're my child—your life will be in danger."
She paused. Swallowed. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I couldn't save your brother or your father. But I saved you." A trembling breath. "You're safe with Merisa."
The hologram blinked out. The red lines vanished. The ring was whole again, silent and inert, sitting in Lucian's palm like it hadn't just detonated his entire understanding of himself.
His expression was blank. Too blank. The kind of blank that came not from emptiness but from overflow—too much information, too much emotion, all of it crashing together into a wall of nothing.
He pressed the button again.
The video restarted. "Hello. You must be having a lot of questions now, Lucian..."
"What, that's it?" Lucian's voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet. "That's all she left me?"
Alex chose his words carefully, the way you choose your steps in a minefield. "The Salvatore family is... defunct."
"No." Lucian shook his head, his jaw setting. "They're not. That woman—" he gestured at the ring, at the ghost of the hologram still hanging in the air "—she isn't it. She was just there. A messenger. Someone put her in that bed."
Alex leaned forward, his voice calm but insistent. "I didn't know you had emotions, Lucy. But the woman said—if you make your existence known, you're in danger."
Lucian chuckled.
It was not a pleasant sound. It didn't come from humor. It came from someplace cold, someplace that had been locked up for a very long time. His lips curved, but his eyes—his eyes were flat, hard, utterly devoid of warmth.
"You heard what she said." He stood, slowly, like an animal uncoiling. "And all you took from that was 'my life is in danger'?" He shook his head, almost pitying. "You hear danger knocking, and your mind flips to my life for concern?." He took a step closer to Alex, his voice dropping to something barely above a murmur. "I'm danger, Alex."
His eyes flickered. For just a moment—a heartbeat—they went dark. Not metaphorically. The pupils seemed to swallow the light, a flash of something primal and terrifying. Alex had seen it before. He'd hoped never to see it again.
"Lucy." Alex stood, his hands raised slightly, placating. His voice was steady, but his pulse was not. "You need to be calm, buddy."
"I'm not fourteen anymore."
Lucian's voice was ice. He pressed the Vargra back into the ring. It clicked into place, whole again, as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.
He slipped the ring onto his finger and walked toward the door.
"See you around." He didn't look back. "I have some Salvatore family to fetch."
The door closed behind him.
Alex stood there in the silence, the ghost of red light still burning behind his eyelids. He exhaled—a long, slow, weary sound—and sank back into his chair.
Lucian's spirit had been lifted. And that, Alex knew, was far more terrifying than his despair had ever been.
***
Randora City didn't whisper wealth. It announced it. And nowhere was that announcement louder than Throne Enterprise.
The building rose from the skyline like a glass-and-steel titan, broad-shouldered and unapologetic. Its architecture was a marvel—traditional elements woven into futuristic design so seamlessly you couldn't tell where history ended and tomorrow began. The atrium alone was a cathedral of natural light, sunlight pouring through panels in great golden shafts that made the marble floor gleam like polished honey.
And across that honeyed floor, a pair of red heels clicked with purpose.
Bonita Stark walked into the lobby the way a match walks into a room full of kindling—slowly, aware of her potential, waiting for the right moment to ignite. Her dress hugged her in all the places that mattered and flowed to her ankles in the places that didn't. Red lipstick. Black goggles perched on her nose. She looked, for all the world, like a woman who belonged here. Even if the building itself seemed unconvinced.
She approached the reception desk, her heels echoing in the vast space. Employees buzzed around her, heads down, tablets glowing, the hum of industry filling the air like a heartbeat.
"I have an appointment with the MD," Bonita said, removing her goggles with a deliberate flick.
The receptionist—young, sharp, unimpressed—didn't look up immediately. "Okay. Your name?"
"Bonita Stark."
If the name meant anything here, the receptionist's face didn't show it. She typed something. Glanced at her screen. Back at Bonita. The silence was a little too long, the kind that said we've heard of your family and we're not sure we care.
Bonita used the moment to look around the lobby. The design was breathtaking. Whoever had conceived this building had a mind as brilliant as Adrian's. Maybe more brilliant. The thought prickled at her—Adrian designed things like this. Could this be his work?
"Let me guess." She turned back to the receptionist with a knowing smile. "This is Adrian Stark's work?"
The receptionist frowned. Not confused—irritated, like Bonita had just asked if the Pope worked at the local parish. She didn't answer. Instead, she looked back at her screen and said flatly, "He's ready for you."
