The sound of shattering glass violently disrupted the quiet morning at the Conway Estate in Long Island.
Johan hurled a priceless Ming dynasty vase across his mahogany-paneled study. It exploded against the wall, sending sharp shards of porcelain flying across the Persian rug.
He stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his tie ripped open, and his eyes bloodshot. His phone lay on the desk, the screen glowing with the paparazzi photos from last night. Alexander Briggs, kissing Eleanore's forehead in the parking garage.
The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.
Percival Conway, the patriarch of the family, walked in. He leaned heavily on a gold-tipped cane, his face purple with suppressed rage.
Percival slammed his cane against the floor. "You pathetic fool! You made a spectacle of yourself at the Plaza! Over a bankrupt girl!"
Johan spun around, his hands balling into fists. "She is mine! Alexander has no right to touch her!"
At the mention of Alexander's name, a complex shadow of fear and deep-seated disgust crossed Percival's eyes.
"Alexander Briggs is a shark," Percival spat. "And you are acting like bleeding bait. You need to focus on Karlie Christensen. That marriage is the only thing keeping our stock prices from tanking."
Johan slammed his hands down on the desk, leaning forward. "I will marry Karlie. But I will not let Alexander take Eleanore. I'll kill him first."
Percival walked slowly toward his son. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a cruel, venomous whisper. "Do not forget what you are, Johan. You are a bastard. You sit in that chair because I put you there. Do not make me regret throwing the real heir out on the street."
Johan's entire body went rigid. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking sickly and hollow. The ghost of his illegitimacy-the twelve-year nightmare of being the fake son who stole the throne-clawed at his throat.
Johan let out a bitter, twisted laugh. "The real heir? He's nothing but a street dog playing dress-up on Wall Street."
The sharp click of heels interrupted them. Karlie Christensen walked into the study, holding a porcelain teacup. She wore a perfect, sympathetic smile, acting as if she hadn't just heard the most toxic family secret in New York.
"Johan, darling," Karlie cooed, offering him the tea. "You need to calm down. We can handle this."
Johan looked at her fake smile. All he could see was Eleanore's cold, disgusted eyes from the night before.
He violently slapped the cup out of Karlie's hand.
The hot tea splashed across Karlie's designer dress. She shrieked, jumping back, a flash of pure hatred crossing her eyes before she forced her face back into a mask of victimhood.
Percival shook his head in disgust. "If you cannot control your temper, the board will find someone who can." He turned and walked out of the room.
Johan stood by the window, his breathing ragged. He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant.
"Cut all funding to the Chelsea Art Restoration program," Johan ordered, his voice shaking with malice. "Call every gallery in Manhattan. If anyone hires Eleanore Coffey, they are dead to Conway Group. I want her starved out."
He hung up the phone. A cruel smile touched his lips. She would come crawling back. She always did.
Suddenly, a loud, screeching crash echoed from the front gates of the estate.
Johan frowned and looked out the massive window overlooking the driveway.
Three black, armored Maybachs glided toward the security checkpoint. They didn't slow down. From the lead car, L. Thorne tapped a localized EMP override on his tablet. The Conway estate's multi-million-dollar security mainframe short-circuited in a fraction of a second. The heavy wrought-iron gates silently slid open, entirely paralyzed by the technological breach. The cars roared up the long, winding driveway without a single scratch to their pristine paint, tearing up the immaculate gravel, and slammed on their brakes right in front of the central fountain.
Conway security guards rushed out, pulling their weapons, but they froze when they saw the license plates.
The door of the lead Maybach opened.
Alexander Briggs stepped out. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that fit his massive frame perfectly. He didn't look at the guards with guns. He didn't look at the house.
He slowly looked up, his dark eyes locking onto the second-floor window. He stared directly into Johan's eyes through the glass.
Alexander raised his left hand to adjust his tie. The morning sun caught the thick, platinum wedding band on his ring finger, flashing a blinding beam of light directly toward the window.
Alexander's lips curved into a cold, mocking smirk. He had come home.