Even the reception desk was a piece of art—sleek, gleaming, embedded with touchscreens that glowed soft blue. Throne Enterprise was a tech company first, and technology, it seemed, had been given full permission to show off. The Starks might mean something in Crestfall, but here, in Randora, Stark was just another surname on a class list. The receptionist's indifference told Bonita everything she needed to know.
She was here for one thing and one thing only.
The elevator carried her to the second floor from the top and opened with a soft chime. What lay beyond was a sprawling office—secretaries at workstations, walls of computers blinking with data, the quiet intensity of people who were paid very well to be very focused.
"You must be Miss Stark."
Bonita startled. The voice came from her left, and she turned to find a man in his forties, stubble neatly trimmed, brown hair, a polished suit that fit him like a second skin. She hadn't seen where he'd come from. She'd been too busy staring at the office, her architect's brain cataloguing every line, every surface.
"Yes. I'm—"
"Are you here regarding AUDO?" The man cut her off and began leading her toward a seating area—a couch and chairs arranged in a space that felt deliberately apart from the workstations.
Bonita sat. Crossed her ankles. Smoothed her dress. "Thanks. And—not really."
"That's not an answer." The man didn't sit. He leaned against his desk, one foot propped up, arms crossing over his chest. His gaze was direct, unblinking. The kind of gaze that made small talk feel like an interrogation.
Bonita shifted in her seat. The couch was comfortable; the man's stare was not. She forced a smile—small, nervous, entirely genuine.
"I'm here because of your Aetherveil," she said. Quickly. Quietly. Almost a whisper, as if saying it too loud might make it vanish.
"The Throne OmniSight?" The man elaborated, his eyebrow twitching upward. He knew what she meant. He just wanted to hear her say it.
"Right. Um..." Bonita narrowed her eyes at him, reassessing. "And you are...?"
"Call me Peter." He pushed off the desk and crossed to his work chair, settling into it with the ease of someone who'd sat there a thousand times. "I'll need your stake. So we can process the purchase."
Bonita's frown deepened. A stake? She ran the word through her mind, searching for a meaning that made sense. Nothing came.
"What do you mean by 'stake'?"
Peter's pen paused mid-stroke. He looked up at her, and for the first time, his expression shifted from professional to something closer to suspicious. "I presumed you came from the man himself."
Bonita's stomach dipped. She had no idea what Peter was talking about. The silence stretched, and her confusion filled it like water.
"Miss Stark." Peter set the pen down. Deliberate. Final. "The purchase of gadgets designed directly by Mr. Throne requires you to have a stake from him." He tilted his head. "Do you have the stake?"
"I—I didn't." The stutter was embarrassing. She swallowed it down. "But Peter, I need the Aetherveil." Her voice pitched into something desperate, the mask slipping. "I have this project, and I can't complete it without—"
"You want me to lose my job?" Peter's voice was low, calm, utterly immovable. He looked at her like she'd asked him to juggle hand grenades. "I can't help you until you get the stake from my boss." He paused, curiosity flickering behind the professionalism. "Besides... how did you know its code name, if you don't even have a stake for it?"
"Words fly around a lot," Bonita replied, a little too fast.
Peter leaned back in his chair. "That word that flew to you—it didn't come with 'stake' as a label?"
"No," Bonita said, her voice clipped. "How do I get the stake?"
Peter exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried a decision inside it. He looked at her—really looked—and whatever he saw made him reach for his phone.
"Adrian is a smart man," he said, his voice quieter now. "And don't tell my boss I said this, but I'm a fan of AUDO. I wish he'd just agree to partner with Adrian on the project." He held up the phone. "So. I'll help you."
He dialed and the call connected on speaker.
"What is it, Peter?"
The voice that filled the room was calm and almost sweet—but with an undertone of cold that snaked down Bonita's spine. It was familiar. Horribly, maddeningly familiar. It sat at the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't quite catch, a memory she couldn't quite retrieve.
"Miss Stark is here for the OmniSight," Peter said.
"And?" The coldness sharpened.
Bonita signaled frantically at Peter—let me talk to him—but Peter shook his head, vehement, his mouth forming a silent no but he was too late.
"Mr. Throne." Bonita's voice came out steady, respectful. She was proud of it. "It's Bonita Stark. I'm here for the purchase of the Aetherveil, but I don't have a stake. Could you help me, please?"
Silence.
It stretched for seconds. Long seconds. The kind that made Bonita's pulse thud in her temples.
"How did you know the codename," the voice finally said, "if you don't have the stake?"
"I... um..." Bonita's mind scrambled. How she'd heard the codename was a funny story. A ridiculous story. But narrating it to this cold, terrifying CEO didn't seem like the move. Especially when she couldn't even place his voice. "It's complicated," she finished lamely.
More silence.
"Meet me at the gala tonight."
The line went dead.
Bonita blinked at the phone. Then at Peter. "The gala? At Crestfall?" Her brow creased. "He lives in Crestfall, not here?"
"Yes." Peter's voice was heavy with something like sympathy. "And you'll want to be presentable. He doesn't talk much." A pause. "And I think he hates the Starks. So unless you have someone with you that he knows..." Peter shrugged. The shrug said everything.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Bonita was on her feet now, her voice pitching upward. "I planned to sleep in this city! I could drive back tomorrow—it's a four-hour drive and I won't arrive on time—"
"Just how much do you need this Aetherveil?" Peter asked, cutting through the spiral.
Bonita went quiet. How much?
She needed it, alright. After visiting Kefas in prison weeks ago, the truth had started to peel back in layers. There was more to Kefas and Maria's affair than she'd first understood. Maria had been extra loving toward Adrian lately—too loving. All her conversations circled back to the same thing: sign over the company, sweetheart, sign it over. She was coercing him. Wrapping manipulation in maternal hugs. And Adrian, golden retriever that he was, couldn't see it.
Then Bonita had discovered Maria had bailed Kefas out of jail. The same Maria who'd lied to the family and said she hadn't.
So Bonita had researched. And her research had led her here—to Throne Enterprise, to the Aetherveil. An ultra-thin, translucent sensor patch that adhered to any surface and blended in by minimizing reflections. Micro-lens camera array. Tiny microphone system. A near-360-degree view with audio, processed by onboard AI that identified objects, people, and activity in real time. Data compressed and transmitted in encrypted bursts. It wasn't truly invisible—thermal imaging or RF scans could reveal it—but it was close enough. Close enough to be the perfect device to use on Maria.
"My boyfriend is cheating on me," Bonita said smoothly, her voice shifting into the only believable thing that came to mind. "I'm looking for evidence. So. I need it."
Peter looked at her for a long moment. Then he glanced at his watch.
"I bet you can still make it in time if you leave this second." He looked up. "By flight."
Bonita's shoulders sagged—surrender, relief, exhaustion, all rolled into one. She grabbed her purse.
"Thank you, Peter," she said on her way out, the words genuine.
***
Adrian stood behind his desk, packing his leather work bag with the focused urgency of a man who had somewhere to be and very little patience for delays. The gala dinner at Ebon Harbor Yacht was tonight—the kind of event where handshakes were contracts and small talk was chess. Every reputable CEO across the country would be there. Crestfall was the capital city of Velmora, and tonight, it intended to prove it.
"Are you already leaving?"
The voice hit Adrian's ears like a paper cut—small, sharp, irritating out of proportion. He turned. His face, before he could stop it, flashed with something between disgust and exhaustion. He tried to mask it. Reallly tried and failed.
Tiffany stood in the office doorway, posing like she'd been hired to model the doorframe. Towering heels, a mini-skirt that covered only the absolute minimum—if she bent even slightly, real estate would be revealed. A croptop that ended too soon. Her hair cascaded behind her back in waves that had probably taken an hour and a half. She radiated confidence. The kind of confidence that came from believing, truly believing, that she owned this building and everyone in it.
Adrian's eyes traveled down, then immediately up—not out of desire, but out of alarm. For a split second, he wanted to cover her. His jacket was already packed. His shirt felt suddenly insufficient.
"What are you doing here dressed like that?" His voice was flat. Not curious. Not flattered. Just... tired.
"You like it?" Tiffany rolled a strand of hair around her index finger, her eyes dragging down his body and back up. Slow. Deliberate. A performance with an audience of one.
If she was flirting, Adrian wasn't catching. His immune system had developed antibodies. He grabbed his work bag with more speed than grace and slung it over his shoulder.
Then Tiffany's arms wrapped around him from behind.
Adrian stiffened. His whole body became a locked door. He twisted his neck, looking past her, toward the hallway, toward anywhere. "Tiffany... you need to leave me alone." He peeled her hands off him like removing a scarf that had gotten too familiar.
She didn't retreat. She circled around to face him, her arms snaking up around his neck, her face tilting up toward his with the confidence of a woman who'd never been told no by anyone who mattered.
"I miss you, Adrian." Her voice had softened, gone syrupy. "I won't be mean to Star anymore. I promise. Let's just get together already." She pressed closer, her eyes searching his nervous face. "What are you nervous about? Your mom isn't in the office. If she's the one you're scared of..."
She rose onto her toes, lips parting, aiming for his mouth—
"Whoa. Those are butts."
The voice came from the door. Casual. Amused. Dripping with chocolate and schadenfreude.
Adrian flung Tiffany off him like she'd caught fire. He stumbled back, his face cycling through shock, guilt, and the particular panic of a man who'd done nothing wrong but looked extremely guilty anyway.
Star leaned against the doorframe, a cup of ice cream in her hand, a plastic spoon dangling from her lips. Her mouth was ringed with chocolate, smeared up to the corner like a toddler who'd won a war against a sundae. She looked utterly, devastatingly entertained.
Tiffany's face went through its own journey—embarrassment first, hot and red, then fury, then a simmering humiliation she couldn't quite hide. She snatched at her handbag, which had fallen to the floor, and bent to retrieve it—
Her skirt rode up.
She froze, realizing mid-bend what was about to happen.
Star, without a word, crouched down, picked up the handbag, and held it out. Her grin was wide and wolfish. Tiffany glared into her eyes, and Star met the glare with an expression so purely amused that Tiffany could hear the laughter screaming behind her chocolate-smeared face, even though no sound came out.
Tiffany snatched the bag. Straightened and smoothed her skirt with short, angry movements.
Tiffany hadn't come here for small talk—she came for Adrian. If not for Star's inconvenient presence, he would've already folded under her flirtation. No matter. The gala was tonight, and she intended to have him there. And if he planned to bring Star as his date… Tiffany already had something prepared for her.
She let out a slow breath and glanced back at Star.
Oversized sweatpants. A plain, shapeless shirt. Hair undone, falling in careless tangles. She looked… off. Softer, heavier than Tiffany remembered.
What did Adrian even see in her?
Was it the face? Or those hazel eyes?
A month ago, Tiffany had envied her—especially her body. But now… that edge was gone. Star had let herself slip, grown complacent.
Tiffany's lips curved faintly.
Her odds of winning Adrian had just improved.
"Take my jersey and cover up," Star said, her voice light, snapping Tiffany out of her silent calculations.
Tiffany pursed her lips—a tight, bitter little prune of a mouth—and left without a word.
Star's grin widened until it practically reached her ears. "She really loves you," she said, turning back to Adrian.
And found him already there.
His mouth was on hers before she could finish the sentence—warm, insistent, tasting of coffee and hunger. He licked the chocolate from her lips, her chin, the corner of her mouth, and then his tongue slid past her teeth, kissing her so thoroughly that every last trace of ice cream vanished from her mouth. Her back arched. Her fingers curled into his shirt.
"Mmm."
The throat-clearing sound was small. Polite. And devastatingly effective.
Star and Adrian sprang apart like teenagers caught under the bleachers. Star, in a fit of pure instinct, ducked behind Adrian and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pressing her burning face against his back. Adrian, for his part, looked like a man who'd just been caught robbing his own bank.
Maria stood in the doorway.
Her face was calm. Composed. Utterly unreadable. She didn't look angry. She looked... observant.
"I know you're in love," she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as cool. "But you're still the CEO. People are watching. And there are cameras everywhere."
Adrian swallowed. His voice came out steady, but just barely. "I'll be more careful next time, Mom."
"Good." Maria's gaze didn't waver. "I'll see you at the gala. The CEO of Throne Enterprise will be there. He's the host." She paused, letting the weight of that land. "So we need to make an impression. For AUDO."
"I'm ready for him, Mom." Adrian nodded, his CEO mask sliding back into place. "I know how much I need him."
Maria's eyes drifted past Adrian to the small figure behind him—Star, still clinging to his shirt like it was a life raft. Her hands were balled in the fabric. Her face was half-hidden against his shoulder blade.
Maria's gaze dropped lower to Star's stomach. The oversized sweatpants couldn't quite hide it now—the small, rounded swell that even loose fabric betrayed if you knew what to look for.
Her eyes lingered. Seconds stretched.
Then, without another word, Maria turned and left. Her heels clicked down the hallway, steady and measured. The sound faded. The silence she left behind was louder than the footsteps.
Adrian exhaled.
Star, still behind him, let her forehead thunk against his back. "I think your mom just counted my pregnancy in weeks with her eyes."
Adrian didn't laugh. Because he was pretty sure she was right.